On the Importance of Belonging

pssst...approval seekers beware

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Image by Melissa T. Hall

“The most meaningful way to awaken to to any truer story of your own life is to surround yourself with people and works of art that are also interested in this project. It has also turned out that , for me, writing itself is a primary means of liberating my own mind.” ~ Melissa Febos, Bodywork

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I am writing from the dining room table of a dear friend, hundreds of miles from my home. A gathering of four artists, began as an annual retreat at the start of the year, has morphed into a whenever-we-can-snatch-the-opportunity, any excuse is good enough, ongoing text chain, bonded in art and sisterhood, sharing of our lives and art, relationship. It is the stuff I used to watch from the outside and long for.

I feel out of synch with the collective at times this week. Needing to retreat to my room early just as a late night conversation breaks out, up early on the day everyone sleeps in, craving order and reason and the security of knowing what to expect next, just as the unspoken agreement seems to have shifted to flow-and-let-go. Wanting answers to unanswerable questions. The feeling has touched the old abandonment wound from a childhood peering in from the outside. Nothing within the group dynamics has changed. I recognize a belly full of unmet need within that tempts me to make up a story that has little to do with the truth and much to do with my own angst and insecurity.

Experience reminds me that these moments are not all about me. There are four bringing expectations, hopes, dreams, needs, and desires to the table and at any given moment each one of us is wrestling with our own inner stuff. But experience also reminds me that these things that are stirred inside are asking me to pay attention even when it is uncomfortable to do so. What is the narrative of this out of step feeling, and what is the faulty filter through which I’m observing it?

Paying attention and responding to what rises is the place of healing. The type that will rewrite old stories and heal inner wounds, but without some semblance of personal awareness for these things, the narrative is preempted by old messaging and we return to established patterns of self-protective behavior patterns, disconnected from our core.

When we share our stories and the deeper meaning in our art, we allow ourselves to be seen. We move from the shroud of invisibility that conformity to silence and a standard of respectability, long established by an obscure and universal committee requires of us, into a place of vulnerability under the heat of potential scrutiny. It feels risky. We stand before the subjects of the preordained committees of polite society, raw, without the protection of social norms and offer up the things we’ve endured or are currently experiencing.

Knowing we are subjecting ourselves to the judgement of an audience that may not be as trustworthy with our pain and our longings as we hope, we must first become safe within our own being. Tuning our ears to listen intuitively to cues that ground and center us, in order to speak our truths from an internalized sense that we are indeed safe.

It is the safety of belonging that we seek when we try to fit into the confines of societal expectations. To step out of line, when dependent on the belief that other peoples opinions are the gauge by which we determine our own validity, is akin to death. Our nervous system understands no difference. Our primal brain is fueled by the fear of being abandoned by the pack, leaving us to fend for ourselves in a cruel and harsh world. This fear is reinforced by a powerful hierarchy, which profits from our unexamined need for approval.

It is the minority of any group, unable to hide behind the traits of the dominant majority, who suffer the worst fate, and serve as a warning to those who might deign to question the provisions of these morals. Step out of line and there is a clear example of the ostracized caste cautioning us to reconsider our actions, lest we lose our seat at the proverbial table.

The paradox is that this type of fitting in never calms my anxiety or the internal chatter that demands I keep trying. It is an act of futility moving me further from the true connection I seek. Ever in jeopardy of being exposed, wired with the innate need for other humans, our shadows prevent us from doing anything contrary to the collective, and we disconnect from our own core as a matter of survival.

In one form or another, the question we are always asking of others is “am I safe with you?” without ever having considered asking this question of ourselves. At the core of this need for safety, lies the key to true belonging. That we first must belong fully to ourselves, fully trusting that we won’t participate in our own abandoning.

In a very real sense, the old adage “education begins at home” is true. We are taught by our family of origin that it isn’t safe to be unmasked. Trauma of dysfunction and addictions within that family system will certainly compound this early conditioning, but the subversive nature of this faulty messaging tempts each of us to hide our true selves based on our own unique wiring in the face of even the most benign circumstances.

In spite of, or maybe it’s more accurate to say because of, the origin of the stories we tell ourselves, it is essential to return home. Not to the physical spaces that we grew, but to those memories that haunt and follow us in order that we might observe them through the lens of time and maturity. As a mother understands that underneath her child’s tantrum is a need impossible for the toddler to explain, we view the old messaging through a new lens of a loving perspective, not to blame or shame, but to look for the lies that caused us to reject our own essence.

This does not mean we move about the world spilling every detail in a long rant or victimy overshare, deliberately provoking a reaction from others in our desire to stand out. It is refusing to agree to alliances that hold us in contempt for showing up as our own flawed selves. Rejecting the lie that it is vanity to speak of the places we were wounded or disempowered.

In this just out of step feeling that I’ve carried with me throughout the week, the group acts as a mirror, allowing me a different vantage point to examine my moments of angst. I recognize the masks that I packed with my luggage, out of fears and old wounds that have nothing to do with these friendships.

Identifying and staying connected to the quiet voice within is the courageous and necessary work of true connection. From this place I am liberated to create from the fullest expression of who I am, knowing I am okay regardless of the approval of others. It isn’t a rejection of them. It is an acceptance of me. Returning to my own power and inviting others to join me.