Seen

Each day of my life has presented me with a spectrum of possibilities, and I’ve responded to this freedom in every way imaginable. I’ve responded with determination and with powerlessness. There has been a perseverance that has been built up in my very bones and there has been an outright feeling of to hell with this world.

I sit back and consider the spectrum and I see the part of me that was the invisible thread connecting it all. I see the goodness in that and I see why it has lead me to the abundance that now surrounds me. My career, the people I love, my expression in writing.

So much has changed.

In prior years when the lows settled in I never considered allowing myself the grace of being human. I expected daily feelings of pressure and anxiety, and instead of using them to my advantage I just felt overwhelmed. For so long it felt like life was happening to me and I didn’t realize that it was because the wave I was riding was built off of so many others’. I associated a feeling of guilt with the desire I had to listen to what I may have needed, until suddenly, I didn’t. I turned and looked at the person who had brought me to where I was, and I gave my power back to her.

Since the birth of my second child I made it a habit to always set goals, and in order to reach them it was critical for me to label any challenges that came up as temporary and surmountable. My secret weapon was the collapsing of time between the struggle of now and the joy of what was to be: the preemptive acceptance of the feeling of invigoration sometimes years before it was made alive in my physical life. Challenges held no power with this mindset. The first time I recall surmounting this hurdle was in college.

My quick answer for why I decided to take a beginner’s acting course is undeniably because it seemed like an easy A, but when I look a little deeper I’m aware that there was a part of me that had always been curious as to how I might fare if I ever had the courage to put myself on stage.

There were about 30 students in the class and it was held in a large room with dimensions similar to that of a high school gymnasium, with fold-out chairs that we rearranged to suit the needs of the day’s lesson. We were about halfway through the semester when we received an assignment to memorize a monologue to present to the class for a large percentage of our grade, and although I was aware that I could sink, I was also acutely aware that there was a chance that if I believed in myself, I could soar.

I went to the professor’s office and explained that I had zero experience with the theater or with any public speaking, for that matter. I expected to have a conversation about helpful techniques, but instead he asked me if I had a few minutes right then, which I did. We walked to the classroom and stood in the center of it, about 20 feet apart. The exercise began with he and I walking in a circle at an equidistant, slow pace. He was to be in his own world, mentally, and by means of authenticity of voice and character I was to get his attention. The activity felt silly to me at first and my voice reflected this in the light tone that I used as I said hello. When I was ignored the volume of my voice instinctively increased, but still he felt no need to respond. A hint of irritation was felt in me next, and as I yelled I waved my arms back and forth at him and sharpened my eyes as I continued pacing around in that slow circle. His stride was unphased and I could see that emotionally he was unphased as well.

This was a lesson he intended me to learn, and I wasn’t going to get out of there until we had completed it. I considered the situation. This was what I had asked for in the first place- this was the forced situation that I had intentionally put myself into and this moment could not be faked. All along I could have completed the monologue without seeking any extra guidance, and I would have passed. But something inside me was aware that long ago a much younger version of me had embraced a deep-rooted fear of being seen, and this exercise was the undeniable moment to be recognized as the point in time that could be used to break that fear. I was becoming alive in a moment where there was no other option.

I recognized the distinction between the reflexive nature that previous reactions had stemmed from versus the authenticity that would now be required. As I walked I evaluated myself, my surroundings, and my professor, and I became present in that moment. A more sincere request left my mouth, and as it was heard my professor’s head tilted to the side ever so slightly, like a sound had been carried to him by a wisp of wind and had piqued his interest. It was then that I allowed myself to completely submit to the truth of the feeling that had brought me to this class, to his office and to this exercise in the first place. I gave the experience the respect it deserved and any part of my countenance that did not serve me in that moment ceased to exist. There was no fear of being judged, no fear of being heard. The only desire I gave permission to live with me in that moment was that of the truth of my desire that had been alive inside me all this time, which was to be judged, and to be heard. In that moment I finally leaned into myself, and now all I needed to do was speak.

When the time came for me to present my monologue I maintained the feeling that motivated me during that exercise. I was apprehensive, but I knew that I would be seen, and now, I wanted them to see me. I was a mother who worked every weekend while going to school full-time. I was the granddaughter of a professor and of a mill worker. I was a young woman who had been bullied in school and subdued in her marriage, but I had never once abandoned the awareness and the curiosity that there was something special inside me that could not be quelled, and I had realized that this was the only thing that was able to be seen after all.

As I sit back in search of myself and recall these experiences I realize that it is these small moments that are the most indicative of who I am and what I am most proud of. They are the purest reflections of myself, not just a person born to occupy this life, but one that accepts that my truest action has always been, and always will be, to perpetually seek the most out of it. To be seen by others, but more importantly to be seen by myself. There is a momentum here, and I intend to keep that feeling close.