Hiding behind busy

And the magic of learning to be alone with ourselves.

I have my mom's hands. I can see it in the swollen, wrinkly skin around my knuckles. During our conversations growing up, I used to watch her clutch her crochet needles, clinking as she interlocked the yarn, gliding back-and-forth as it looped around and slid through her fingers, weaving a knitted web.

I've never been in a room with my mom when she wasn't busy doing something. I've never watched her sit with her hands resting softly in her lap, or lift a quiet cup of tea to her lips. I've never experienced her presence without her reading a book or shaping some scrap of fiber into a piece of art. I've never captured her eyes in mine as I've shared something important with her. I've never witnessed her giving herself over to the connection that often filled the space around her.

So afraid to open herself up. So afraid to look inside.

I took the same pages straight out of my mom's playbook and filled every ounce of space in my life. In college, I carried a 20-credit course load each semester. In the space between classes, I filed patient charts at the local dermatology clinic during the day, and then waited tables for rent money at night. When I graduated, I immediately started a new career in a whole different state while I planned my wedding. Right after the wedding, I quit my job to grow a business at the same time I was breast feeding babies and growing a family.

I was busy. Caretaking. Peace making. People pleasing. Proving myself. Perfecting. Pioneering the path. Holding the whole world up with my own two hands.

Everything all at once and no space in between.

By the time I was exiting my thirties, it wasn't just the lack of space or the pile on of busy that was weighing me down. It was that no amount of doing was bringing me any kind of fulfillment or relief. I was absolutely exhausted from my lack of boundaries and energy management, but I was even more tired and depleted from feeling so empty.

Why did I feel so drained when my life was so full?
Why did I feel so lonely when I was never alone?

As I was closing the doors to my first company, I was accepted into this eight-day wilderness retreat for company founders. Many of us had gotten off the train of our current companies and were looking for a soft place to land. All of us were too tired to be scared about what the future would hold.

The retreat was designed for revelation. For untethering myself from the things that were holding me back in my life. For putting down all the things that weren't mine to carry. For asking the questions I had been avoiding simply because there were answers I didn't want to know.

The first two days were heavenly. The schedule was spacious. The lodge was welcoming and warm. I went on walks at dawn as I became acquainted with the land. I was held and protected under tree canopies as I shared my stories of adversity and loss. There were elders who prepared our food at each meal. I was nurtured and nursed back to life. I was being guided and protected in this liminal space where I no longer felt the gravitational pull of busy.

On the morning of the third day, we were released from the group to begin our solo time. I ate warm oats and brown sugar as my last meal for three days and found my way to a secluded spot on the land, high above a canyon where I would dwell, far away from the others.

The rules of engagement were clear: no hiding. The isolation and fasting would force a complete emptying out. I could write in my journal and drink water. I could tell the trees my fears and stories. I could write letters. I could collect sticks and assign each one of my burdens to them while burying them in the ground. And, once a day, I could walk a short distance to the location where I changed the position of a rock that signaled to my assigned safety buddy that I was OK.

Everything else had been purposely stripped away. All that was left was stillness and me.

The vastness of the space in front of me was overwhelming. Going from every second of my life being accounted for to this was a shock to my system. Debilitating. Being alone with nothing to occupy my time was so foreign that I felt like a stranger to myself. I couldn't relax.

Why was I so afraid to open myself up?
Why was I so afraid to look inside?

At first, I was flailing. Addicted to busy and going through withdrawal, I was sabotaging the entire experience by drowning in my own discomfort. I was a child in the midst of a major melt down. A storm of irritation and anger. Hunger and fear. I didn't want any of this. I hated this. I hated me.

There was beauty and love waiting for me in the canyon just below — inviting me to relax — but I refused to let it hold me. I just wanted to get this over with and go home. I vowed to escape by napping the time away in my tent.

But on the second day of my solo, something overtook me. Reluctant to leave my tent, I forced myself to sit at the top of the canyon. There were birds flying everywhere — tiny little Nut Hatches, beautiful Finches, Blue Jays, Sparrows, Magpies, Crows and Robins — soaring high above the canyon walls. As I watched them, I realized they were playing a game of hide-and-seek, diving in and out of the trees. All the while singing and calling to each other. Watching me. Calling to me.

Perched at the opening of that canyon, I just sat there and observed for hours. My breath became slower. Deeper. I wasn't hungry anymore. My body started to let go. To let me in. There was a heavy peace that settled in my bones. I could smell the vanilla from the trunks of the pine trees. My thoughts were kind and clear. My warrior self was there.

Without even thinking about it, I was humming, rocking, singing. Soothing myself. There were lyrics I kept hearing in my head from an Indigo Girls song I hadn't listened to in years. I sang it out across the canyon:

And the wood is tired.
And the wood is old.
And we'll make it fine if the weather holds.
But if the weather holds, we'll have missed the point.
That's where I need to go.

All these years, I was never alone, I was just lonely for me. Being busy had become deceptive. When the weather didn't hold, rather than turning toward myself — looking inside to hold and love what needed soothing — I abandoned myself by adding more to my load. I thought I was holding it all together because I could hold so much, but I was using busy to outrun the difficulty and discomfort.

Keeping myself busy was not leading me toward the relaxed woman I so longed to be. That door was only open to me if I was willing to slow down. To not be afraid of the space. I was learning that to relax is to be with the vastness of the space that's inside of me. And that was a skill I had yet to practice.

After three very long and difficult days, I was so relieved to break my fast back at the lodge. I wrapped my body in a down blanket and covered my insides with jasmine tea and honey. I had never been stretched so far in my life, but sitting there in the safety of a fire, I realized I had finally met myself. I certainly felt a deep sense of strength and pride that I made it out alive, but even more, there was an unmistakable beauty in my body that I've come to know as my soul.

In the silence and the space, I learned how to show up for myself. I learned how to self-soothe. I was introduced to a strength in me that didn't get resourced from being everything to everyone. This strength didn't get replenished from adding more to my plate so I can be perceived as productive and valuable. This strength didn't show up when I overfilled my calendar with meetings to prove how busy and important I was, or when I hustled to validate my self-worth.

This strength came from having the courage to be alone with me. From having the courage to be that relaxed woman who wasn't afraid to open herself up. Who wasn't afraid to look inside.