You’re so strong, nothing seems to faze you.
I wear that perception like an emotional by-line. I’m known for getting on with it, keeping calm in situations where some might lose themselves, and for having an emotional resiliency that was, if I’m honest, quite worrying.
I used to wonder if this resiliency was actually a symptom of feeling nothing. Of having a void inside that was impenetrable to feeling something, anything. But it was in fact there, just buried deep behind a wall that seemed to grow in size when it was praised for its fortitude. I used to work in a highly pressurized agency environment, a small organization of around 30 exceptional people. Projects were demanding, as were the clients, so we worked very hard but were rewarded with some of the best experiences you’ll get to ever call ‘work.’ During this time, the breakdown of a long-term relationship happened, a life-changing one. When I finally told my colleagues and team, six months later, I remember their shock.
“Wow, you’re like a machine! We had no idea!”
I laughed and mumbled something about wanting to deal with the situation before I could talk about it. But it wasn’t the badge of honour or compliment that I was after. It was actually pretty sad that I was so incredibly buttoned up, so internalized with my grief, that I couldn’t share it with people who weren’t just colleagues but also friends. I didn’t want to let them in, to see my vulnerability. They would be invited to learn this information about me, only when I could share it on my terms, only when I wouldn’t cry.
I needed to learn how to be more emotionally vulnerable. I’d spent years blinking back the pricks of tears that threatened and digging my nails into my palms to divert attention away from the wave that could tip me over into breaking down.
Last May I attended a conference in LA as part of a rare disease program. It was the first big event where hundreds of people were convening after covid. It felt strange and a little overwhelming. We were sat in a semi-enclosed atrium with plentiful fresh air to calm our nerves each time someone coughed. On stage, a panel of fierce female entrepreneurs and thought leaders sat down, and one of them asked us to take a minute and just sit with the fact that the last few years had been hard.
She said “Being here today is a major moment but I just want to recognise what you have been through the last two years. It has been hard.” The room was silent in acknowledgement, every speaker was quiet for a beat. It was a moment I’ll remember forever. I sat in my professional garb, recently purchased, having lived in sweats for the last 24 months, and her words spoke to my soul. It responded by bringing tears of acknowledgement. Yes, the last two years had been hard. We have been isolated, we have been scared and our baby boy has been diagnosed with a rare condition, which is why I was sat at this conference. Yes, it has been hard.
The talk was inspiring, but I was distracted by the fact that I couldn’t stop the tears leaking from my eyes. As soon as it was over, I rushed off to the ladies and hid in a cubicle trying to pull myself together. She acknowledged a collective suffering, but it also spoke to so many personal struggles that had knocked me from my usual poise. I’m not suggesting I should have stayed in my atrium seat and started sobbing, but one thing was clear and looming. My emotional resiliency was catching up with me, it needed to get out and once triggered, didn’t care if I was at a conference or not.
There were many incredible talks over those few days, many times I reined myself back in, kept my composure and carried on, but there was clearly some healing work to do, and I finally signed up to see a therapist. It’s always an interesting gauge of your emotional state, when a professional asks you how you are feeling. How long does it take you to actually say it out loud, say anything out loud. A good part of my first session was having the room to just cry the tears that had been suppressed and finally get to say the words that had been so triggering. “It has been hard.”
A key outtake from my sessions has been learning that being emotionally vulnerable with people you love and respect, is actually a gift. You are trusting them with your fragile state, you are asking them to be there for you and you are letting them see your pain.
And, light bulb moment, I could see the power of this phenomenon called vulnerability. I feel closer to friends and colleagues who open up, who share with me their fears and trauma. It is an honour to know they feel comfortable doing this with me. I didn’t need to be the strong one who listened, I didn’t need to hide my tears until I was alone. What I viewed in myself as a weakness, I always viewed in other people as a strength. They felt comfortable enough to show themselves.
Fast forward to December and another rare disease conference, this time in Washington. A guy named Casey got on stage and talked about his fight to save his daughter from a rare condition, he choked up, he gathered himself, continuing but then cracked again, his voice wrought with pain. The room was charged with emotion, silent apart from the rustle to find a tissue, or the clearing of a throat to quell the sound of a sob. I let the tears fall and fall as he spoke my truth. A colleague put their hand on my shoulder, as he saw the tears that kept coming.
Casey was closing out a panel session that happened to have Dr Fajgenbaum on it, who I’ve mentioned on here before. It was a huge privilege to be able to go over to him and introduce myself. He took one look at me and I could tell I was probably in a bit of a state as he asked if I was ok. We laughed, it broke the ice, and I was able to share with him our mission at MSF and he could literally see how much it meant. I spoke to a few more people before leaving the room to escape to the bathroom. This time I just headed straight to the mirror and laughed at my flushed cheeks and mascara-streaked eyes. I was able to own it and not feel ashamed at my natural response to a shared experience.
Since then, I’ve been working on letting the emotions come when they are felt. At work we embrace the incredibly personal and emotionally charged work we do with vulnerability. We can often find ourselves sharing tears at a board meeting, or when we meet up with community members. We hurt with each other, heal with each other and by doing so find a place that is so enriched and so real. In learning to let the emotions come, you realize that they do pass, and right behind tears often comes humour, and love, and a feeling of unity. It has been hard. It is hard. But boy it is easier when you share it.