In the Arena. Critics and the Courage to be Seen

This isn’t what I planned to write. I planned to write about stigma; it’ll be here when I get back. But life threw me a curveball, one of those hard ones that knocks the air out of you as you catch it.

“I just thought you’d have a proper career by now. You’re not far off 40.”

FYI, I’m 34.

This assessment came from someone dear to me. It wasn’t said out of malice, it was said out of concern. The words weren't about my work, they were about me. And heavens did they hurt. Not just because I love this person and care deeply what they think of me, but because on a gut level, I’m scared they’re right. What they said, spoke directly to my inner critic.

24 hours, a lot of tears and several glasses of wine later; I arrived back at the arena.

It is not the critic who counts; It is not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood. Who at best knows the triumph of high achievement, and who at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.

- Theodore Roosevelt

Many of us spend our time outside the arena, looking up at its magnificent walls wondering what it’ll be like when we eventually get in. Keeping us company are fear, self-doubt and anxiety. To protect ourselves against the uncertainty of what’s inside, we armour up. But in an attempt to shield ourselves from vulnerability, we choke our dreams; we lock ourselves out of the arena. What we’ll never know is that being inside isn’t about winning or losing; it’s about showing up and being seen.

Vulnerability is the birthplace of many things: belonging, trust, innovation, creativity. Those of us inside know, you can't get in the arena wearing a bullet proof jacket. You have to be open to attack; you have to be capable of being wounded. You have to have courage.

Once inside we instinctually scan the seats to see who’s in our audience. Front and centre; the critics. Some of them we know; a parent, a teacher, a colleague, an ex. We soon learn we can’t stop caring what critics think; if we stop caring what people think, we cut ourselves off from connection. But, as Research Professor Dr. Brené Brown points out, when we become defined by our critics, we lose the capacity to be vulnerable. Her solution? Reserve them seats.

The night before Buddha’s enlightenment, he fought a great battle with Demon God, Mara. Mara lost, but it wasn’t long before he reappeared. Rather than fighting Mara, Buddha acknowledged his presence, effectively fluffed him a cushion and invited him for tea. Mala often dropped by; Buddha always had the kettle on. By accepting Mala’s presence, Buddha remained undisturbed.

Know your critics, save them a seat.

But of course, we all know, the biggest critic in the arena; ourselves (I’m in the cheap seats because I don’t have a ‘proper’ career, despite being nearly 40). The comments made by my external critic cut so deep because they echoed my inner faultfinder; the one that counts. Bloody and bruised, I’m slowly learning to sit with this particular voice. What I’ve learned, is that a clarity of values helps. If I value courage, then I have no choice but to be vulnerable. And in being so, whether I succeed or not is irrelevant. This is the moral compass that keeps leading me back to the arena.

And unless you're braving the arena too, I respectfully reject your criticism.