Stop making yourself so small

My firstborn said to me

“Live your truth,” he said in the same conversation.

But, what does that mean?

I do make myself small. This is hard to write about. I don’t want to admit I have no confidence. I can’t have a public record out there with that statement emblazoned on it.

But, hey. I just caught myself. Yesterday, my therapist L. said, You need to memorize the cognitive distortions so you can catch them when they happen. When I said, just now, that I have “no” confidence, is that actually true? No. That’s an example of all-or-nothing (or black-and-white) thinking, and it’s a distortion.

I do have confidence in myself, although, yes, it can get shaky. But having sometimes-shaky confidence is not at all the same as having no confidence.

What does it mean to live large? My first thought is in terms of money. Living large requires cash. Living large is vacations, fancy dinners, beautiful clothes, expansive gardens, elegant houses, the beach house, the ski chalet, the weekends away.

I don’t think that’s what my son meant.

The other day, I thought about my friend S. I wondered if I’d replied to her last message, sent a couple of months ago. Lo and behold, when I checked I saw that I had not. When I read it, I was astonished. She’d said, Let’s meet in Madrid. She’d said, I have a connection. She’d said, It will be fun.

Last year, and the year before, my friend A. invited me to her finca in Mallorca, where she and her husband moved a few years ago. About the move, she said, We waited too long. We should have come ages ago.

And yet, here I am, still. Here I am, again struggling with low-paid contract work, petty managers that make me ill, rising anxiety about money. Where I spin my wheels day after day, thinking and dreaming of moving to Spain (or, sometimes, Mexico) and never doing anything at all about it.

And now, I can’t. I came home from Mexico City because my son said, Mom, I need you here on the ground to help with Papi and the properties. That’s totally legit, and so here I am. I had been looking at an apartment in Mexico City when he called. It’s okay.

So, I am here for now. Back home in Oakland.

I toyed with the idea of going to Madrid for the month of September, maybe visiting A. in Mallorca as well.

But, once again, I can’t because I have no cash. No cash flow.

I left my job two weeks ago in a fit of pique. My sister is ill, yes, that is true, and I will likely go to her in Hawaii again soon, but I conflated my work issues and my sister’s illness and took a leave.

Wait. That’s not true. I quit, actually, “effective immediately,” and then had to eat humble pie when I remembered my son and I have a loan application in process, and I need to remain employed.

Now, I’m in talks with my toxic manager about calling it a “leave,” and returning.

How I wish I could move on.

Stop making yourself so small.

Live your truth.

Those statements point to shutting the door on a work situation I dislike.

But, I need money. I need money in September. And then, after that.

Why am I having so much trouble figuring out how to make a goddamn dime in this country?

Other people come here because it’s where you can make money. You can buy your mom a house with the money you make here, and most of the migrants here do exactly that.

And yet, I struggle and flail and twist and turn.

Cognitive distortion.

Have I always provided for myself and those I love? Yes.

Am I really in such bad shape financially? No.

Is it just that I have a little cash-flow problem and am facing age discrimination and the dissolution of my field with the advent of AI? Yes.

Do I need to pivot and do something different? Yes. Yes, I do.

That is different from the black-and-white thought of, I’m a total failure, the sky is falling, I have no money to pay the bills, I haven’t been able to save anything for two years, I’m no longer building my retirement fund…

Wow, just typing that stream of thoughts made my chest seize up dramatically. My breath stopped. Fear flooded my body.

This is what emotional regulation is about. Managing my thoughts. Noticing them. Noticing how they affect me. And then doing something about it.

I don’t have to roll over for this abuse. Because that’s what it is. It’s self-abuse.

My therapist wants me to come to Folsom to visit his wellness center. He wants to meet in person, and offer me a pro bono massage and yoga class from practitioners at his center.

My first thought was, I don’t have the money for a hotel.

My second was, Look how quickly you find reasons not to go.

Why haven’t I visited my friend A., who runs a writing workshop (!), in Mallorca? I can tell you why. I’m terrified by my desire. I want to be A. I want that life. I want to have published several books and run a writing workshop on a beautiful Mediterranean island, where I have a home in town and a finca in the countryside.

Who wouldn’t?

Go for your dreams, Mom, my son says. How old are you now? When are you going to go for your dreams?

My friend S. invited me to Japan last year. She invited me to meet her in Madrid months ago. I didn’t even respond to her last email.

Am I willfully turning away from the diamonds being scattered in my path?

Is that a possibility?

No. I’m telling you (she cried vociferously), If I had the money in the bank, I would go.

To that, my son says, Mom, you could have all the money in the world in your bank account, and you would still be anxious. You’d probably be even more anxious.

Anxiety.

And yet, no one, not one doctor, has ever recommended medication for it.

And I don’t want meds either.

I don’t trust them.

Can I wrestle this beast to the ground myself?

Once again, it comes back to doing the work. Will I do the work?

I’m doing it again. It’s a cognitive distortion to ask that question. The subtext is, I’m not doing the work.

Sure, I could be doing more of it.

BUT, I want to applaud myself for the work I am doing, and recognize that. I am showing up for my weekly yoga class (a Godsend). I am meditating, even though my practice is spotty. I DO have a therapist. I’m back to walking on the mountain and committing to doing it daily, which is a game-changer and worthy of an entire essay on its own.

The scarlet leaves of the poison oak twined around the young oak trees yesterday reminded me autumn is coming.

On my list of things to do, my many lists, I keep writing, Plan August. Now, I’m writing, Plan August and September because I still haven’t planned August.

I want to plan some summery things. Have I enjoyed a single picnic this summer yet, my father’s chief joy and one of the gifts he passed me (love of the picnic)? No.

Have I gone swimming, anywhere, even once? No.

Have I had a peach? Yes. I can answer that one in the affirmative. I’ve enjoyed peaches, I think, three times this summer. And I even made a peach cake. And you know what? I HAVE enjoyed one picnic. It was the occasion for which I made the peach cake. It was a concert with dear friends on a hillside in Lafayette, an idyllic community nearby.

Yesterday, on my walk on the mountain, I discovered a blackberry patch with—surprisingly—lots of ripe berries.

I stayed there for a while, like an old brown bear, my sole purpose being to find berries and ambulate them to my mouth. Simple.

Stop making yourself so small. Trust yourself. Focus on the good, on what’s going right. Take a bath in the big soaking tub your son installed in the apartment. Read. Breathe. Work with yourself and your thoughts. Be brave. Love.