“The Courage To Be Dis-liked…” (pt.1)

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us”. -M. Williamson

A small girl whizzed past me, screaming in delight as a boy her age chased her into the backyard. As I followed them, I stepped onto the patio and felt the warmth of the stone tiles as I surveyed the gathering. An impromptu decision to have a barbeque had brought together our friends and their children to our home.

Curious about what the kids were up to, I handed my youngest to her father and went back inside. To my astonishment, a cluster of six or seven three-year-olds had encircled my elder daughter, laughing and pointing fingers at her. Their leader, a precarious 6-year-old, was the loudest and perhaps most menacing.

My defenses kicked in, and I instinctively scooped my 3-year-old into my arms and bound straight for her room to put some clothes on her. She was beside herself, sobbing and removing her clothes due to her occasional struggles with sensory processing overload. A loud party of over 20 adults and kids was the main culprit.

This scene haunted me for days as I discussed with my husband and my visiting sister what to do about the girl who had bullied my daughter. All I wanted was to keep my baby safe and protected. My rationale was that I might not be able to always protect her out in the world, but surely her home must be a safe haven for her.

One noteworthy observation I should make is that my daughter seemed to be unaffected by the children heckling her. Her sensory overload resolved; she simply dressed, went back to playing by herself, and sometimes even played with the same kids she felt like playing with. A few weeks later, I came to the realization that the internal turmoil that event had sparked was not about my daughter at all but rather about me, and this realization transported me thirty years into the past.

Like many people, I have spent a decent portion of my life placing a great deal of weight and significance on what others think of me. While one can argue that this is a perfectly natural thing, for a very long time, I was afraid of saying or doing certain things because I did not want to be disliked. I spent a great deal of time and energy ensuring that I was likable, reluctant to express myself openly and authentically for fear of being rejected. While I knew on a logical level that I had no control over how people reacted to me and that I was only in control of what I said, thought, or did, taking action was a different story.

With deeper reflection, I traced this all the way back to my early childhood. When I was ten years old, I did not give much consideration to whether or not I would fit in with a particular group. I really didn’t give it too much thought; I was too busy having fun. I paid the price for it one day though, and it was a traumatic experience that I carried with me for a long time.

I recall that day as if it were yesterday. On my first day at a new boarding school, the most popular girl immediately disliked me and, a few weeks later, declared me persona non grata and ordered everyone in the school not to speak to me. And just like that, all sixty children proceeded to avoid me like the plague.

I remember having mixed feelings; on the one hand, I was fascinated by this 13-year-old who wielded such power over other 10, 11, and 12-year-olds. On the other hand, I distinctly recall being overcome by feelings of despair, pain, and isolation. My young heart had never known such anguish. I asked myself what I had done to deserve this. As it turned out, I was really good at everything I tried (mostly because I honestly just fully applied myself to whatever it was that I was doing, whether it was music, sports, or my academic work). Apparently, this did not sit well with her. In fact, it outright annoyed her because why would anyone, least of all a newcomer, dare cast a shadow at the light of the most popular girl in the school? How dare I?

In my defense, I was not even aware that I was doing that to begin with. My cluelessness as a 10-year-old was unrivaled; of that, you can be sure. I had not mastered the art of reading the room, and I certainly did not have the wherewithal to know the power dynamics in my new environment. Where would I even find the time when I was busy playing, being mischievous, and having fun as any self-respecting 10-year-old should? Territorial awareness was just not a skill I had made time to master, and I paid the price for it and paid it heavily.

So, for three days, in this cutthroat pre-teen ecosystem, everyone avoided me like the plague—no eye contact, no conversations, no sitting with me, and certainly no hanging out with me. Their punishment was swift, and it was severe. Ultimately, I went up to her and vowed to never do that again. I would not pass my exams that much, win at sports or singing... I almost promised her that I would not breathe. I tried really hard to persuade her, but she waved me off as she walked away, dismissing me and the lessons I had learned too late.

I was naturally outgoing as a child. Silent treatment was both frightening and sheer torture, and the thought of this pariah existence for the remainder of my life in this boarding school filled me with dread. With each passing day, my self-confidence shrank and my fears increased. I sat on the playground alone and watched the other kids play. I sat at the table in the dining room with other kids, but I was alone and silent. At night, when the night light went out, as I lay on my bed, ready to sleep, I listened to my roommates talking and laughing, and then, as sleep caught up with them, they wished each other good night, ignoring me and leaving me out. I would then close my eyes, and eventually I would drift off to sleep, to a place where there was nothing but peace, and then I would wake up the next day to the same hell.

This went on for a few days, and then one day, something happened that changed my life.

I was sitting in the playground alone, my back to the wall. Suddenly, a shadow was in my way, blocking the sun. I looked up, and my classmate Barbara, one of the quietest girls in my class, was standing there in front of me, and she smiled and said, “Hey.” And then she said “Come, let's go to class”. I was paralyzed with fear for her and for me. “But what about... will she be angry with you for talking to me?” She looked at me, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “It’s ok, let’s go.” I stood up and followed her.

It was as if the spell had been broken, because suddenly everyone began talking to me, and life resumed as if the previous few days had never happened. The most popular girl was obviously upset, but it was too late; things had shifted, and I clearly had many sympathizers, but of course only one was brave enough to come to my rescue.

Two things happened with this experience: one, I learned the power of kindness, and two, I lost the courage to be myself.

Marianne Williamson authored a poem that has become so popular, and one would suppose it is because many people relate to it. She said:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

I must admit that although I admired these brilliant, thought-provoking, and very inspiring words, I knew deep in my heart that they were grenades.  Letting my light shine was absolutely something I was never going to do, and I had no business doing it. My experiences as a 10-year-old and throughout my life had borne witness to the fact that ‘shining my light’ , ‘being my authentic self’, and all those other catchy phrases simply never ended well. The price I paid for it time and again felt too high for me to bear.

Then something happened that gave me the courage to be disliked, and it was one of the most freeing experiences I have ever had.

But I will share that story next time.