For many years I felt unbearably sad about the world, like I was being crushed inside by all the hate and division I saw on the evening news. Consumed by fear and depression, I decided to give up on humanity.
I had two miracles occur this week: both connected in a highly improbable way. And yet I know they are the direct result of my intentions.
The other workshop attendees sit on the couch, while I sit alone at the dining room table. As I scan the room, pretending to be deeply engaged in everything I see, I feel the familiar clenching in my chest and throat. All my thoughts and feelings are slamming into each other in a kind of mental-emotional traffic jam.
In psychology speak, this is called “Emotional Flooding”. And in this case the flavour is: “anxiety”.
Here’s an ass-kicking letter from my higher self during a breakup 11 years ago. It worked for me.
Before the age of 13, my “leaders” were young adult novelists like Paul Zindel and Judy Blume; they made me feel less weird alone. My earliest definition of leadership, if I could have defined it then, was someone who made it possible for other people, regardless of how different they were, to feel less “alien”, less disconnected and therefore “less alone”.
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