I’ve always been a seeker—on the hunt for my path. In the process of my search, I drove down many roads, took a lot of detours, and blindly followed others thinking they knew the way. But eventually the trail would peter out, or I’d end up at a dead end, or at a destination I didn’t really want to be.
I didn’t trust myself to find my way, so I was always looking for someone or something to guide me. Until I realized I had a map and compass that I wasn’t using.
She’s always been there; I just never listened to her. She was too sensitive and cried…over sports games. She loved to be outside, sweating profusely and pushing her limits. Yet she also was a thinker and wanted to write. I always thought she was too soft. Or too hard. Never just right.
I tried to keep her at bay, only letting her out when it felt appropriate. Sensitive Rochelle was fine at funerals. Outdoors Rochelle was great for the weekend. And little Miss Writer could ponder all she wanted in private. Each had their place and time. But that was it.
I remember after I got my diagnosis, a visceral feeling, as if something clamped down on my heart, shoved it up into my throat, and pleaded, “Let me out.”
She was not satisfied with the occasional appearance.
And I was too exhausted to fight back. I didn’t have any extra energy left to push my heart away and pretend I didn’t hear her. I couldn’t do both. Live my last days fully…and put on the suit and talk politics. So, I stopped pretending. Or I at least let the sensitive, outdoorsy writer show up a little more frequently.
And you know what? I kind of liked her. And the real shocker was that other people seemed to like her, too. But she didn’t fit in at my workplace, so I eventually left to find a new career that did.
I don’t know what people saw from the outside, or if they even noticed a change, but it was a complete switch for me. Instead of looking to others for advice, I did what I wanted and needed to do. I let myself choose how to live.
I can only describe it as a choice to be whole. A choice to show up as the full me. Not just the brainy policy guru or the athletic outdoorswoman, and not even giving the full reins to my sensitive self. But being all of her. Mind, body, and heart. The walled compartments of my life fell apart.
And there is a contentedness that has come with this discovery. An inner peace. It feels like an anchor. I don’t have a language to describe this anchor, this sense of wholeness. But I know it. I feel it.
I believe we all have this anchor. We are all whole human beings with an internal compass and source of wisdom. We just have to find it and follow it.
How did I find mine? I had to stop acting like someone I was not and be who I knew I was. Which required being quiet enough to let her speak. I also had to sit with and accept my pain, my limits, and my grief, but also celebrate my resilience and many gifts. I had to let go of the shield and let others see the real and vulnerable me. And most importantly, I had to be still and know that I am enough. Just as I am.
It took me a long time to trust my compass and stop looking over someone else’s shoulder to see what their map said. It has been one of the greatest gifts I’ve received, and one I would happily wrap in a bow and give to everyone on the planet.
Perhaps you’ve always held your compass in your hand, knowing the direction you were meant to take. Or maybe you’re like me and have tried a few different roads. Every way is ok. I just happened to take the long way. The scenic route. The only way I knew to go.
You know the way. Trust yourself.
