Thank you, fear.

Confessions of a climate consultant

Topics: eco-anxiety; shadow work; breathwork; courage; authenticity

The cave I fear

“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.” — Joseph Campbell

Not gonna lie — the first time I heard this quote many years ago, I gulped. Almost every day I fear losing loved ones; I fear being abandoned; I fear failure most of my waking and working hours… most acutely, I fear I will need to learn to survive in a world subjected to the full and terrible forces of a heated and lifeless planet. More recently, I have begun to fear dying having withered behind the mask of the “good girl”, to which I have subjugated myself.

I have begun to fear dying having withered behind the mask of the “good girl”, to which I have subjugated myself.

On reading that Joseph Campbell quote, I asked myself: Now, what on Earth would possess me to walk willingly into the darkness? What if I learned I was no more than damaged goods? What devastating shame would I bring down on myself? What if the darkness swallowed me whole? Or worse, what if I came to believe the darkness was all I deserved, and just never returned?

I unknowingly resolved, out of the fear of fear, to keep my fearful feelings and thoughts below the line of my awareness — never emotionally acknowledging their presence in my days; never allowing them to be felt in my body. And that, I thought, would be that. I would just content myself with other people’s treasure maps, whose roads allowed me to stay away from my darkness.

Masks

Throughout my career, I have forced myself to wear so many masks, not just the one of “the good girl”. You see, my fear tells me that the masks will keep me safe from the sting of rejection and humiliation. My masks include…

The consultant — who is always composed and never angry — especially not about climate injustice, ever. Wouldn’t that be the height of ‘unprofessional’?

The expert — who is certain she has the right answers to all the tough questions.

The perfectionist — who makes working hard and ‘looking good’ seem effortless.

The perfectionist — who makes working hard and ‘looking good’ seem effortless.

Above all, the leader — who believes she is pulling all this off without anyone ever seeing the deep cracks in the mask, even up close (let alone from afar).

Fear of Unmasking

Then, one recent foggy morning, I met with a new friend, and she began challenging me: “Does your career serve you... really?”

I squirmed. I knew the answer was ‘not yes’, but I briskly threw on my masks and did my best to convince her of the many very sensible reasons why it was my best option. It was about systems change, and working with the power of large corporates by using my brain and my business acumen, etc etc. [insert ex post facto rationalisation here].

I prayed she wouldn’t see through the facade — that she wouldn’t see the dream that I was suffocating in my throat. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to talk about how I’ve been feeling called to speak my truth. Because then I would have no choice but to talk about the crippling fear, that kept my masks tightly glued to my face, my mouth shut and my feet firmly rooted to the spot.

I prayed she wouldn’t see through the facade — that she wouldn’t see the dream that I was suffocating in my throat.

Being a wise and shrewd woman, she saw through my charade and soon I was telling her about my long-held dream of becoming a story teller — a dream of healing the rifts in our human family I see at the heart of the climate crisis. I confessed lately I struggled to ignore the pain I felt. Pain from the fear that I was not living a life that is true to me. That I was wasting my time being the masks while abandoning myself underneath. I wondered whether, over the years, the cost of the fear had become worse than the cost of trying and failing. For burnout had followed anxiety, and depression followed burnout… I had been on so many loops of that cycle, that it was like a song stuck playing on repeat. No matter how hard I pushed the darkness away, it kept haunting me.

For burnout had followed anxiety, and depression followed burnout… I had been on so many loops of that cycle, that it was like a song stuck playing on repeat.

But her coaxing had dislodged something in me. I couldn’t hide from her, and now I couldn’t hide from myself either. As we started to go our separate ways she said: “Next time I see you, you better have taken that first step. Even if it’s a small one.”

I walked away resolved that if I was going to live this life, a life that is all my own — I would need to meet and accept my fear. I needed to walk into the cave. God help me.

I decided that if I’m going to live this life, a life that is all my own — I would need to meet and accept my fear. I needed to walk into the cave. God help me.

Breathing into the fear, laid bare

A few days later, I took my fear to a nudity-optional breathwork practice*, together with a group of about 30 other amazing women. Gulp and double gulp! at the thought of being completely laid bare, quite so literally. But I hoped by doing something that scared me, that I could allow myself to meet the suppressed emotion, like taking it on a date with just the two of us — just me and my fear.

*
“Conscious Connected Breathing is a powerful and safe way to infuse the body with oxygen and energy, recharging our own (often depleted) systems to work to their healing capacity.” Alan Dolan

We all settled into the lovely warm room, and after agreeing to confidentiality and non-judgement, we sat in a circle to share why we had come. The facilitator led us in a short ceremony, inviting us to undress (or not) before we lay down on our blankets and yoga mats to begin the breathwork.

Fast forward twenty or thirty minutes into conscious connected breathing, and I was relieved when the tears finally began to flow. I breathed through all the visions of loss and devastation that had haunted me for years. Counterintuitively, my body began to hum with the relief of no longer fighting the fear and the pain. I felt safe in the act of allowing the wholeness of me to be counted; I felt respite in setting down the fear-burden I had carried for so long. I found comfort because I finally allowed the emotions to inhabit my whole body — not just the little pockets of tension to which I had exiled them. I was grateful that I could stop pretending to myself that I was fearless.

I found comfort because I finally allowed the emotions to inhabit my whole body — not just the little pockets of tension to which I had exiled them.

The heir of survivors

As unexpectedly as the tears had come, came a new knowing arising from a place deep within. A knowing that came in the form of images and emotions. It’s hard to put into words how profound and moving it felt, but I will try. It said to me…

… you are the heir of survivors

… everything you fear — your ancestors have survived: loss, failure, rejection, hunger, thirst, war, disaster

… and you were born of these survivors; your inheritance is all that they learned — all that they became to survive and thrive

… you will never know them all, you will not know their names, the survivors, but so much of what you are came from them and so you know them more intimately than perhaps anyone else ever could

… and all of you that is not of them, that is your learning — your legacy — of what it takes to survive and thrive at this moment in history

You were born of survivors

In the same moment I had honoured my fear, I had also re-discovered — reclaimed !— courage that was buried in the cave. The treasure I ached for to go after my dreams. I saw visions of warriors and families traversing ancient valleys and mountains; I saw my ancestral family huddled together for warmth, shielding each other from the bitter cold; I saw them hold each other, even when collapsing at the devastating loss of loved ones; I saw my grandmother surviving and thriving — born in WWI and growing into a woman in the shadows of WWII; I saw myself in some far dystopian future, moving with the courage and wisdom to survive the loss of the world I had grown up in.

Soft, green shoots

In the days and weeks since this experience, I won’t pretend I don’t still wear my masks; though I reach for them far less often than I used to. Soft, green shoots of courage — like flowers in spring — are growing in my heart. I wrote a prayer to thank my fear, and I hung it opposite my bed to read each morning. It’s imperfect but I wrote it from that place of knowing and honouring that I found. So that’s the version I chose to share with you now.

I take each day as it comes, and take little steps to nurture that tender courage so that someday it will stand tall beside me on the adventure of living authentically in a world demanding that I conform.

Sharing this story with you, dear reader, is my big first step out of the cave and into the light. My first big step towards living my truth, and letting myself be seen. Thank you for witnessing me.