Practicing courage, compassion, and connection in our daily lives is how we cultivate worthiness.The key word is practice.
Mary Daly, a theologian, writes,“Courage is like—it’s a habitus, a habit,a virtue: You get it by courageous acts. It’s like you learn to swim by swimming. You learn courage by couraging.”
The same is true for compassion and connection. We invite compassion into our lives when we act compassionately toward ourselves and others, and we feel connected in our lives when we reach out and connect.
Before I define these concepts and talk about how they work, I want to show you how they work together in real life—as practices. This is a personal story about the courage to reach out,the compassion that comes from saying, “I’ve been there,” and the connections that fuel our worthiness.
Not too long ago, the principal of a large public elementary school and the president of the school’s parent-teacher association (PTA) invited me to speak to a group of parents about the relationship
between resilience and boundaries. I was in the process of collecting data about Wholehearted parenting and schools at the time, so I was excited about the opportunity. I had no idea what I was
getting myself into.
The second I walked into the school auditorium, I felt this really strange vibe from the parents in the audience. They almost seemed agitated. I asked the principal about it, and she just shrugged her shoulders and walked away. The PTA
president didn’t have much to say about it either. I chalked it up to my nerves and tried to let it go. I was sitting in the front row when the principal introduced me. This is always a very awkward experience for me. Well, this introduction was beyond anything I had ever experienced.
The principal was saying things like, “You might not like what you’re going to hear tonight, but we need to listen for the sake of our children. Our guest is here to transform our school and our lives She’s going to set us straight whether we like it or not!”
Courage is a huge theme in my life. It seems that either I’m praying for some, feeling grateful for having found a little bit, appreciating it in other people, or studying it. I don’t think that makes me unique. Everyone wants to be brave.
After interviewing people about the truths of their lives—their strengths and struggles—I realized that courage is one of the most important qualities that Wholehearted people have in common. And not just any kind of courage; I found that Wholeheartedness requires ordinary courage.
Here’s what I mean …
The root of the word courage is cor—the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage had a very different definition than it does today. Courage originally meant “To speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.” Over time, this definition has changed, and, today, courage is more synonymous with being heroic. Heroics is important and we certainly need heroes, but I think we’ve lost touch with the idea that speaking honestly and openly about who we are, about what we’re feeling, and about our experiences (good and bad) is the definition of courage.
Heroics is often about putting our life on the line. Ordinary courage is about putting our vulnerability on the line. In today’s world, that’s pretty extraordinary.
When we pay attention, we see courage every day. We see it when people reach out for help, like I did with Ash, I see it in my classroom when a student raises her hand and says, “I’m completely lost. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Do you know how incredibly brave it is to say “I don’t know” when you’re pretty sure everyone around you gets it? Of course, in my twenty -plus years of teaching, I know that if one person can find the courage to say, “You’ve lost me,” there are probably at least ten more students who feel the exact same way. They may not take the risk, but they certainly benefit from that one person’s courage.
I saw courage in my student, Esha, when she called me from a slumber party at 10:30 p.m. andsaid, “Ma,am, can you come and get me?” When I picked her up, she got in the car and said, “I’m sorry. I just wasn’t brave enough. I got homesick. It was so hard. Everyone was asleep.”
I pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and walked around to the backseat where Esha was sitting. I scooted her over and sat next to her. I said, “Esha , I think asking for what you need is one of
the bravest things that you’ll ever do.We all have suffered through a couple of really miserable sleepovers and slumber parties because we were too afraid to ask to go home. I’m proud of you.”
That’s courage. The kind we could all use more of in our lives.
I also see courage in myself when I’m willing to risk being vulnerable and disappointed. For many years, if I really wanted something to happen—an invitation to speak at a special conference, a promotion, an interview—I pretended that it didn’t matter that much.
If a friend or colleague would ask, “Are you excited about that interview?” I’d shrug it off and say, “I’m not sure. It’s not that big of a deal.” Of course, in reality, I was praying that it would happen.
It’s only been in the last few years that I’ve learned that playing down the exciting stuff doesn’t take the pain away when it doesn’t happen. It does, however, minimize the joy when it does happen. It also creates a lot of isolation. Once you’ve diminished the importance of something, your friends are not likely to call and say, “I’m sorry that didn’t work out. I know you were excited about it.”
Now when someone asks me about a potential opportunity that I’m excited about, I’m more likely to practice courage and say, “I’m so excited about the possibility. I’m trying to stay realistic, but I really hope it happens.” When things haven’t panned out, it’s been comforting to be able to call a supportive friend and say, “Remember that event I told you about? It’s not going to happen, and I’m so bummed.(excited)”. I recently saw another example of ordinary courage at one preschool event. Parents were invited to attend a holiday music presentation put on by the kids. You know the scene—twenty-five children singing with fifty-plus parents, grandparents, and siblings in the audience wielding thirty nine video cameras. The parents were holding up cameras in the air and randomly snapping pictures while they scrambled to make sure that their kids knew they were there and on time.
In addition to all the commotion in the audience, one three-year-old girl, who was new to the class, cried her way through the entire performance because she couldn’t see her mom from the makeshift
stage. As it turns out, her mother was stuck in traffic and missed the performance. By the time her
mother arrived, I was kneeling by the classroom door wishing good-bye.
From my low vantage point, I watched the girl’s mother burst through the door and immediately start scanning the room to find her daughter. Just as I was getting ready to stand up and point her toward the back of the classroom where a teacher was holding her daughter, another mother walked by us, looked straight at this stressed mom, shook her head, and rolled her eyes.
I stood up, took a deep breath, and tried to reason with the part of me that wanted to chase after the better-than-you eye-rolling mom and rebuke her.Just then two more moms walked up to this now tearful mother and smiled. One of the mothers put her hand on top of the woman’s shoulder and said, “We’ve all been there. I missed the last one. I wasn’t just late. I completely forgot.” I watched as the woman’s face softened, and she wiped away a tear. The second woman looked at her and said, “My son was the only one who wasn’t wearing pajamas on Culmination Day—he still tells me it was the most rotten day ever. It will be okay. We’re all in the same boat.”
By the time this mother made it to the back of the room where the teacher was still comforting her daughter, she looked calm. Something that I’m sure came in handy when her daughter lunged for her from about six feet away. The moms who stopped and shared their stories of imperfection and vulnerability were practicing courage. They took the time to stop and say, “Here’s my story. You’re not alone.” They didn’t have to stop and share; they could have easily joined the perfect-parent parade and marched right by her.
As these stories illustrate, courage has a ripple effect. Every time we choose courage, we make everyone around us a little better and the world a little braver. And our world could stand to be a little kinder and braver.
Compassion
To prepare for writing a book on shame, I read everything I could find on compassion.I ultimately found a powerful fit between the stories I heard in the interviews and the work of American Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön. In her book The Places That Scare You, Chödrön writes, “When we practice generating compassion, we can expect to experience the fear of our pain. Compassion practice is daring. It involves learning to relax and allow ourselves to move gently toward what scares us.”
What I love about Chödrön’s definition is her honesty about the vulnerability of practicing compassion. If we take a closer look at the origin of the word compassion, much like we did with courage, we see why compassion is not typically our first response to suffering.
The word compassion is derived from the Latin words pati and cum, meaning“to suffer with.”I don’t believe that compassion is our default response. I think our first response to pain—ours or someone else’s— is to self-protect. We protect ourselves by looking for someone or something to blame Or sometimes we shield ourselves by turning to judgment or by immediately going into fix-it mode.
The authoress addresses our tendency to self-protect by teaching that we must be honest and forgiving about when and how we shut down: “In cultivating compassion we draw from the wholeness of our experience—our suffering, our empathy, as well as our cruelty and terror. It has to be this way.
Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others,Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity.”
In every story, Ash was willing to be in my darkness with me. She wasn’t there as my helper or to fix me; she was just with me—as an equal—holding my hand as I waded through my feelings.
Connection
I define connection as the energy that exists between people when they feel seen, heard, and valued; when they can give and receive without judgment; and when they derive sustenance and strength from the relationship.
Ash and I felt deeply connected after our experience. I know I was seen, heard, and valued. Even though it was scary, I was able to reach out for support and help. And we both felt strengthened and
fulfilled. In fact, a couple of weeks later, Ash said, “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you called me that day. It helped me so much to know that I’m not the only one who does stuff like that. I also love knowing that I can help you and that you trust me.” Connection begets connection.
As a matter of fact, we are wired for connection. It’s in our biology. From the time we are born, we need connection to thrive emotionally, physically, spiritually, and intellectually. A decade ago, the idea that we’re “wired for connection” might have been perceived as touchy-feely or New Age.
Today, we know that the need for connection is more than a feeling or a hunch. It’s hard science. Neuroscience, to be exact.
In his book Social Intelligence: The New Science of Human Relationships, Daniel Goleman explores how the latest findings in biology and neuroscience confirm that we are hardwired for connection and that our relationships shape our biology as well as our experiences. Goleman writes,“Even our most routine encounters act as regulators in the brain, priming our emotions, some desirable, others not. The more strongly connected we are with someone emotionally, the greater the mutual force.” It’s amazing—yet perhaps not surprising—that the connectedness we experience in our relationships impacts the way our brain develops and performs.
Our innate need for connection makes the consequences of disconnection that much more real and dangerous.
Sometimes we only think we’re connected. Technology, for instance, has become a kind of impostor for connection, making us believe we’re connected when we’re really not—at least not in the ways we need to be. In our technology-crazed world, we’ve confused being communicative with feeling connected. Just because we’re plugged in, doesn’t mean we feel seen and heard.
In fact, hyper communication can mean we spend more time on Facebook & Whats app than we do face-to-face with the people we care about. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked into a restaurant and seen two parents on their cell phones while their kids are busy texting or playing video games. What’s the point of even sitting together?
As we think about the definition of connection and how easy it is to mistake technology for connecting, we also need to consider letting go of the myth of self-sufficiency. One of the greatest barriers to connection is the cultural importance we place on “going it alone.” Somehow we’ve come to equate success with not needing anyone. Many of us are willing to extend a helping hand, but we’re very reluctant to reach out for help when we need it ourselves. It’s as if we’ve divided the world into “those who offer help” and “those who need help.” The truth is that we are both.
I’ve learned so much about giving and receiving from the men and women who are engaged in Wholehearted living but nothing more important than this:
For years, I placed value on being the helper among my friends. I could help with a crisis or dispense advice. I was always happy to help others. At the time, I would have vehemently denied attaching judgment to my generous giving. But now, I understand how I derived self-worth from never needing help and always offering it.
During the breakdown, I needed help. I needed support and hand-holding and advice. Thank God!
Turning to my siblings completely shifted our family dynamics. I gained permission to fall apart and be imperfect, and they could share their strength and incredible wisdom with me. If connection is the energy that surges between people, we have to remember that those surges must travel in both directions.
The Wholehearted journey is not the path of least resistance. It’s a path of consciousness and choice. And, to be honest, it’s a little counterculture. The willingness to tell our stories, feel the pain of others, and stay genuinely connected in this disconnected world is not something we can do halfheartedly.
To practice courage, compassion, and connection is to look at life and the people around us, and say, “I’m all in.”
