Birds, Words, & Inspiration

But You Were the One in the Ring

Two months ago a relationship ended that absolutely broke my heart. Mostly no one knows about this.

I loved this man. He's a good a person. I believe he truly cared about me. We had three months of intense phone conversations that lasted for hours. We had private jokes. We had shared dreams. It was long distance, but he came out twice and spent the better part of a week or more with me both times. We cooked. We flew hawks. We schemed. He quickly became my best friend. Then he had a family tragedy.

A few months ago he drove away from my house to deal with this family tragedy after an incredibly awesome week together that included some big plans for the future. When he left he promised he would be back and that everything was going to be okay.

And then he stopped communicating with me. He ghosted. I imagine he was doing the best he could with his horrible situation, but after being mostly incommunicado for weeks, it was obvious that what we had was over.

He broke my heart in a way I didn't know it could be broken.

He broke my heart with silence.

This brought me to my knees, but I kept flying hawks and doing my work when I could manage, and just tried to be present with the heartbreak. Then one afternoon, while I was at lunch with "the girls" they asked me about my love life. So I gave them the cliff notes on the breakup.

One of my single friends looked up at me from her salad and asked with awe, "How are you even getting out of bed?"

I said, "If I was in bed right now, I wouldn't be enjoying this insanely delicious salmon and brie sandwich. I wouldn't be laughing with you. I'm just trying to be present."

And I felt like shit for saying this.

A few days ago I finished Brené Brown's amazing new book, Rising Strong. At the heart of this book is a clarion call for failure stories. Not just for the thrill of the train wreck or the inspiring bit where we rise up and conquer, but for the part of the story we gloss over, the part where we're on the mat and watching the ref count us out.

**

When I was 23, I was a kickboxer. I don't mean I went to aerobics classes. (Which is honestly probably about all I could manage to do these days.) What I mean is that I trained several hours a day for five days a week, had an amateur license, and fought in real matches.

I trained hard. I ate tuna most meals because I had to lose 5 pounds to get into a better weight class. I dehydrated myself before weigh-ins. I once went a few rounds with Tommy "The Hit Man" Hearns' sparring partner in training. (He totally schooled me, but that's another story.) I was very serious about it all. Unfortunately, being serious didn't make me a particularly talented fighter.

I've been thinking about kickboxing a lot lately because I've been thinking a lot about what it means to fail and how to get back up. In kickboxing getting back up isn't just a metaphor. It's something you physically do or do not. There are no points for "try" when you're on the mat. (Hat Tip to Yoda)

And it's not just you who hits the mat sometimes. You watch friends, foes, and training partners get knocked down or out. You watch how some people get back up humble and determined, while others get up with a fierce anger that eventually burns them up and how some people simply quit. You watch people manage their fall in a dozen different ways. You have a front row seat to the mysteries of getting back up.

I have a vivid memory of the first time I fell, at my first real match at a casino in Los Angeles. The place was packed with people and my trainer kept suspiciously eying my pallid face and shaking hands. I've always had stage fright, but going five rounds in front of a crowd of screaming people? Holy Bread and Circuses. What was I thinking?!