Midwinter Break Musings on Badassery, Vulnerability and Strength

“We are total badass mountain women!” I called to my aunt Beth as she turned to watch me triumphantly lift one clunky snow shoe over a thick log blocking the trail, my second foot coming in for a shaky landing beside it. We both laughed, knowing we probably looked nothing like badasses trudging our way through tattered trails layered up in winter gear like mummies. But sometimes internal feelings are more important than the external reality.

If you’ve never been snow shoeing, picture wearing giant flippers over your boots, only the flipper parts aren’t floppy or malleable and are located in reverse, trailing behind your boots like slight paperweights with deep grooves that dig into the snow to keep you from sliding. It amounts to quite the workout, as you must lift your giant, backwards clown feet up high in order to avoid the snow shoe attaching to random branches, and when walking slim paths in which one foot is placed narrowly in front of the next, a snow shoer must take extra care not to step on the back of their own snow shoe, thus tripping oneself. And yes, I know these details from several failed attempts at badassery.

Why do I even care about feeling like a badass, you may be asking. Who would want to feel like a badass anyhow? And to that I say: who wouldn’t? One definition defines badass as “distinctively tough or powerful. So exceptional as to be intimidating”. When we look at the portrayal of people with disabilities in the media, we are rarely shown people who appear tough and powerful, much less intimidating, so it’s no wonder that as I move through life with degenerating eyes, feelings of powerlessness are far more familiar than those of strength. But as any decent therapist will tell you, in order to create new patterns of thought, you must forge new neural pathways.

The path Beth and I were on was not only covered in snow and ice, but also had many deep ditches, crevices and holes, not to mention branches and the occasional fallen tree trunk.

Fortunately, Beth is a natural when it comes to being a sighted guide, calling out short yet precise instructions behind her intermittently as we hiked “Slight left, then straighten out.” Or “Deep caverns on both sides but if you stay right in the middle you’ll be okay”. And my favorite, “Low branches ahead but you can just bush whack your way through them, and they won’t bother you.”

I loved how she wasn’t constantly looking behind her and how I could stumble around a bit without feeling like anyone was watching or critiquing. If she was at all nervous or doubted my ability to traps through the rough terrain, she didn’t show it. At times, one of my hiking poles plunged downward suddenly, indicating I was too close to an edge or about to step into a hole, causing me to adjust course, step around the hole. Sometimes Beth would tell me I needed to step as high as I could onto a snow mound in order to maneuver a turn in the trail, but all instructions were matter-of-fact and succinct despite how long and treacherous the hike became. Besides our chatty lunch break by the lake, we let our feet do the talking most of the day, Beth’s snow shoes digging into the packed-down snow like the methodical echo of someone shoveling a driveway late at night.

“I wonder if Big Foot made these tracks,” I joked as I tried to steady myself from the sudden plunge of my hiking poles, my ankle twisting slightly as I struggled to re-align myself on course. My right knee tried to track with my ankle, causing it to jut out and tweak slightly and the sudden twinge of pain reminded me that mis-steps can have real consequences. I felt the vulnerability of being human on an unpredictable trail, but I also felt my strength and focus kick into high gear.

And then I felt a beautiful balance wash over me- that feeling of vulnerability and strength simultaneously, like nature could have its way with me combined with the knowledge that I have the ability to persevere with courage. The audible rhythm of Beth’s boots ahead reminded me that support was nearby should I need it.

And don’t we all as humans desire to experience that delicate balance of vulnerability, strength and support? When there is no risk, there is no opportunity to show our strength. Or to grow our strength.

My knee felt a little strange, and I felt my snail’s pace slow to that of a sloth, and with the sun falling behind the clouds, I felt relief when we reached a main road, indicating we were close to Beth’s car. My aunt then turned to me and said “So we’re close but still have a bit to go. We have a couple options, and I’m fine with whatever you decide. I could go ahead and get the car and pull it around so you can rest.” I didn’t even wait to hear the second option. I knew my knee needed a break, and I felt it thank me the following day when I was able to walk on it without any hint of pain. Sometimes the most badass action we can take is to rest.

“I’m so sorry this hike was probably way more than you bargained for when we left at noon,” Beth said as we drove back.

“I loved it,” I said. And I meant it. Yes, it was more than I bargained for, but as sore as I was, I felt equally strong.

I think sometimes when we reflect on times in our lives when we’ve felt like a badass, we tend to think of the big, pivotal life moments. For me, I think about working up the courage to do stand-up comedy at an open mic night in Irvine or interviewing for a position I was hired for or hypno-birthing my 2nd baby. But these are just events in life that required hard work, preparation, support from others and inner courage. If we wait for these big life moments, then we are really only allowing ourselves to feel like the badasses we are a handful of times.

If we can find more day-to-day opportunities—even if on certain days it’s for only 5 minutes— that truly give us the sense that we are courageous, tough and powerful, then we can build up our overall badassery and pave new neural pathways that tell stories of vulnerability and strength. While I wish I had the chance to hike or paddle board daily, my current work and family realities don’t allow for that, but I am able to fit in a self-created, somewhat cheesy social/emotional workout on the elliptical for 20 to 30 minutes on most days. Picture Brene Brown’s “rumbling and reckoning” processes to the tunes of Taylor Swift while taking a “soul cycle” class on a rickety elliptical with duct-taped pedals in the corner of the garage next to 2 large freezers, and that’s my daily dose of badassery. It’s the place where I dig into past failures and false narratives looping through my mind, so it’s often painful, but it’s also the place where I write “brave new endings” as I offer myself love, forgiveness and compassion. I wouldn’t describe it as fun or comfortable, but it’s the processing time I need in order to face the day’s challenges bravely and with the inner posture of a badass. In the words of Brene Brown, “People who wade into discomfort and vulnerability and tell the truth about their stories are the real badasses.”
― Rising Strong: The Reckoning. The Rumble. The Revolution.

I’d love to hear from you regarding daily practices you have that give you a sense of courage and strength.