I’ve been packing up this week and came across this gem — a favorite photo from my childhood. For two years I played tee-ball. My dad made a tee for me to practice with at home and coached me from the dugout during games. I was on a team with my favorite person in the entire world — my cousin, who is 20 days younger than me and with whom I spent nearly every day growing up. And, I had a budding baseball card collection (Totally not kidding. Cal Ripken Jr. was my favorite, except for year 2 of tee-ball when I played for the A’s and believed that devotion to Jose Canseco was the way to go).
After year two, I would have to move on to Coach Pitch. The idea of the ball flying at me totally terrified me.
And so I quit.
At some point, I started gymnastics. In year two, one of the teachers made a sarcastic remark that hurt my feelings (like, totally went and cried in the corner, hurt my feelings. Jerk.).
And so I quit.
Seeing a theme here?
Back to tee-ball for a moment. Last inning of the last game of the season. I was in the outfield — a place where the ball rarely came, leaving me free to watch the butterflies, play in the grass, and daydream. Except on this night, with the game, no the season, on the line and 2 outs already down, the ball was hit my direction.
Gah, I can picture my mom’s eyes lighting up as they do when she re-tells this story. She LOVES to re-tell this story.
And I hate it.
Because as the story goes, I’m in the spotlight.
And the spotlight terrifies me (more terrifying than Coach Pitch, even).
Okay, so the ball is flying my way. In my mind, it’s flying 3,000 miles per hour and it’s on fire.
That’s terrifying, right?!
So, like any good outfielder would do, I stretched out my gloved hand, firmly shut my eyes, and waited.
And somehow, the ball landed in my glove.
We won the game. The team celebrated wildly with the coach tossing me on his shoulders and parading around the field.
And I was miserable.
I mean, on one hand I was pretty dang proud of myself and excited for the victory (I am slightly competitive). On the other, I would have much preferred cheering on someone else for saving the game and securing the victory.
Not because I’m humble.
Because I’m fearful.
And insecure.
And, holy cow, do I over-think and over-analyze every. little. detail.
A theme that has continued into my adult life.
Now, I definitely have my days that I feel pretty freaking amazing and don’t at all find myself to be a total failure, but I tend to allow myself to dwell on my weaknesses, believe the worst things about myself, and pass through seasons of intense self-doubt and fear.
And I just don’t want to live in those seasons anymore and am starting to believe the simple principle that I don’t have to.
What’s the quote, “Life’s not about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain?”
That’s cute and all, but this girl doesn’t dance.
And while there’s a recent, fairly awesome story to tell about me going dancing (er, more like me standing around awkwardly on the dance floor while people danced around me), I’m thinking this post is getting a little long and I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one evening!
But I am learning to “dance in the rain” (which hopefully doesn’t mean “on the dance floor,” right?!).
This dancing story hasn’t ended yet.
And it still has the potential to end beautifully.
**It has been forever since I’ve blogged. I have amazing clients and want to show them off, but have slacked off. I’ll get back to letting this blog be a space for that, but for today, I just wanted to share me**
