Sometimes You're Wrong

Photo by Magda Zofia

sometimes we're wrong 

Something that's been coming up for me lately is how ashamed I feel when I get something wrong.

I am a first-born first-generation immigrant from the Philippines. I was raised to value intellectual strength above all and to trust authority. At the age of five, I found myself tasked with learning the unspoken code of how to do things "properly" so I could explain to my parents how we could avoid embarrassing ourselves as outsiders.

The thing is, I was really really good at school, or anything where I could prepare for a test, memorize something and gauge how well I was doing based on other people's feedback.

And being good at this structured way of learning, copying adapting and memorizing what others told me and being who they wanted me to be did not prepare me for adulthood whatsoever. If anything, it gave me a false sense of my capability to navigate the world.

After I graduated, there was no one giving me a syllabus, telling me the right or wrong answer, explaining how to navigate relationships, feel my feelings or how to face what life actually is: a vast landscape of unknowns largely navigated by our belief systems and internal gps system.

I remember being in first or second grade and playing this game "Around the World" where we had to stand up and see who could answer a math problem fastest, and whoever was first would advance around the room to see how far they got. I remember waiting for my turn, palms sweaty and heart beating out of my chest, with a huge pressure that I had to get it right - or else.

Or else what?

I made my sense of identity being a smart kid, and a friendly person.

And weirdly when I went to college the one "personality-type" that would really bother me, was anyone who had to display their knowledge at any chance, like every conversation was a contest, a set of behaviors we call in our society a "know-it-all."

I didn't realize then, that these behaviors were triggering a wound within me, which was a deep dislike for this aspect in myself.And I didn't have the compassion or perspective then to see that in a way, this desire to know everything, and say everything to perform everything perfectly, was actually because it was how I kept myself safe from being humiliated, and kicked out of the group or found out to be an imposter or an outsider.

I am sharing this, not because I think I am unique, but because I think I'm not alone.

While not everyone may share my life circumstances, (and I think it's worth adding, while they were challenging, I was and am a lot more privileged than most of the population,) I think most of us share a baseline fear of being rejected from the group- which we are hardwired to connect to our ability to survive. And I truly believe that no matter where we are from and the circumstances in which we grow up, compassion and acknowledgment for the confusion and pain of being a child, or even a human is lacking.

We are conditioned to relativize what we go through, to compare our circumstances to others, to talk ourselves out of acknowledging the feelings, challenges, blessings and gifts we inherit when we incarnate on earth. This is not to say that systemic engineered oppression is highly impactful on our lives but rather that our stories, identities and capability to empathize and imagine is stronger when we have the capacity to acknowledge and honor our own experiences.

The narratives I hold, the ones that bring up shame in my body are old, epigenetically inherited, socialized, untrue, and unhelpful.But they don't live in my mind where I can change and shift them or even in my spirit where I can rise above or transcend them. They live in the one place for me that is uncomfortable and uncharted territory for me in so many ways: my body.

Is it possible in some past life I was persecuted, so any small rejection feels life-threatening?
It sure feels like it.

Is it possible that those in my ancestral lineage could be killed for making a small mistake when they were colonized by the Spanish and occupied by Japan and later U.S. forces?
Is it possible perfectionism is a survival tactic?

I may never fully know why the rush of adrenaline runs through my body and straight into my head when I feel the shame of perceiving that I have made a big (or little) mistake.

But I do know this - that it hurts. That it prohibits me from being as vulnerable as I would like to be or in service as often as I'd like to be. It prevents me from sharing my gifts and making my art in a mutually beneficial way. It inhibits me from having fun, trying new things and sometimes from sharing what I think or even from admitting when I need help. It prevents me from exploring this precious, rich and abundant human life as fully as I know we are all meant to.

But I do what I can and what I am able to despite this fear of getting it wrong, I go through the edge of fear, the anxiety of mistakes and the overwhelm of navigating a vast unknown with no roadmap because this particular life only happens once, and showing up in it is an act of love, creation and gratitude. Even if its showing up to just feel your feelings or to find ways to share simple joys. There is so much courage and so much honor in doing just that. So I am writing to say, I see you, and I think you're brave. I see you and I think you're kind and tender. I see you and I think you're creative and capable. And unquestionably sacred. I see you and I know you are magic.