David White, MD
A friend recently recommended that I watch the Amazon Prime series “Alone.” As a closet introvert, I found the premise of the show immediately compelling. The idea is that 10 individuals are simultaneously dropped off on totally isolated locations within the predator rich Vancouver Islands during the cold and wet fall conditions. Each of these individuals had already shown themselves to be capable survivalists in the pre-show selection process. They are left alone without food or water and with only a few select survival tools of their choosing. They are truly alone, not even a camera crew. They are provided all the necessary camera equipment and tasked with capturing their own experience. The challenge is simple enough, whoever lasts the longest wins $500,000. They can, however, ‘tap-out’ at any time with a simple call using the satellite phone provided to each of them. And lest you think this task too simple, I will tell you (spoiler alert) that the first person to tap-out does so in under 24 hours!
One of the most impactful moments for me as I watched Season 1 from my cozy couch, drinking La Croix and eating dried mangos, was hearing the startling confession of contestant Lucas Miller. Lucas, a 32 year old outdoor enthusiast and educator, spoke to us with the gentle voice of a trusted old friend as he tended his fire, the camera capturing his words for us:
“What I fear most is not out in these woods. I’m feeling things I don’t think I’ve ever felt, because there has always been distractions. And with everything just completely obliterated out of my life; no phone, no computer, no friends— I actually feel what it feels like to be me.”
Feeling Like “Me”
I was struck immediately with how insightful and vulnerable this statement was. As I interpret it, Lucas’ life was functionally whittled down to the basics—safely procuring those elements that ensured his own survival and relative comfort… food, water, fire, shelter, and hygiene.
In our society, these survival basics are assumed, found in excess, and are most often matters of preference, convenience, and pleasure. In such we have learned that discomfort in not a lifesaving cue but rather something that can be and must be assuaged by some gratifying pleasure. We do this with innumerable readily accessible distractions ranging from our phone to our friends.
But Lucas was truly alone, with pleasure whittled down to satisfying survival cues, with no accessible distractions, not even conversation. There were little opportunities for pleasurable distraction. He was left to hear his own voice and process his interpretations of all the voices and experiences of his past.
Over the past several years, I have spent extended time talking with a lifetime family friend and professional executive coach Rick Wellock (Wellock Group) regarding this very idea of knowing oneself. I reached out to him at a time when I was feeling a deep sense of confusion about who I was and what the heck I was doing. Rather than simple midlife reflections, I was feeling overwhelmed by the “work” of being me. I felt exhausted… trying to be what I thought others wanted me to be, trying not to be what they didn’t want me to be, accepting successes, hiding failures, questioning life decisions…and so on. I was sinking further and further into the recesses of my mind while somehow continuing to function at a very high level. I was still working very hard as a physician and business owner, but it was relationally erosive and taking a toll on my family. I was, in essence, retreating to the wilderness.
The Work of Being Present
In our very first times together, Rick and I did the work of learning to be present. Some refer to this as mindfulness— the process of bringing one’s attention to the experiences occurring in the present moment. For Lucas, this was mandated by the amplification of his senses— cold, wet, hunger, thirst, and the immediate call to respond in the present— find cover, fire, food, water. But it was his utter aloneness that I suspect awakened the discomforts of the mind— loneliness, anger, sadness, disappointment, regret— he had no pleasure-filled distraction available to supplant or bury these thoughts and feelings.
For me, it required work and intention to be present. This work of being present was a necessary element in Rick’s call to action for me, “Catch yourself in the act of being you.” To do such a thing is really a discovery of our essence— understanding why we do the things we do or respond the way we do. In other words, to ask, “OK, why did I just do that or react in such a way.”
We all have life experiences and relationships, past and present, which contribute to the story we tell ourselves about ourselves— this is our narrative. All of us have allowed outside voices to contribute to this narrative. Some tell truth, some tell lies. The most powerful narrative, however, is the story we tell ourselves about ourselves and this most often occurs in the negative. Ironically, it is this narrative and identity that we work so hard to protect.
The Story We Tell Ourselves
One of the most powerful narratives that has echoed in the recesses of my mind is, “You don’t belong here.” As a child, I was of very small stature and shy. In my mind I was a social shadow, a person of little consequence. I wouldn’t have characterized myself as being depressed and I did have some friends, but my most intimate thoughts and feelings of disappointment, fear, and insecurity were kept within. I even found sharing moments of joy risky. I would never have presumed anyone would care to share in my sadness or my exuberance. To this, Rick would say that I was stuck in a monologue that reinforced alienation and isolation.
So I did it, I caught myself in the act of being myself. On an occasion where I was in a public gathering, active and veteran military service members were encouraged to stand and be recognized. Though I had served as a member of an Air Force special operations surgical team, I remained seated, as had become my habit. My unspoken monologue was, “You don’t deserve recognition, others have truly sacrificed and contributed in more meaningful ways, you were only doing what you were trained to do as a physician.” The truth is that it also felt very vulnerable to stand and risk that someone might think of me as significant. As one who had always seen himself as insignificant, I didn’t know how to receive that. It wasn’t humility, it was fear. So, now I stand with my brothers and sisters who have served (though admittedly, I still feel conspicuous when I do.)
This is Who I Am
Over time, as I would make new discoveries about myself, Rick would say, “This is who you are,” and again, “This is who you are,” and again, “This is who you are.” This intimate introduction to myself has, at times, been quite humbling but more than that it has been freeing. I’m am free to be what I am and free to NOT be who I am not, because I know (or am at least learning) that “This is who I am.”
I will leave you with some of the first words Rick spoke to me as I wept tears of weariness:
You are not a problem to be fixed, but a person to be discovered and engaged. The same is true of you. For so many, it is too painful or scary to feel what it feels like to be themselves. But as has been said, our greatest freedom lies just on the other side of our greatest fear.
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
-Anais Nin
