Resilience in the wilderness

How to navigate the thickets of loss and self-doubt

The more I practice paying attention, the more readily I am able to notice that mole hills are, in fact, not mountains.

When I was a child my favorite line in the bible was the one in Peter’s letter where he tells his readers: “Cast all of your anxiety on God, because God cares for you.” There is a container that is big enough to hold what I am not big enough to hold. I can feel the big things that I feel and spill them into the trustworthy presence of the divine. Well before I had any significant cares of my own to feel anxious about, I latched on to that sentiment.

Then I grew a little, got some life under me, and still I held fast to that idea. In that idea I found the comfort of surrender that I needed as an adolescent in order to navigate the worries and losses that clustered around my parents’ divorce. In that idea I found the confidence and inner-company that I needed in order to untether from safe harbor and set out, into the world, as a young and sensitive man, full of feeling and tenderness. 

Once abroad, in a way, I held fast to the idea even as my concept and experiences of God flowed into a salty worldview that was broader and deeper than the one I’d swum in when I was a child.

In a way, I hold fast to it still. I have been deliberately practicing surrender in the face of overwhelm for over thirty years now. I’ve grown strong as I’ve grown up in the practice. But the clusters of care have grown too. 

Tangles of hardship grow up alongside us all. We who dare to engage the wildness of life without numbing ourselves to its joys and discomforts will inevitably find ourselves snagged in the thickets of loss—the fears of loss and of actual loss.

And there is not a direct path through the wilderness. Wilderness paths fold and bend. They circle, turn, and spiral, even as they progress. So it goes with our formation as wild beings. 

Spiritual formation is not linear, it’s lived. And everything alive has curves and ebbs and flows.

And, sure, the more we practice taking deliberate steps on the path of our formation, the more readily we will notice that mole hills are not mountains, and bumps are not blockades. But still, we’ll wobble.

It’s okay to wobble. At least I hope so. The past couple months I’ve been wobbly as hell, getting snagged most days and thrown off balance by overwhelm and self-doubt. Coming from the ruptures and radical change of my midlife moment, I’ve got plenty of reasons to be off balance. Though, in my experience, self-doubt doesn’t really need reasons.

My self-doubt shows up gnarly—pretty well anytime I have a chance to lean in to life with fullness, or with greater ease, or with clarity, or something to offer. My self-doubt shows up mean, insisting that I’m a poser, a fake, a fraud, an imposter.

Nevertheless, when I’m stuck in thickets of self-doubt, I find that it suits me best to be gentle with me. To look that doubting part of me square in my beautiful eyes, and say gently, firmly: “It’s okay. I hear you. No wonder. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

How about this: The harsher the thorn, the gentler we pluck. 

How about this: Rather than running headlong into the thicket, let’s pause.

Practicing pause lets us get a little bit of distance between what we’re feeling (the doubt, the worry, the smallness) and what’s available (our fullness, our toughness, our gentleness), so that the obstacles can become invitations for brave and honest reflection, for humble and active response.

It’s simple, but simple isn’t easy. It’s not linear. Access to our own best wisdom is going to ebb and flow. We’re going to wobble. That’s okay. But it’s okay, too, to find your balance again. And again and again.

Earlier this week I shared that I launched a business. The thickets, and my response to them, have been a big part of getting there. Next time I write, I’ll share a few more ways that—smack dab in the midst of the wobbles so far this year—I’ve had the audacity to show up with my fullness, joy, and creativity. 

And I’d love to hear about your maneuvers of resilience in the wilderness too.