Might we not say to the confused voices which sometime arise from the depths of our being: “Ladies, be so kind as to speak only four at a time.” – Madame Swetchine

I have been hearing voices lately, some welcome, others not. There’s the one that is ice in the pit of my stomach, whispering, There is not enough, there will never be enough, you can’t afford this gas, this meal, this gift, this opportunity, this house, this life. My inner critic is on overdrive, berating me for being tired, unproductive, a terrible parent, spouse, and friend. Despite my continuing weight loss, she yelled at me today for eating three cooked meals and no salad. The voice of doubt took a peek at my to-do list, at my dreams and goals and laughed uproariously, pointing to the 2000 unread emails in my inbox, the mess in my house and the garden that waits patiently for its summer planting. My back and shoulders ached from the tension. Wanting nothing more than to join Ada in sleep, I put my glasses back on and sat down at the computer to write.

This is where I would have stopped before, in my pre-Benjamin life. The voices would have gotten louder. I would have shut down or gotten shingles or sat with a bottle of wine and some stinky cheese, not getting up until they were gone. I struggled today, wanting to fill the hole with food, wanting to escape the demands of parenting, wanting to be anywhere but exactly where I found myself.

As the anxiety threatened to claim me, the voice of trust chimed in, gentle but with a backbone of steel. You are held. It stopped me in my tracks and I felt the sweetness of it. I am held. There is enough, she added, Look at the gifts. Ah yes, those. The votes of confidence that slide into my inbox daily, the fact that I haven’t seen ants in the kitchen in a week, Ada’s delighted smile and wriggling dances, and that deep knowing, a gift from my son, that I can do this. I will do this. My dreams are worth living and I am held.

I used to be a shy kid. People who know me now shake their heads in disbelief when I mention this.  It used to be that the place I felt the most comfortable was on a stage, dancing my heart out. I was both introvert and extrovert, a chameleon of sorts, practiced at figuring out what was wanted of me and putting that face forward. From this vantage point, looking back, I’m not sure that “shy” is the right word. I think I was afraid – of not being likeable, not being loveable, not being enough. So I hid because it was better than rejection. It was my decision rather than theirs. But when I danced I was long arms, long legs, pointed feet. I was spirit incarnate. I was pure joy.

I stopped dancing.

I went through a stage where I would meet people over and over again and they wouldn’t remember me. I came to believe I was invisible. Unworthy. I got back on stage as an actor and felt seen again, felt admired, if not loved, felt deeply inadequate. I came out of my shell and realized I loved connection, I loved honesty, I loved growth and play and touching people’s hearts with my work. I also learned that women made good friends and I could open myself up without fear of being abandoned.

I danced again.

I felt admired, seen, liked and disliked for my visibility. I felt young and stupid and awkward in my skin. I stumbled in my personal life. I felt closer to and farther from myself.

I stopped dancing.

For 16 years.

Then my health deteriorated, my baby died, my heart broke open and life poured in. Dancing became a way to cope with the fear. It became a life-line, a connection to Source, a connection to myself. And still, I did not dance. Not as often as I needed to. I discovered that when I commit to dance, I commit to myself. I commit to my desire to shine. But where that desire used to be about being seen, being loved, being an image to project fantasies on to, it is now a way inward. It is a meditation, a freedom. It is oxygen for my soul.

I am no longer that chameleon, working desperately to please others.  I stand firmly in the world. I write, I dance, I love. When the winds knock me over, I know I can pick myself back up. One day I might dance again in a public space but for now, I am happy getting reacquainted with the grounding force of dancing on my own.

Shortly before I met my husband, while healing from the heartbreak of a destructive love affair, I had three conversations with women in their 50’s, all of whom had been married over twenty years. Each of them told me essentially the same thing. There is no The One. You meet someone, you fall in love, you make a choice. You make a commitment, or you don’t. All of them believed there were many possible spouses for each of us, out there in the world.

I found this advice incredibly freeing. Instead of the torment of trying to figure out if my next date was the Disney Prince who was supposed to sweep me off my feet and make life happy forever after, I could, very simply, make a choice. As it turned out, there were three men who appeared in my life in the following months who I felt I could have chosen a life with. They all lived in different worlds and while I had feelings for all three of them, the choice ended up being simple. I fell in love. I made a commitment.

The brilliant thing about all of this is the choice part. Every single day, I get to choose again. Do I want to love this person? Do I want to commit to this person? If the answer is yes, then I get to ask, What will it take to stay in love with this person? To stay committed? To grow and deepen our relationship? To create our happiest life together? If I am drawn to someone else, I get to make another choice – Is it worth sacrificing my relationship to explore this attraction? If I feel there is a growing distance between myself and the one I love, I have the opportunity to decide if I want to bridge that gap and turn towards him, or turn away. It is my choice. He gets to choose me too.

There is always a choice – even when it feels like life has our hands tied behind our backs with baling wire. Stand in your power and make your decision. Right now – what are you afraid to choose?

Under my hand, I can feel the cool smoothness of the doorknob. I stand, eyes shut and heart open, feeling what is on the other side. Feeling the enormity of the decision, feeling the fear of being wrong, feeling the path under my feet but not knowing how it will change once the door has been opened.

I breathe deeply, sensing the other doors around me. Am I right to choose this one? Will I lose access to the others forever when I step through? I want to ask someone, want a definitive answer from a voice that is not mine. At the same time I know mine is the only voice that counts.

Quieting my mind, I search my heart for what, at this moment, is the truth. I ask the hole in my heart if this is the way to filling it, to healing the wounds inflicted by closing that other door so long ago. I ask and the answer comes. I turn the handle and push, stepping through, stepping into myself. Nothing miraculous happens. There are no angels singing, no fireworks, no applause. There is simply me, on a path, walking through a door into the next stage of my life.

This is not to say I am alone. I am surrounded by those who believe in me, who want the best for me, who see me more clearly than I see myself. Some are friends, some family, some mentors or coaches. I am learning to ask for help, understanding that needing it does not make me weak. I watch things fall into place, watch myself grow with every step, watch my fear and resistance surface. I treat myself with compassion, with love and laughter. Until it no longer feels right, or until the next door appears, I will follow this path – wanting to see where it ends, but knowing it’s better – and more fun – that I cannot.