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I am a recent “graduate” of the Community Leadership Program (CLP).

One of the intentions I brought to the program and experience was to be authentically myself. To drop the expectation that I need to be anything but that.

It sounds simple, maybe. But experience has taught me otherwise. You see, I have been taught – over many, many years – that to be of value as a woman in adversarial situations I need to be conciliatory and ingratiating. I have been taught that if I can’t do that, then simply being quiet is the thing to do. In order to dampen down the stereotypical labels imposed on my Black womanhood.

I really wanted to test drive being passionate in conversation or debate without being called an “angry black woman.” I had no office politics in the CLP space that I needed to subscribe to or worry about. I could be passionate or angry without the recoiling that usually comes when black people speak passionately or express anger. I wanted to clear the chatter of these stories written from past experiences and focus on what was before me: building community with my cohort. I wanted to be fully present.

I knew I was going to choose to tell a story. And I wrestled with what story to tell. I found myself sifting through questions: How much do I want to risk? How exposed do I want to be? Will my story make me more vulnerable than I want to be? The list was endless and ever-growing.

I stopped that thinking with statements: I came here to be in my heart. I came here to be my authentic self. I cannot control the response to the story I tell. I can, however, be in expectation of being truly heard and fully seen in the telling. This is for me, not the listener.

Normally, when I speak in public, I am in control of lots of factors to produce the outcome I want. My flip charts are neatly written and clearly worded. They are ready to complement, guide and support the conversation I am prepared to have. I am in an excited energy, knowing a fun adventure is unfolding. No matter what happens, I know some important truths will emerge. It’s part of what I love about teaching and training.

When the moment came for me to tell My Story that afternoon, nothing seemed right. I did not feel in control. I did not know exactly what I was going to say. I did not know how my Cohort was going to hear it. But I remembered my intention and value of fully being myself, being present. The room went completely silent of voices. In that silence, I felt an inviting energy, welcoming me and encouraging me to step in.

So I did. And in the moment, I felt like the story picked me. All at once, I knew I had to share a very hard experience that happened in my childhood. The experience. The one that undermined my sense of well-being, that shaped every decision I have ever made. The one that was the color, texture and shape of every barrier I have ever built to protect myself from being truly seen.

While I was speaking, I knew I was being safely held by my Cohort – they each just wanted to hear what I had to say. I felt no judgement, no drama, no misaligned expectations.

Afterwards, I still felt off, things still didn’t seem right. I felt as if I were a pebble that had been flung far onto a body of water, causing a rippling off to – I didn’t know where.

A few days later, the rippling feeling settled. And in its place, came a truly unexpected feeling: exhilaration. I had dared to say something out loud that had been kept secret. It released a heavy weight that I previously thought would have to come from somewhere outside me. It is amazing how heavy that one pebble had been to carry all these years.

I also realized how many more parts of the story are still to be told. Layers and intersections of lessons and growth that came as I lived with the details – then and now. What about those pieces? Time will tell – and, I suppose, I will tell, when the time is right. Because I learned that afternoon that I lifted the weight myself – I threw the pebble – and freed the little girl who had been defined in so many ways by her past.

And in doing so, I also lost some of my fear of truly being seen.

I still have moments when I catch myself subscribing to old stories that kept my barriers high and intact. Sometimes I catch myself sooner, sometimes later. Either way, the old stories don’t have the same lure as they used to; catching myself feels like the magic of transformation and change. The old stories have lost their charge and their ability to continue to harm.

I found participation in telling story liberating. In the company of what I call near-strangers – a term I use with much love – I began a practice of listening more, listening better, asking questions to deepen a conversation for the person speaking. Far less than before, I catch myself half-listening, waiting for a moment when I can insert what I want to say. I look more often to connect with the emotion of what is being said or not being said. I listen more with my heart. Like this poem by Khalil Gribran (1883-1931), one of my favorites:

The reality of the other person

Lies not in what he reveals to you

But in what he cannot reveal to you.

Therefore, if you would understand him

Listen not to what he says but rather to what he does not say.

In my work, in my life, I can better hold space for others – and for myself. Holding space in my listening allows room for more voices to share the stories they have to tell. And the stories they have to release.

I am in appreciation that CLP supports and builds community, allowing us – allowing me – to look at how my experience shapes the way I interact in the world. There are so many layers, colors and shades to our stories. Which one are we looking through as we interact in the communities we live in? Do the stories we play in our minds take us to a higher level of interaction with humanity? Or do they keep us on the well-paved roads of past results?

To reach Julie directly: juliecanderson1@gmail.com

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