Confession. I’m having some trouble striking just the right tone for this blog, and I’m pretty sure I know why. I’m less sure about how to handle it. The thing is, I see this blog as the opening introduction of myself as a personal coach, or mentor, or life designer, or bliss advocate, or whatever you want to call me.
And so it’s obviously really important to me to express myself as someone you might possibly perhaps maybe consider talking to about how to live a bigger, happier life. While also always being wholeheartedly authentic and telling you the truth. And the truth is that I’m not perfect. There. I said it. I feel worse. Oops, I meant better, I feel better, of course I feel better. Sort of.
There is a wise and gentle part of me that knows I’m not perfect. Occasionally she is even effective at persuading me that no one else really expects perfection. (Well, in adherence with my authenticity commitment, I have to tell you that she actually does think I’m perfect, and she knows all of you are perfect, too — in an infinitely interconnected, unconditional “love is all there is” kind of way.)
This gentle voice runs counter to the snarkier one constantly criticizing me for wanting to help other people live more joyfully, and actually hoping I might be qualified to do just that. The snarky version thinks I should probably be pretty darn perfect myself before I have any right to teach anything to anyone. And her version of being perfect means that all of my own stuff should already be resolved and neatly tied up. Think more pretty, satin, ribbon bow, less shredded, tattered tourniquet knot.
After all, if I actually write about any of the struggles I still face, won’t people wonder what on Earth I’m doing coaching? Which means that when I peel back the layers of this issue, I realize that it doesn’t only affect the way I feel about blogging. It actually affects the way I feel about everything. I’m not perfect, my life’s not perfect, so why should anyone listen to me? Darn it.
And then I remember. And the remembering is like long cool drink of water. Oh yeah. I am not here to tell anyone what to do. I know for sure that I don’t have the blueprint for anyone’s life but my own.
Coaching is not about me or my blueprint. Well, it may be more true to say coaching is only about my blueprint in that I have caught a glimpse of it, and fallen in love with the life it shows: A life where I’m lucky enough to help other people discover their own blueprint, and use it to build lives full of grace, love, purpose, abundance, and bliss.
And while it might seem laughably ridiculous that I was scared to blog because I thought you might think that I think I know everything, I feel a lot better admitting that I don’t. Know everything that is, or even think I know everything. The writer Grace Paley has said that “we don’t write about what we know; we write about what we don’t know about what we know.”
Which means some posts will be about stuff I’m working through. Writing is one of the best ways I know of to attain clarity and insight and growth. And I hope that as I write through any pain or sticky spots here on the page, you might learn something about yourself, too.
So for me to be authentic with you here on this blog, no doubt there will be glaring moments of imperfection on my part. And I’m even guessing we’ll visit the theme of perfection itself from time to time.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Bliss advocate. I love that!!! The light you shine on your own foibles and imperfection is just showing the way for others. It’s exactly perfect, just like you being a coach! xx
Oh wow, this is amazing stuff Briana, I just love reading your voice. Totally inspiring reminder that we don’t have to be perfect (because gah, perfect people are annoying and can’t help me with jack anyway, you know?). The tattered tourniquet knot, yes! Love ~E.