Willful Vulnerability

I was fighting futility last night, and exhausted, and feeling very downtrodden. Grappling with mild (ha!) panic about adjunct cuts (the most recent, and the forthcoming). Trying to figure out the path ahead. Trying to figure out how to dust off resilience and replenish my strength to move forward; the past two years have been a constant reminder that strong enough rarely feels strong enough. Trying to be open because I think it’s important for academics to be transparent about what we’re going through, to tear down some of the imposter-syndrome perceptions that we have that other people always have it together and that they aren’t struggling or scared or tired.

I’m reminded of a talk I once saw Will Cheng give at an AMS session, before his beautiful book Just Vibrations came out. He urged scholars to practice what he called “willful vulnerability,” and that phrase has resonated with me ever since. It does us no good to feign strength in front of one another. A field can be a community rather than a competition–at least, it should be, for the sake of scholarship. So we should be open, sharing not only our triumphs and publications, but also finding a way to talk about when it’s not so easy to pursue the thing we love most.

Sleeping on these feelings often helps, though it’s ok if it doesn’t. In my case, I woke up ill from the stress, had to go to the doctor and get antibiotics, and was initially very frustrated with my body for letting me down instead of letting me jump right into the work of moving on from bad news. It felt like just one more thing in the way of feeling safe or secure.

Yet, despite the slow morning, I had a number of restorative moments that started bringing me back to myself, so that I can plan ahead with intention and clarity. The heavy rain this afternoon was beautiful. I finished a powerful arrangement of Let it Be for a memorial service this weekend. I answered emails, I had a long talk with my advisor. I graded student discussion posts, I slowly and deliberately practiced my scales on viola. In other words, I simply kept going as I always do.

I leaned on a good friend in the midst of my turmoil yesterday, to avoid being so fragile and alone in my apartment with my thoughts. She let me come over to her house, watch silly PBS cooking shows, and drink a cup of tea to get my bearings again. Today, we were talking via text about some of the things ahead, and she told me a story about how she attended mass a few weeks ago in the midst of some of her own uncertainties about the future. This was one of the readings:

1 Kings 19:11-13 New King James Version (NKJV)

God’s Revelation to Elijah

¹¹ Then He said, “Go out, and stand on the mountain before the Lord.” And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore into the mountains and broke the rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; ¹² and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice.

¹³ So it was, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood in the entrance of the cave. Suddenly a voice came to him, and said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Initially, it seemed sort of obtuse, but she wrote via text (quoted with her permission):

My interpretation is that we should listen to the smallest voice to guide us. For me, faith and hope are always the tiniest voices, often drowned out by anxiety and fear. I’m not sure if it’s helpful to you, but it spoke to me recently.

It was helpful to me. I’ve been reflecting on it all day. I wanted to post it in case others might find that perspective helpful. Whether or not that tiny voice is faith, or hope, or even just trust in yourself and your own abilities–what a small revolution. To choose that voice over others that may be negative, that may be trying to convince you that you are without value, that you’re not strong enough. That voice is loud, and it’s a liar. I needed to be reminded to listen elsewhere in my heart.