A few weeks back, at a friend’s recommendation, I started watching The World’s Toughest Race on Amazon Prime. (If you read no further, you still got something out of this post, I promise. Do yourself a favor; grab an armful of snacks and plow through it.) Riding that reality show wrap-up high, I started entertaining the notion, going so far as talking to a few people, about what it would really take to enter an eco challenge or extreme adventure race.
Really my friend Kim, who lives on the other side of the country, started it by sending a barrage of texts in all caps, exclamation points and emojis. Let’s find a race! Let’s form a team! Let’s identify our strengths in athleticism and navigation! I was right there with her, I’m not going to lie. In my mind I was casting my line for sponsors and talking myself off the ledge all women stand at when they wear spandex above the knees.
I brought it up to my husband in a casual way, sure to downplay how truly interested I was, like any smitten stalker. “I mean, it would be really expensive,” I said. “Right,” he agreed. “We’d need good bikes and gear and travel,” I went on. “Right,” he agreed. “And not to mention the training! I mean, when would I do the training?” “Uh huh,” he agreed.
He then, in his typical Hank way, found an article with the world’s top adventure races, many of which fell a realistic arm’s reach out from my most recent athletic endeavors. He was, as he does, ushering me back to safety. Being careful not to clip my wings, but gently placing light weights in the soles of my shoes to bring me back down to earth. This is where you really want to go. These are the things that won’t kill you and leave your three children motherless and in need of intensive therapy.
And I realized I was cloaked in a cape I’d worn many times before. Historically, I’d thought of it as imposter syndrome – pretending to be or envisioning myself as someone I’m really, truly not. But, my Google research tells me this, much like my illusions of being capable of participating in a 10-day race across Fiji, is not quite accurate.
Turns out, the ingredients of true imposter syndrome include heavy feelings of self-doubt and, to put it in my own terms, the paranoia that you’re being a poser. I don’t really have a lot of that going on upstairs. My disease is an innocent one. What I’m really dealing with here is more of what social psychologists call “illusory superiority.” I tend to overestimate my abilities or qualifications. Not in a braggy way necessarily, but more of a starry-eyed, floating on a cloud made out of unicorn farts kind of way. I put a little too much weight in the where-there’s-a-will-there’s-a-way bucket.
Let me give you another example. One that might be a bit more relatable for you. In my mind, I am eternally 26 years old. I know what things are cool and I’m generally in touch with the trends. But this is also, sadly, illusory superiority, a fact that becomes abundantly clear whenever I’m around, well, 26 year olds. In reality, I get pissed off when I miss CBS Sunday Morning, I’m a solid 6 o’clock dinner eater and my lower stomach area looks like an elephant’s face, the leftovers from incubating three healthy-sized chicks.
Now, let me be very clear here. This is not me doubting myself or my body. In an ulterior reality, one in which I don’t have a full time job, a house full of dependents and a running pace that sloths snicker at, could I complete a 10-day multi-discipline race? I mean, absolutely most likely. Could I do it even with all of those things? Let’s say sure. But the truth is, there are so many steps between where I’ve been and a feat that requires an energy drink sponsorship, that the sandbox is plenty big to play in without catapulting myself onto the side of a cascading waterfall in a country that I can’t even pinpoint in relation to my own. (Geography has always been a struggle.)
Similarly, I don’t mind being 37. It’s great! Let’s hear it for all my thirty-something sisters out there! I’m finding my stride [sometimes] as a mom and I give far less Fs about what others think about my decisions. I’m comfortable in my skin and my skills and my marriage. It’s cool to wrap up in that midlife duvet comforter and just chill for a while. I mean, I don’t want to be bored, by any means, or phone it in, but there’s something sweet about this chapter. Being settled and satisfied to the point where you can dabble at the weekend warrior stuff. But love it as I may, I still can’t seem to wrap my mind around the fact that I’ve had so many birthdays! I mean I watched all of the Friends characters turn 30 on the show and they seemed older then than I feel now. Right? And then add nearly a decade on top of that. There’s just no way I’m really that old. You guys, I take a fiber supplement.
Really, the rub of it all is reconciling your illusory superior (imaginary teen Olympic athlete) self with your 37-year-old, realistically aspirational, sloth-running self. I think you have to become friends with the pieces of your soul that see the stars and extend your fingertips to snatch them up, because in the end, those fantastical, far-fetched endeavors often lead to a scaled-down destination that is within your grasp. One that still pushes your limits and waters the wanderlust and appetite for an adventure, but fits within the parameters of what’s possible for you.
I’m a sucker for a story about a real life person who just gives it all up, sells their possessions (because it’s really just stuff anyway) and walks across the country so they can finally hear the sweet whispers inside their soul. We all are, aren’t we? It’s romantic and rebellious and so against the beliefs we’re all spoon-fed as we graduate from one stage of life to the next. And when I close those books, I always have a moment where I’m pricing out my JCrew Factory slack collection on Facebook Marketplace. But my kids can’t walk that far without wanting to stop and have, like, three snacks. And I have some stuff that I really like. And, if I’m being honest, whenever I’m walking alone I just hear lyrics from Frozen or Hamilton over and over and over again. I guess my inner whisper is really just the voices of my daughters.
But I’ll never stop loving those stories. And maybe one day I’ll live out a narrative that resembles one I’ve lost myself in somewhere before. I’ll take a bigger risk than I normally would. I’ll discover things about myself in an unexpected corner of the world. My illusory superiority self is always open to what may come, and my 37-year-old (or whatever age I am at that time) self can bend the edges to fit it into the circle of things that matter to me most.
I love that there’s still a fire goddess in me who believes I can do insanely hard things. I’m not letting her go anywhere. But even more than that, I love that I have supportive people in my corner so that I can do moderately hard things – typically close to home and usually just enough to bend but not break my aging body, which is oddly thrilling to me. It’s not a compromise unless you give up the dream completely.
Whatever your aspirations are, I hope that you can find a way to fit them in. I hope you get a little stardust on your fingertips and some great stories to tell. The important thing is to keep reaching. Keep dreaming. Keep seeking out the joy. (All things, admittedly, I didn’t quite grasp at 26.)
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