I occasionally forget that one of the key strategies for being brave is to give that voice in my head, the Critic, its marching orders. You know the one: that whining one that incessantly insists that I am not strong enough-ready enough-able to do what I want to do. It's the one that always sighs with disappointment, "Oh, Anastasia."
Sometimes I have to surround it and subdue it, I have to gather all my courage and all my allies to force a cease fire. "If you tell them all you want to run the New York Marathon it simply means you'll fail more publicly, Anastasia," gripes the Critic. So I solicit support from my vast collection of beloved friends. "Wouldn't it be easier to just fail quietly? Or even just to stay home?" the Critic whispers. So I share my race number so that these stalwart allies can actually watch me run in real time from their computers. "This will not end well," the Critic smirks. "Have fun!" my friends urge. So I go to the start line.
And I do it. I crank up the tunes from my DJ to drown out the Critic, who goes to sulk in a corner. And I put one foot in front of the other, and I let the good wishes from near and far push me along. I accept support from strangers, whose calls of "Looking good, Supergirl!" and "You got this!" are so much more caring and confident than that horrible alter-ego who freeloads off me every single day. I do it, and while the Critic just harrumphs with its arms crossed, my allies all say, "We never had a doubt."
And I succeed. Petal: 1, Ghastly Inner Critic: 0. And now I am heading home, where I might just give that voice an eviction notice.