the compulsive need to prove
When I was around 4 years old my mother caught me trying to smuggle a bunch of fruit rollups to school.
For days, I'd been grabbing as many as I could from the box in our lazy susan and shoving them into my backpack before our commute.
Mom quickly caught on that those fruit rollups must be going somewhere, and as I was an only child at this point, it was only a matter of time before my backpack was inspected.
"Why do you need all these fruit rollups," she asked upon their discovery.
I was too nervous to say.
"I'll let you have two," she replied at my silence.
With this, I remember bursting into tears. "But no one will play with me if I don't give them a fruit rollup," I pleaded.
For weeks the girls in my class had been leaving me out. At recess, they'd sit in a circle and play Duck, Duck, Goose. If I wanted to play I could either always be the Goose or, I learned, give them a fruit rollup and be treated like everyone else.
"If you have to give your friends something to play with you, they're not worth plaything with at all," I remember Mom saying.
Of course she was right, but it didn't feel like that at the time. It felt like without something to offer, why would anyone want to be my friend?
I've recounted this story a few times to others and been amazed that so many share some version of this experience.
"For me, it was cakes," one person said. "Once I baked a several-layer cake and brought it to school for the few moments of fame I knew it would bring me."
Another carried bottles of Bath and Bodyworks lotion in her school bag. She frequently applied the moisturizer on her hands and arms waiting for the comments to roll in, "that smells good," "Can I have some?" She'd line up her trove of bottles on her desk basking in attention as classmates smelled and sampled.
One thing I've noticed about the folks who can tell some version of this story is that we were all "different" in some pronounced way.
I was the only Black girl in my preschool.
My cake friend was the only immigrant.
My lotion friend wore glasses with thick lenses that made her eyes look big and for which she was relentlessly teased.
And while we can look back and laugh, cry, and get pissed about the trials we faced growing up as "the only" in our schools, many of us are still deeply shaped by these wounds.
The voice of, "but who will like me if I don't .... " shows up as a constant need to prove our worth in order to belong.
We may not consciously believe that we should have to "do stuff" to feel that we have value, but when the pressure is on, or something really matters, this core insecurity can creep into the driver's seat.
We know it's at the helm when ...
Our doing is driven by a hunger for external validation that comes at the cost of our own wellbeing.
We continually overextend ourselves for the ephemeral halo of being considered "good," or "part of the team," or "a hard worker."
We're generous with our time, care, money, and attention beyond our true capacity. Anytime we're invited in, we stew over how we can prove the gatekeeper made a good choice. This leads us to take on additional responsibility, say yes to things we don't actually want, or apologize for not being more than we are.
If we make a "mistake," we lose sleep as we play it over and over in our minds. How could this have happened? We must fix it. What can we put in place to ensure it never happens again? What will others think now?
This is by no means an exhaustive list. How this looks shows up in myriad ways. If any of this is familiar to you, I hope this newsletter serves to remind you that you are not alone. There are so many of us who were taught through our early experiences that we are in some way insufficient.
This younger part of us believes that the only way to "fix" our faultiness is by duping others into believing we're actually whole. We do this through an unwavering willingness to bend ourselves in order to make others happy. If they're happy, we can be happy.
Engaging in this charade long enough though shows us that it's not actually possible to prove our worth through some external arbiter. There's always more we could or should be. The "enough" carrot is perpetually 10 steps ahead of us.
Is there a way out?
In my own healing journey and as I've walked alongside many others in my practice, I've found the tools of somatics to be effective for gently exploring and unhooking from internalized patterns of not-enoughness.
When this wound emerges, here's how you can interrupt it with curiosity and compassion.
1. Notice what you're feeling in your body. Just getting here is a big deal. It means you're aware that you're in an old pattern. Now you can drop whatever storyline is playing out in your mind and feel what sensations are present in your body.
2. How far back do these sensations go? The body often communicates with more than words. What memories or images are present?
3. Without believing it, can you simply feel the fear? Notice the impulse to jump from feeling into doing. This is how you've learned to make this pain go away. Right now though, you're not trying to make it go way. Rather, you're getting to know it by being with it.
4. Make space for your vulnerability. What is under the fear? Without labeling it, can you stay with this energy for a few moments?
5. Invite love. What does this part of you need right now? Can you wrap yourself in the softest of blankets? Let yourself be easy. Now is not the time for doing or making big plans. Be in nature. Rest. Journal.
The goal is not to suppress these difficult feelings. Rather, because they will inevitably creep up, we can become skilled at recognizing when they arise and take care of ourselves.
This means instead of running to action we pause. Somatics invites us to feel our bodies and in doing so find ourselves. Coming into contact with more of who we really are helps us discern a way forward that recognizes we never have anything to prove. While we won't get here overnight, this knowing is able to unfold in us with time, gentleness, and much patience.