The Time I Painfully Became Part of the Furniture

But then found my community

What am I doing here?

I had just raised my hand and my heart was pounding like I was about to enter a cage fight with no training. 

But I was just on a group Zoom call.

It was October of 2020, and I had just joined a writing course called Write of Passage. You may have heard of it. Founded by David Perell, it has deservedly earned a reputation for being one of the most respected and effective writing programs offered online.

I had just logged in to the first session of the course and there was a conversation going on between David, new students, and alumni. I immediately felt outclassed and small. These people were whip-smart, insightful, well-read, and articulate. References to literary classics, contemporary philosophers, and architectural design as a metaphor for writing were being articulately exchanged. The last time I read a classic all the Beatles were still alive. My imposter’s syndrome was so bad it would have infected fellow passengers on a bus.

I slunk into the couch, barely visible as I receded from the screen, and took a backseat as the session unfolded.

At the end of the call the moderator asked if anyone else had a question for David. I did have a question in my mind, but What am I doing here? was not an inquiry I felt anxious to pose. I was just grateful that the session was finally coming to an end. But then I realized it was a relevant question to ask myself.

“What am I doing here?”

I love to write, but I’d never fully admitted how important it is to me. As an introvert who has always made his own way—figuring things out in private to avoid rejection or having to ask for help—I’d decided I should take the risk of learning from others. So I signed up for the course at the last minute after hesitating for weeks. At the moment I was only learning how to blend in with couch cushions.

"Shit!" I muttered.

That's what I usually say when I've caught myself about to take the easy way out of a situation, especially when I know it will shrink my life and spirit and make it even more difficult to step up when required in the future.

It's when I'm resisting something small with nuclear force that I know I have to lean in.

"The professional has learned better. He respects Resistance. He knows if he caves in today, no matter how plausible the pretext, he’ll be twice as likely to cave in tomorrow." 

Steven Pressfield, The War of Art

Heart pounding, breath shallow, and armpits stinging with surging moisture, I clicked the "raise hand" button which appeared on my thumbnail photo. Suddenly there I was at the top left of the Zoom frame with my virtual hand up.

“Yes . . . Rick,” David said, acknowledging my presence.

Here it was. My chance to get help embracing one of my greatest passions. But I’m the same guy who accidentally wound up driving into Mexico once and spent four hours in secondary questioning to get home—simply because I refused to ask for directions while I was getting gas at a California 7-Eleven.

So instead of asking for help, or admitting how out of place I felt, I went into performer mode. Not the good kind of performing. The kind where you cover up who you really are and try to put on a show to mask your insecurity.

I did that by asking a question that wasn’t a question. We’ve all seen it before. Someone takes the mic in a group Q & A, not to expose their need, but to try and prove their worth. I watched myself be that person—desperately trying to escape a sense of feeling inconsequential with this new group of people, and then ensuring it with my lack of vulnerability.

I don't remember much of anything after that—only that David didn’t know what to say and the session quickly moved on to closing remarks. 

Embarrassment vandalized my cheeks with the red paint of shame. At the moment I thought I’d probably quit, but a few minutes later I felt two other things. 

Relief and joy. 

Despite feeling I'd made a fool of myself, I had not let the moment pass. I'd entered the conversation. I self-initiated into the community, poorly, but that was infinitely better than letting that session expire while I blended like a human chameleon into my living room furniture. I’d experienced my first "passage"— and that led to a decision.

I was going to go all in on the course and with this community—however foolish that made me look.

Two years later, Write of Passage has just announced the closure of the company and once again, I have mixed emotions. 

After participating in five of the thirteen courses, I'll be sad to see this extraordinary community dissolve. The “all in” commitment translated to making more friends and meeting more people than I ever have in a community setting. I’ve never grown as much, gained as much courage for self-expression, or felt committed to a cause as much as I now care about supporting others to find their voice and use it.

“There is not a single person in this country you wouldn’t love if you knew their story.” - Michael Franti

A writing community might be one of the best places in the world to share your story, and to hear the story of others. Going “all in” allowed me to discover that the exchange of human story is where my heart lies. And so with the dissolution of Write of Passage, I imagine there are many other writers who are asking the same question that I'm asking now. 

"Where will I find my people?"

I realize that’s a funny question, because people are everywhere. But what we’re really asking is, “Where will I find the people I can trust?”

What I’ve learned is that I have to trust first. I can’t find my people by holding back.

Have you found your people, or are you hoping they’re going to find you?

What risks are you willing to take to be discovered by those who can walk with you on a path that matters?

When and where will you choose to raise your hand?

---

Many thanks to

Kathy Ayers

who responded to my request for feedback on this story when I shared it in advance with my paid subscribers.

I plan to start sharing first drafts of essays with my paid tier, because I believe it’s useful to see the evolution of how a story can be better told. Kathy made some very useful suggestions for this piece, and I’m reflecting on the joy of creating my own community here on Substack and how amazing it is to be able to ask for help and receive it.

There are 3 community events remaining this month, including an open story sharing session for free subscribers. You can see them here.

For regular attendees, there’s a time change for the next two Saturday’s you’ll want to note.

I look forward to seeing you there.