How To Navigate Joy Alongside Fear by Lindsay Bartels

Do you ever talk to yourself? Have a running dialogue inaudibly zig-zagging at the back of your mind? I often become so much in my head that my thoughts jam up and any ability to decipher ‘what to do?’ or ‘what not to do?’ becomes too muddled to navigate.

         The first real collision that came to a head in my head was when I found out I had cancer. And not only that, but was told that, within 24 hours, I would need to begin fertility preservation; to preserve some eggs in case my ovarian function didn’t return after chemo—in the time the doctor knew he had: now, before anyone else could say otherwise. I was twenty-six years old and also was a year into dating my boyfriend, when asked, ‘does he want to fertilize some [of my] eggs?’

         I didn’t know if I wanted to have children. I was trying hard to not get pregnant and find some momentum for myself in life—away from home in a relatively new-to-me city that I loved–where I could really home in on what independence, for me, looked like. How was I supposed to ask my boyfriend if he’d make potential children with me when we hadn’t even spoken about marriage, weren’t even living together?

         It took a sleepless night, near panic attack, and a holding-my-breath in a putting-myself-out-there kind of pinnacle to ask him to hold a big chunk of my heart in his hands and say yes to this possibility as an option for me and maybe us. 

We moved forward looking at it “as an insurance policy.”  But that didn’t sit comfortably with me. Because there was no guarantee of a future together. No guarantee it would even work. But was it a guarantee I was looking for from him? That I needed? 

No, as it turned out. 

It was comfort I was seeking in myself—in the face of collaborating with the unknown–in others; in life.

         This was the beginning for me of learning that much of my life to come would often need to include the help of others. Many others in some cases, especially with IVF. Learning things on the fly, even, when it came to motherhood years later. 

Which left me wondering, where was control in all this surrender? And: why all these decisions, all of a sudden, that I never thought I’d have to make?

It was here that I sought an opinion outside-of-my-family and beyond what my current care team could cover. When audibly asking around ‘why me and why cancer in my twenties when I am otherwise healthy and happy?’ – a shaman I met through a friend-of-a-friend, somehow, found me.

He was very much a regular guy—a marriage and family therapist, and also a rabbi–who had a spiritual knowingness that emanated from him. From his deep presence and ability to just be with it and feel into the moment, he’d become a vessel for what he called ‘the upper world.’

He gave me a couple of tools to make it through times of uncertainty, where I could hold onto the momentum with life that I had, I could power-up my own inner voice, and find a way through my thorny, tangled questions.

The first tool was grounding myself in this ‘middle’ world. This looks like literally standing up, planting my own two feet into the floor, bending my knees and consciously retaining 70% of my energy inside me—only giving 30% to others. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but it gave me a clear visual to work toward. When taking this stance, I, too, can bring in the ‘upper world’—a world of unconditional love that wants to pour itself into me–to help.

“But how do I do that?” I’d ask.

         With the second tool he offered: Talking to myself. Out loud. Not in my head. The shaman taught me that my voice—one’s own voice, is sacred. And it is in this act—speaking aloud to oneself–that what you need can arrive.

         It felt quite funny, I had to admit. I found that I couldn’t bring myself to do it near or around my boyfriend (now husband). I didn’t want him to overhear me and laugh, even though I did know he wouldn’t laugh.

         So, I did it (and still do) when alone, driving or walking. I’d say, ‘okay, Lindsay, what is bothering you? Let’s talk it out.’ 

Silly? For sure. Especially at first. But this was something I’d do on the phone with loved ones all the time. What difference was it, if I was just listening to and speaking to only myself instead? 

It was in this practice that, yes, the worst thing that could happen would be given the spotlight–and then, not sound so scary. It was in this practice that the loudness of what others thought I should do could quieten and fall away from my inner mind-jumble. And it was also in this practice that my mind could actually detangle and reveal what I really wanted: my biggest truth.

Getting the words out of my head and into my voice is what helps me find joy alongside fear. It helps me honor my deepest desires and to feel okay, even if life doesn’t always work out the way I envision from the get-go. 

I can rest deeply and keep stress at bay because I know I tried in alignment with my truth. And, wow. That feels amazing and lands me in places I could never see coming and maybe needed most all along.

I invite you to try it.

Lindsay Bartels is a writer. Her debut memoir, Imogen in Waiting (Third Rail Press, RRP $26.95), is available online and in all good bookstores from June 16. Connect with her @lindsaybartels_.