Something I noticed over the past couple months is that my Facebook comments, Messenger replies, and text threads were increasingly turning into novels. Even my Instagram Stories started to sport large chunks of text. "Guess this means I need to start blogging again," I would say.
Well, I'm here now. And I accidentally wrote a novella.
The purpose of this post is to show a more complete picture of what goes on behind the scenes when there's obvious growth. Social media can only show so much. And not much is shared in the first place, because it's just not the place for it. So, here's my novella on the struggles that have prompted any growth you may have seen on my socials.
If this helps even one person navigate their circumstances, it will be worth it.
A lot of growth happened for me during 2021. I did not seek out these growth opportunities. I did not decide "I'm going to work on this aspect of how I view myself and the world!" and go after it. It was practically forced upon me - I would have been quite content to stay as I was and continue on with my comfortable life. Ha.
Some personal context: I'm the type of person that seeks comfort through routines, familiarity, and (relatively) conforming to norms.
When those things are disrupted or I feel as though I cannot attain them, there is distress. My first inclination is always to assume there is something wrong with me, because whatever it is I'm struggling with just shouldn't be that hard. That is my typical thought process, but over the course of this past year I have started to give myself options other than "it's because you're a failure."
The way I have typically dealt with this discord is to mentally run away, to ignore it and just keep trying to fit myself into whatever box I think I need to fit into. Believe it or not, this usually works out fine for me. (Probably because most of my problems up to recent years have been school related, and I'm actually really good at "doing school.")
Well, this year my struggles finally refused to be ignored. I was going to have to start dealing with the lingering sense of deeply rooted shame.
There had been warning signs during PT school. Times when I would be so overwhelmed and stressed that I would literally call in sick, just to give myself some breathing room and mentally recover.
And I would be so ashamed. Ashamed! Why should I need to take that space, take the extra time? I don't have any mental illness or disorder, and all my peers were struggling too, but they didn't ever have to run away for a day. So it was something wrong with me.
As a new grad physical therapist, there was an expected learning curve and expected adjustment phase. Thank God my professors and clinical instructors all made this clear, because it would have been so much worse otherwise.
I had amazing support at my first job, which was with a relatively small organization serving rural communities in Eastern Kentucky. (I grew up in Alabama, but I have never been more in the South than when I moved north for this job.) My clinical director was wonderful. My co-workers were great people who always welcomed my questions. They all actively, repeatedly encouraged me to actually ask my questions instead of trying to do it all on my own.
Despite that incredible support system in my ideal clinic setting, I still had some dark days. Probably had a few "sick days." I am a firm believer in counseling, and sought it out, which helped a little bit. The person I worked with wasn't a great match for me, so it wasn't as effective as it could've been.
We were all laid off for about 5 weeks during the COVID-19 outbreak in 2020. When we returned, it was slow going to get people back in the door.
During that time, if I saw 6 people in a day, it was a "busy" day. For reference, in an outpatient orthopedic setting, seeing less than 10 patients in an 8 hour day will get you some unwanted attention regarding productivity levels.
I'm not a fast-paced person by nature, and I have a lot of difficulty revving myself up for extra bursts of energy, focus, and critical thought. I crammed for tests in school like anyone else, but those were always short-lived with plenty of slower days in between to recover. I was in physical therapist heaven seeing so few patients during the pandemic.
Like I said earlier, the company I was working for was relatively small. The numbers did pick up (which was bittersweet for me), but they'd taken a hard hit and had to let people go. I'd only been on for a year, so I was one of the ones let go. It became the opportunity I needed to finally move up to Lexington, which had been my goal from the start. I moved out of my place, got a job with a larger organization that didn't make me feel like a cog in a machine, and found a house to rent. In that order. It was a whirlwind summer.
New job means new documentation system, new patient cases, new coworkers, and new organizational infrastructure to learn. (Living in a new city in a new house wasn't as much of a stressor; I'd already moved plenty of times before, and I'd made several trips up to Lexington while living in my previous place.) I expected it to be hard, because I'd been through similar adjustment phases already with grad school and my first job. And it was definitely hard. But again, I was surrounded by genuinely helpful people and working in a setting I legitimately enjoyed.
I took it for fact that the dark days would come eventually. I tried to be proactive with taking PTO this time, and my clinic director actively encouraged this for all his staff therapists.
I still took "sick days" sometimes, and used them to catch up on notes.
It felt like I never could stay caught up. The notes always piled back up. I asked for help in managing how I was doing them, which helped me not overthink them quite as much. But the problem persisted.
Again, I was ashamed. Why was this fundamental component of being a physical therapist so difficult for me? The paperwork struggle is a common theme in the PT world, and we all joke about it. But it caused me so much anguish to know that I literally was not measuring up. I hated our staff meetings, because numbers were always discussed, and I knew I would always be lacking. No matter how hard I tried, I would never be able to do enough.
One day in the Spring, I pulled into the parking lot. Stared at the employee entrance. And cried.
It wasn't the first time I'd had that response. So, like every other time, I pulled myself together. Mostly. There was still a tension in my chest, an urge to run. But, I'd ignored it every other time prior, and told myself that if I could just get rolling with my patients for the day, I could ignore it and get through the day and that tomorrow wouldn't be as bad.
I walked inside. Opened my computer. Checked the schedule. And decided.
I sent an email to my boss and to our patient service specialist at the front desk to tell them I would not be in that day.
I gathered my things (including my laptop, because I still had notes to do) and went home.
That was the deepest hurt and shame I'd ever felt.
How could it possibly be true that I was so weak and selfish and slow that I had to leave my coworkers to manage their caseload, plus the patients I abandoned for the day? How could I possibly be such a failure? Why couldn't I do this normal thing like everyone else? Why did I have to be so needy?
I connected with a new counselor that day and was able to get on her schedule really quickly. I needed help. Running away has been a theme throughout my life (though evidently I must hide it well), and things had finally come to a point where that method was hurting instead of helping. Whatever is inside me that triggers that reaction had to be dealt with. This could not happen again, not if I wanted to stay gainfully employed and reasonably content. Even if I gave up PT and became a tradesperson, whatever was inside me would just follow me to the next thing.
My boss, who I will never stop applauding for being the kind of leader I hope to be some day, worked with me. We adjusted my schedule and talked practicalities. Obviously he was not in a position to be an emotional/mental support, but he supported me in every professional way possible. His kind heart and incredible servant-leadership was a blessing. Still is a blessing.
We waited two months to see if the counseling and the practical changes would have enough promise that I would feel confident in staying on as a staff PT. And I did feel better with the reduced workload, of course.
And somehow I was more ashamed than before. I knew it was just going to come right back. Something inside was refusing to heal, and it refused to be rushed. Damn me for having something broken inside. Damn them all for trying to help.
I was ashamed. I was about to become a stereotypical Millennial who can't hold a job because it's not a good fit. "Sorry, everyone, I know y'all were really excited for me to become a Doctor of Physical Therapy, but looks like I can't hack it after all. Don't mind me, just going to go quietly disappear."
What a shame, that I had been able to attend the program I felt so weirdly called to, work the perfect job for me right out of school, and work in another fantastic and supportive setting in the city I was called to - what a shame that I'd gotten all that and would have to throw it all away. What a shame that good things had happened to me. Shame.
During those two months of "wait and see," I was in a very lonely place. I researched other ways I could use my very expensive doctorate. I looked at other career paths that could pay at least enough to cover my living expenses and impressive student loan debt. Somewhere in there, I decided that if I chose to continue in the traditional outpatient ortho setting, that I would end up in the same lonely, desperate place again. It would only be a matter of time. Taking that off the table broke my heart. After all, I had been so sure that God had called me to physical therapy. I didn't want to be anything else.
And during those same months, while I had some breathing room at work and some good, difficult discussions with my counselor, I found a Facebook group. It was almost an accident, really. During one of my many internet expeditions for alternative work, I searched another physical therapy group I was already part of to see if something like what I wanted even existed. If there was any way I could still be a PT without wrecking myself, that was what I wanted.
I wound up clinging to that new group like the lifeline that it was. Excited and hopeful as I was, I tried to consider my options as objectively as I could. Big decisions shouldn't be made from a place of deep hurt or ecstatic joy.
After what I hoped was careful enough consideration, I wound up leaving my job and starting my own mobile private practice.
And y'all, I WAS STILL ASHAMED.
Aside from informing my patients that I would be leaving and their care would be picked up by another member of the staff, I barely told a soul about my decision. Despite all my consideration, it still felt like a desperate, reckless move.
Everyone I did tell was happy for me. Several people have told me that they look up to me and they admire my bravery. And I honestly still can't wrap my head around it, because nothing I did was brave by my estimation. In my heart and in my mind, I was just another failure Millennial who couldn't bring herself to conform to what everyone else was doing, and then decided to become an entrepreneur. To me, it looked like the sketch of a storyline for some hokey, stupidly optimistic movie that completely ignores reality in favor of fantasy.
Except now I'm living that storyline. And I get to tell the whole of it, not just the pretty highlight reel.
~~~
This post was mostly to share the truth about what's been going on behind the scenes. It's hard to get a good grasp of these things through social media. Facebook and Instagram make it look like I'm put together and taking bold steps and generally being a badass. Some of that is true - I have taken some pretty bold steps! - but it's not the whole story.
I'm not all fixed up now. I've grown a lot, but I still struggle with shame pretty regularly. However, through the past several months of internal work, those thought habits are not as strong as they once were. The demeaning things I tell myself don't imbed themselves as deeply in my heart, and sometimes they barely stick at all.
Some of the things that have helped me the most during these past several months have been a couple challenges my counselor laid out for me, which helped me start to actually like myself. I even started to admit that I'm good at some things that others are not. It's still hard for me to say these out loud, because it's been such a habit to downplay everything about me. It's hard to start owning the space you occupy when all you've ever tried to do was stay out of the way. But I'm practicing, and as with anything you practice, I'm getting more comfortable with it.
Another thing that has been particularly helpful is to ask myself if I'm doing things well. Did I do everything I could to stay? Did I put in the work to start getting better? Did I research and prepare as best I could for a new step? Did I take action well? Did I choose my people well? When I've had to ask for help, did I do it well? Did I receive help well?
Sometimes the answer is no. But more often than not, the answer has been yes. To the extent of my limited capacity to predict possible paths, I have done as well as I could reasonably expect of myself.
Every path you choose in life is hard. There is no easy way through this life. But you can choose your hard.
You are capable of doing hard things. After all, you're already doing something that's hard.
Whatever you choose, do it well. Something I've learned is that doing something well doesn't mean doing it all by myself. It means being honest about my limitations and enlisting help from others so that I not only accomplish the task, but stay true to who I am throughout the entire process, so that when it is finished, I am still me and have made myself, my helpers, and my task better because of it.
Choose your hard. Do it as well as you reasonably can.
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