Standing at the Door of Possibility

I was on a call recently where I was introduced as a speaker trainer.

The moment the words left her mouth, I felt it in my body. A visceral reaction. Sharp. Immediate. Wrong.

She wasn't saying anything out of turn. I told her to say that. It's exactly who I've been for a very long time. I'm even taking on speaking clients these days because it's something I need to do while I finish this birthing process. But the truth is: I've already lost that identity. Ok, not lost it… Misplaced it. Put it away as I step into this new identity.

And I realized: After I finish birthing this dragon, I can't go back there. Even if I wanted to.

The Morphing

For the last two months, I've been sitting with the idea of identity. Not morphing into the next me like I've always done. Not collecting another title to add to the list. But truly, radically letting go of who I've been before.

I've morphed from brand strategist into speaker into speaker trainer into medicine woman. And as I did, I carried the old identities with me like heavy baggage. Like proof. Like I needed to keep them in case I needed to go backward.

But I know now: that baggage has to be left at the door of possibility in order to go through.

The Door of Possibility

I believe that on the path to growth — the path to enlightenment — we all carry baggage. Suitcases and wheelbarrows, backpacks and bags. We look like we're covered in luggage. Some of it on wheels. Some of it scraping through the gravel. And we become stronger and stronger as we carry it longer and longer.

We don't have to keep carrying it. But it feels like penance. So we do. Our muscles get stronger while we feel more tired. And because we're stronger, we think we can take it. Other people see us as strong for all of the things we carry. For all of the things we don't set down. Because no one ever taught us to set them down.

Until one day, we get to the Door of Possibility.

We've gone through so much beautiful growth. We've picked up all of the things that needed picking up. We carry so much more with us than we've ever carried before. Yet we realize we just can't go any further with all of this on our person. We can't go any further with all of this baggage because it's getting in the way.

We're chipping off our toenails on roller wheels. We're bruising our shins on the rusty Flyer Wagon. We're bashing our arms on the handles. We're hitting other people with it without even realizing. It's like being at the airport with people who have no spatial awareness — just walking into each other, saying we're sorry, yet not able to stop.

This is the moment we finally see that there's so much more for us in front of us.

And yet we don't know how to get there.

Because at the Door of Possibility, there's a little man who pops out and asks us what we need. Of course, all we want to do is walk through this giant door — imagine a Moroccan door of epic proportions, fifteen stories tall. But he tells us what we can't see: the door doesn't actually open. It just holds back all of the possibility, making sure it doesn't escape. And it makes sure we can't take any of our baggage with us. Even though it looks like it will fit.

Because we have to go through the little crawl space at the bottom of the door.

So the little man motions us toward an altar next to the door. This sacred place where we have to donate, trash, and recycle all of the things we're carrying. We have to pare them all the way down to only what we can fit into our backpack. A slim bag that can go with us. Not something we have to hoist onto our backs or force into our lives.

When I tell people this, they look at me like I'm insane. "Are you kidding? I don't have a way of letting go of all of this."

But the altar allows us to see something we never knew before: we never needed to carry it in the first place.

In case you're worried, there's also an emergency exit next to the altar. A way to go right back to who we used to be. To go back to all the doing and titles and ways of the world.

I've watched so many people take it.

I've done it myself a few times.

But knowing that I can't go back to the old way — that I can't go back to who I used to be — I know it's time for me to finally set down all of the baggage I can no longer carry at this beautiful altar.

What I'm Setting Down

I'm setting down the ever-morphing business I've had for twenty-five years.

I'm setting down deep friendships and powerful business relationships that no longer serve me.

I'm setting down the identity of speaker trainer. The identity of brand strategist. All of the titles I collected as proof that I was enough.

I'm setting down relationships — some of the most important ones — that have walked away from me in spectacular fashion. And some that I've had to walk away from because they were burning me instead of fanning my flames.

I'm setting down my landlady's sudden decision to sell the house. I'm setting down the not knowing where I'm going next.

And I'm sending up a prayer for all of those people. All of those places. All of those experiences that have made me who I am today. Thanking them. Apologizing to them. Letting them know: I am sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank you.

Giving them everything I needed to give them. Knowing that I am more than all of the stuff I've carried.