Where Am I?

Freedom at last, I thought as I walked out of my office in Southern California for the last time. For the past ten years I'd been climbing the ladder of a Fortune 100 company, feeling financially secure and successful, and at the same time unfulfilled and inhibited by corporate regime. Being the only female Territory Manager in the company (which at that time was unusual) and a well-respected rising star, I thought I was truly a woman who could do anything. Now I was going to prove it.

Two weeks earlier I had entered the office of my boss and good friend, opened my briefcase, pulled out a bottle of champagne and two glasses, announcing "We're going to celebrate." Popping the cork, filling the glasses and exclaiming, "Congratulate me," I handed him my letter of resignation. "I'm doing what you and I have talked about for years. I am getting out of here, and I'm going into business for myself."

Some part of me had been pushing to get me out of corporate America for a long time. I believed the stress of the job that I didn't enjoy, and the hours I spent in traffic on LA freeways were killing me. I told myself I had to leave this meaningless rat race and find something fulfilling, or I would die – literally die. At this point my desperation was extreme, and I probably would have grabbed at any opportunity that looked halfway decent to me.

My decision was to return to my former business venture as a beauty consultant with Mary Kay Cosmetics. Prior to the confidence shattering experience of my divorce ten years earlier, I had been moderately successful. But I then decided I needed the security of a real job and a regular paycheck. Now, after ten years in the corporate world, I had an enormous ego convincing me I was destined for overnight success -- for sure I'd be driving a pink Cadillac within six months. "You'll show those people who think you're crazy leaving your sure thing with a regular paycheck, bonuses and company car. Most especially, you'll show your family how great you are," my ego crowed.

Three days later, beginning the first day of my new life, I felt anything but confident, let alone powerful. My first Mary Kay presentation was scheduled for that evening, and I was paralyzed, gripped by a fear I couldn't understand. I felt petrified.

A phone conversation that afternoon irrevocably altered the course of my life. "Hey, I just called to congratulate you on your bold move," my friend in New Jersey said as I answered the phone. Thanking her, I then admitted how I was feeling.

"Do you remember Frank, my client/friend we had dinner with a few times when I was still living in Southern California?" she replied.

"Yeah, I remember Frank -- a nice guy we called a friendly cynic," I said.

"Yes, well I just talked to him today for the first time in six months," she answered, "and it was like talking to a different person. He told me about some kind of personal growth training he was involved with that changed his life. Why don't you give him a call? I don't know what it is, but I have this feeling that maybe he could help you."

I hadn't seen or talked to Frank in three years. I didn't know if he would recall our past meetings, but in that moment's despair, I probably would have called anybody. I did feel a little silly calling a guy who I wasn't sure would remember me, let alone want to listen to me talk about feeling scared to death.

"Remember me?" I asked hesitantly when he answered my call. He did, and I told him our mutual friend suggested I call him after telling her I was feeling terrified because of the life change I'd just made.

"I just quit my job, and I'm in business for myself selling Mary Kay Cosmetics. I thought that after all my accomplishments in the corporate world, this would be the easiest thing I've ever done -- that I would immediately be a huge success. Instead, I feel like I can't move." The words tumbled out rapidly, and I felt embarrassed.

When I paused, Frank asked, "Well, what's the worst that can happen?"

I thought for a moment, my terror escalating. "I-I could fail," I stammered.

"So you fail, and then you sell your house, move to Hawaii and wait tables in a cool restaurant on the beach. It's not a big deal."

"You just don't understand, I CAN'T FAIL." Clearly he doesn't see this is a life and death matter. After going back and forth a few times, me repeating I can't fail, and Frank trying to convince me it didn't matter, Frank dropped his voice to a very soft pitch.

He gently asked, "You can't fail because?"

I sat on the floor in the living room of the home I loved and was so proud to own -- a material symbol of my success I'd worked so hard to achieve. Leaning against the sofa, tears streamed from my eyes, rolling down my cheeks. "I can't fail," I almost whispered, "because then everyone will know I'm no good."

I was shocked as the words tumbled out of my mouth. Shocked -- and yet at the same time I was aware of a feeling that was very familiar. In that instant I knew these were the words I had been saying to myself inside my mind my entire life. Little did I know I had lived my life up until then as a puppet – allowing anyone and everyone to pull the strings, rarely pulling my own. Only in this instant did I become aware. In a moment I went from being a woman who told herself she had everything, to knowing I was a woman who had nothing because I didn't have me.

My journey was destined to begin whether I knew it or not. Once my truth was out in the open, the healing trek began. It wasn't easy. Acknowledging that I believed I was no good was a pain I could hardly bear. Simultaneously, this pain was also a blessing, for it provided me with constant motivation to do whatever it took to heal myself.

No wonder it mattered so much what other people said and thought about me. When I thought of myself as unacceptable, what other choice was there but to look outside of me for validation? There was none coming from within. This is a definition for puppet that needs to be included in the dictionary.

Then there was the "D" word, denial. They say denial works best with the person doing the denying. I had buried the truth of what I believed, hid it from myself, and projected these beliefs on to others...