I’ve hiked the trails at Oak Mountain State Park’s North trailhead several times, enough times that I’m starting to get bored by it. But there are several trails that begin here, then branch out into other trails in different directions. It’s a relatively short section that is common to all trails.
The first portion of the trail is an incline—a good way to jumpstart my heart rate. On one particular day, I felt alert and strong as I began the ascent. I like to go fairly fast and maintain a steady rhythm. Watching my feet and the trail in front of me, I made my way up, noticing the ferns and spring wildflowers pushing up through the brush on either side of the trail. I was in my happy place.
Two women were coming down the trail at about the point where it crested for me. They were younger than me, using trekking poles, carrying backpacks, and were clearly sweating and fatigued. Because they were closing in on the trailhead, I surmised they had been on the trail for a good while and were almost finished.
When we passed each other, the woman in front addressed her friend, “Look at her! She’s not even breathing hard.” I smiled and greeted the pair with a “Good morning.” After the women were just ten yards away, I noticed my breathing had picked up noticeably. I had unintentionally closed my open mouth and slowed my breaths when I crossed paths with the two. Was I subconsciously wanting to appear as if I was just taking a leisurely morning stroll up this mountain?
I was reminded of the time I was training for my Mount Kilimanjaro trek doing hill drills on a very steep street in my neighborhood. To gain the recommended elevation in the time allotted on the training schedule, I was going to have to go up and down this hill six times in thirty minutes, with a twenty pound backpack. I’d climbed this hill many times before, and just one ascent takes my breath away and shoots my heart rate above 150. On my second uphill slog, as I neared the top, I looked up to see a young couple with a child in a stroller making their way carefully down the hill. I smiled up at them. The dad greeted me with, “You’re almost there. You don’t have much further to go.” I squeaked out a laugh and panted, “I’m supposed. To do this. Four more times!” I was chagrinned that the couple could see that I was struggling and that they needed to encourage me. Not the image I wanted to project.
Why did I need to appear as if I am more fit than I am? Why do I want to project a certain image to the world, even to strangers. And maybe to myself as well.
These are silly examples, but they point to a bigger trap that I think we all fall into. We want to appear in control, poised, and polished. Of course we do. Who wants to show up in public disheveled and out of sorts, with all our warts and unpleasant natures showing? Barking at an innocent sales person when you’re having a bad day does no one any good.
Maybe when we are facing forward, presenting ourselves to society, there is no harm in showing up as our best selves. It serves to smooth our way into the larger world. We can all function better when we put best selves forward.
If I showed up to give a presentation to caregivers on a day that I didn’t feel like showering or getting dressed and let them see the reality of an underlying depression, I would not be nearly as effective. But because I have done the work to process at least some of the emotional turmoil of my past, I can speak to groups with authenticity and vulnerability, yet also with poise and polish.
With close friends and family, authenticity is imperative though. Our true selves should not be hidden—from our circles or from ourselves. When we acknowledge our deepest understanding of ourselves, and just BE ourselves, that vulnerability knocks down walls and invites closer connection. When we better know ourselves, we can then bring that self into wider community with more authenticity.
So if you meet me on a trail, don’t be surprised if I smile and appear completely comfortable.