Exploring the Fear of Failure/Success Binary on a Rusty Bike

Exploring the Fear of Failure/Success Binary on a Rusty Bike

I’m sitting in a coffee shop around the corner from my kids’ school. You know the type: laid-back tunes piped around a rustic brick room, with polished concrete floors; bespoke, slightly wonky furniture that has been cobbled together from salvage yards and roadside collections; and eclectic jars and pots with cuttings of succulent plants from the owner’s granny’s garden. It’s a surprisingly creative space and I like to come here after I’ve dropped the kids off to reconnect with the adult world. The one that doesn’t involve yelling, begging, huffing and scraping hard-set cereal off the kitchen bench.

This coffee shop backs onto my local bike store, and I have my old (emphasis on old) mountain bike in the boot of my car. It needs some serious repair work and I was hoping to get it up and running. But I’m not at the bike shop. I’m at the coffee shop, sitting on my own, procrastinating. What is that about? I squirm around the uncomfortable knowledge that I’m frightened. Frightened of putting my bike into a bike shop for a service—think about that for a minute. That is all levels of strange. I mean, it’s a bike shop. They fix bikes. They want me to drop my bike in.

So what is it that I’m scared of? My bike is old and I’ve let it get out of shape (hmm, is there metaphor in that perhaps?). I don’t want the man in the bike-shop to laugh at me. I don’t want to be ridiculous. I want to be taken seriously. I don’t want the man in the bike shop to see me as a failure. Wowsers, that is some over-thinking. Yet, that’s how I roll.

My mind jumps immediately to another time I was frightened to face people. A few years ago I got into great shape. I lost twelve kilograms, was exercising heaps and people commented on how well I was looking. But then I didn’t, so I wasn’t.

*Crickets*

I struggled psychologically to return to my sport because I knew that my friends at training couldn’t help but notice that I’d dropped the ball, so to speak. I panicked about facing that community again. What would they think? That I was lazy? Greedy? I almost didn’t go back. This speaks to a different fear.

Most people have heard of the fear of failure. It goes along the lines of  “I am frightened of failing, so I won’t try in the first place.” Hand in hand with this is the fear of success: “The more I succeed, the bigger my failure when I fall.” I used to mountain bike all the time, but now the bike-shop guy will think I’m a chubby, useless middle-aged mum. I was slim and strong, now the people I train with will think I’m over the hill and won’t respect me as much. The two feed on each other, and even knowing that these are the thoughts I am projecting onto myself doesn’t stop them from running rampant with my self-confidence.

As I sit in this coffee shop I can’t help but imagine how this self-destructive paralysis plays out in other aspects of my life. How do I overcome it? Try and care less? Push through the fear? Click publish, or send, or apply before my brain has time to wind itself up? People aren’t laughing. People don’t care because, in reality, they are too busy dealing with their own lives to spare much thought for that extra ten kilos, rusted chain or pending job application that seem to loom so large in my thoughts. And if they do care? So what? The challenge lies in pushing past self-doubt, past worrying what other people think, and being okay with showing the fractures in that carefully constructed and maintained self that we put forward to the world.

Easier send than done.

P.S.

I did take the bike in but sadly its deterioration was terminal.

On a positive note, I get a new bike.

 

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Social Media Sabbatical: Two Weeks In and The Fog is Clearing

Social Media Sabbatical: Two Weeks In and The Fog is Clearing

As an aspiring author I am aware that social media is king. Publishers and agents want to know that you have a presence on social media and are aware and willing to utilise the incredible power and networking capabilities of the various social media platforms in order to build an audience and connect with people. In other words authors are their own marketing managers. The thing is, this is all time-consuming and the other thing authors are meant to be doing is writing, writing and more writing.

I went on an active campaign last year to get more Instagram followers. I love Instagram. I love finding new photographers to follow, drooling over their incredible images and imagining the adventures they must have had to get them (I follow predominantly landscape photographers). I never follow anyone whose images I don’t love just so that they will follow me. What’s the point? It’s disingenuous. The upshot of this, is that my unwillingness to play the game in terms of following and unfollowing has gained me a grand total of 100 extra followers in the past year. To put that in perspective, literary agents and publishing houses are looking for authors with over ten thousand followers across each of the various platforms. I have 135-ish (it fluctuates) Instagram followers, a poultry 20-odd twitter followers (though I rarely tweet), Pinterist is dead to me, and I ‘m not really sure what Google is doing. Linkedin? I’m on it… I think.

I have an average amount of Facebook followers for a person who posts way too many pictures of their kids and their sport (spoiler, my private profile is 70% taekwon-do and 30% kids). I like using social media. I like seeing news about my friends, family, and colleagues. I’m happy to find out about new books, or awesome podcasts, or the next best show on Netflix. I struggle however with the type of self-promotion that is apparently required of me when just at the moment I don’t really have anything to promote.

So here is my conundrum.

According to Cal Newport’s book Deep Work (2016), which I highly recommend you read, social media is an evil that stops us from working in a focused, consistent and productive manner. It so easily draws our attention away from the task at hand and back to the daily gossip, the sports report, the fashion posts the… I mean you should TOTALLY be reading my blog posts via Facebook and you should be telling ALL of your friends about it too (irony acknowledged).

Cal Newport’s remedy is a sabbatical. One month. See what happens.

I’m two weeks in to my disconnect with social media. I’ve deleted Twitter, Facebook and Instagram from my phone so that I can’t quickly access them as a reflex every time the phone pings, or I’m looking for an excuse to dodge what I should be doing. It’s school holidays here so I can’t say that this week has been overly productive, though last week I sourced three short story competitions I want to enter and began brainstorming ideas for them as well as completely re-imaging the new novel I am working on. I feel more focused/less scattered and I feel as though my brain has time to settle on my thoughts and ideas better than it has in a long time.

This was what I was hoping for. What I didn’t expect, however, was how I would feel when I did sneak a peek back at the insidious, perpetually scrolling view of the outside world. Sad. Because Facebook is a major form of communication between my friends and I, a major source of information for writing groups, taekwon-do news and kids activities it is completely unrealistic to stop using it altogether and it seems that if I want a writing career I not only have to engage with it, but embrace it. Yet, when I open my feed I find it bruising and jarring. From animal welfare advocates desperately trying to help those creatures in need (and as a former veterinarian I find this admirable and distressing), to fundraising for charities, to sexism, to racism, to the political shambles that seems to be inherent in every country, it simply hurts to see it all condensed and unfiltered and always there at my fingertips.

This should be a good thing, and I’m sure it is in many ways.

The challenge for me is finding the balance between remaining engaged with the world as it is presented and interpreted through social media and keeping my own head-space clear so that I can work, but also so that I can intelligently navigate all the information, misinformation, opinion and fact that I am bombarded with.

And how the heck do people attract 10, 000 followers???

On Quitting Veterinary Medicine

On Quitting Veterinary Medicine

Most kids go through a ‘I’m going to be a vet when I grow up, because I love animals’ phase. I didn’t that I can remember and maybe that should have been a warning to me that vet wasn’t a job I was cut out for. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my cats with a kind of sycophantic obsession that bordered on pathological, but the job itself wasn’t one that I’d fantasised about. Coming up to the end of year twelve it was obvious that I was going to get a decent enough score to get into something big: law, engineering, OT, physio, pharmacy, dentistry—vet. This was problematic because the competitive nature of my personality made me apply for the most difficult possible courses. (Yes, I did apply for medicine, and clearly no, I didn’t get in. Something for which I grateful every day.) I didn’t have a burning desire to do any course, so because I got the score, veterinary medicine seemed as good an idea as anything else. I adored animals, I liked science and I wasn’t grossed out by blood and guts. Bonus.

My five years studying vet at Murdoch were awesome. It was everything that I’d dreamed university could be. Gone were the flakey pot-smokers and heavy drinkers (I went to a pretty rough high school) that looked down on someone who knew how to spell their own name correctly and in their place were some of the most amazing people I’d ever met, who are still some of the most important people in my life. The course was exhausting, exciting and fascinating. The lecturers and clinicians were in equal measure inspiring, terrifying and objectionable. It was bliss. Everyday I was taught new things, pushed, encouraged and because vets have a unique perspective on the world, my dry and often scathing sense of humour actually made me friends for the first time (instead of solidifying my place firmly on the fringes). It was gratifying to tell people you were studying vet. After all, everyone had wanted to be a vet when they were a kid. They loved animals so much. It must be so satisfying to be able to help them.

They thought you were a little bit special because not only do you love animals but you were dedicating yourself to their health and welfare. It felt noble.

The hours at uni were brutal. The stress was immense. Everything not vet fell away. But the benefits seemed obvious. When I graduated I felt certain that my life was on track and my blazing future in the world of small animal veterinary medicine would be just as fun, and stimulating and exciting as my five years of tertiary education had been. I left uni passionate about my career.

Cue “ba-bow” sound effect.

My first job (after many months of searching for a practice that wasn’t over an hours drive away) was in an extremely busy small animal practice. My boss’s wife informed me early in the piece that I was a girl, and girl’s didn’t survive there. What bullshit, I thought. She doesn’t know me. Didn’t she know that nearly all vets were girls now? (90% or so of graduates). Anyway, I’d survived five years of gruelling study. I could do tough conditions with my eyes open (because new graduate vets don’t sleep). I was terrified of course, but the feminist in me, the arrogant achiever in me, brushed off these remarks and willed myself to do it anyway.

If I thought the hours and load and uni were brutal, I was wrong. My new shiny life as veterinary surgeon meant bigger, longer hours and the responsibility of being in charge. I worked three nights a week on call—and you always got called. At 12-15 hours a day—before you were called back for the emergency caesarian, gastric dilation, poisoning, car accident or my favourite, the midnight emergency toe-nail clip—it was tough.

Then there was the youth bias. I get it, we all have our favourite doctor, and no one wants their precious pet to be treated by the new kid. I almost understood that. I didn’t understand the gender bias. The ‘she isn’t allowed to touch my animal’ (often more sweary than that)—not even to take out some stitches. This was persistent, pernicious and degrading. Between the lack of sleep, the fatigue of the physically and emotionally demanding nature of the job and then the sense that some people were offended by your very presence was exhausting. I cried almost everyday (more even than when I was first at home with kids—I know right?).

On top of this my boss, whether through insensitivity, or his own struggle for survival, was not supportive. It was most definitely a sink or swim scenario. What got me through the day was my amazing colleagues, the nurses and vets who just like my awesome friends at uni, were funny and clever and made going to work possible. One in particular became a mentor and a support structure and without him, I would not have made it out of that place alive. My boss’s wife was right, I couldn’t cut it. It has taken me fifteen years to accept that.

I had other jobs too, after this one. But it was almost as if I’d given my veterinary career everything I had in those first two years and I couldn’t seem to find a way to recharge. Compassion or empathy fatigue is a phrase used a lot to describe the veterinary profession (an industry with one of the highest suicide rates of any profession), because not only do we look after animals, who we can’t help but form an emotional attachment to, but we also look after their owners, guiding them through the often difficult decisions that have to be made during their animal’s lives.

Euthanising animals for me didn’t get easier with experience. Rather, the emotional drain grew, as though cumulative. Successes on the other hand, were accompanied by second guessing and self-doubt. I found I couldn’t sleep if I had a critical patient in hospital, worrying whether I should be doing more. I found justifying the expense of medical treatment on a daily basis impossible. I couldn’t reconcile my ethical objections to hunting and animal cruelty with having to treat wounded dogs who had been gored, dehydrated or otherwise injured on a hunting trip knowing that they would be back after the next one. Then there were the rescues. Every vet practice (not just shelters, though they have it worse) has more “clinic cats” and three-legged adopted pets than they can handle because we just can’t put down another healthy animal. (The feature image of this post is my cat Tuna, who was found dumped on the side of the road when she was ten-days-old.)

When I fell pregnant with my first child after eight years in to veterinary practice I couldn’t wait to quit. That was it. I was out. I could stay at home and look after my baby and I’d never have to kill anything ever again. It was good. People would look at me shocked when I said I didn’t want to go back. “But all that training!” Yeah. Right. They could keep it. I did a few bits and pieces here and there but when my second baby came I knew it was over for real, and I was relieved.

Relived until it was really over. Until I’d let myself get so far out of my profession that I couldn’t go back (not easily anyway). Suddenly, I could no longer say to people “Oh, I’m a vet, I’m just not working at the moment”. I was studying for my PhD, but no one is as remotely interested in feminist fiction as they are about talking to you about their pets. I found my social traction slipping. I wasn’t as interesting to other people anymore. I was a mum (blah!) and a student (double blah!!). Then I felt a tug that maybe I had made a mistake. That maybe I shouldn’t have let my career slide into near oblivion.

Cue identity crisis.

Then I think back to that first job and I’m filled with dread.

It’s not completely impossible to return to vet, I could study more, find some kind-hearted practice to let me ease my way back—it’s all still there, just a bit rusty. But if I’m honest, the fear of the emotional burden of this job is enormous, like a big black cloud. If I went back in again I’m not sure I’d emerge out the other side. And the pay is terrible, so don’t tell your vet you ‘should have shares in this place’ or that they can ‘buy another Mercedes’ with the cost of your pet’s treatment. Chances are, your local vet earns a lot less than you do.

To my friends who are still in the thick of it. You guys are amazing, strong and important.