Mastering The Game: Uncovering True Strength

“You’re so strong.”

For most of my life, I have tortured myself with the idea that I would be something great one day. I believed the universe would paint a pathway of sunshine and roses, leading me to the ambiguous road of importance. I followed the church's 12-step program to being a "good girl" and living a holy life. While I often put myself before others, I was ashamed to admit I felt empty. 

I lived in the grey and was fed stories of dark versus light, good versus evil. My parents punished me for my sins, but in the same breath, they told me some higher power forgave me; I didn't understand. I was a living, breathing contradiction of life itself. 

By the time I was 13 years old, I had lost the motivation to live and daydreamed about death. It didn't take long to realize this was not normal, and I couldn't share these feelings with others. According to my family, I couldn't possibly be depressed or struggling with mental health because they had, to their knowledge, given me the best life they knew how to give. On paper, nothing pointed to a reason for depression, self-harm, or suicidal ideation. This confused my family, the church, and even my friends. 

That is how I learned to play the game—the game of pretending so well that no one will know how I feel, the game of being the good friend people open up to while dying inside from intrusive thoughts, the game of masquerading my entire being so no one knew I was suffering.

I spent so much of my life mastering this game. 

High school came and went, and it was time to start my "adult life." Following the rules of society meant that I needed to go to college, get a degree, fall in love, get married, etc.–you know the rest. However, something about that never felt suitable to me. While my peers were excited to receive acceptance letters to their dream schools, I was burdened by the thought of choosing a career path and told myself I just wanted to live in the woods alone. Of course, that wasn't an option, so again, I played the game. 

Part of conquering the game was becoming a professional people-pleaser. So, I got accepted to a division two school, received a volleyball scholarship, and created a double major, studying studio art and psychology. In this one semester of college, my need to play the game faded, and for the first time in my life, I could make my own choices without fearing letting anyone down but myself.

This wreaked havoc on my life.

Somehow, in less than five months, I lost control of everything. It turned out that my pathway into adult life meant losing my virginity to sexual assault, drinking myself into embarrassment, using illicit drugs to cope, and finally failing enough classes to lose my scholarship and eventually drop out. My motivation to mask my depression and play the game faded along with my will to give a crap about anything, including myself. I was a failure, and the idea that I would be something great one day was utterly shattered. I was barely eighteen and a shell of a human. 

As you can imagine, things didn't get better from here. I reconnected with an old flame who was using and dealing drugs I wanted to experiment with. I began playing a new version of the game and let them convince me to run away from home one night. The game no longer meant hiding who I was but letting those around me take advantage of who I wasn't. Just like that, I absorbed this new lifestyle and was living in a drug-infested house, using and dealing drugs while convincing myself I was "alive and happy." I truly believed this was what life was supposed to feel like. The drugs were hiding the darkness I was running from–until they didn't.

It was in this very home that I would later have an inverse NDE (near-death experience) due to an overdose and find myself unresponsive, staring into the white light. Even after surviving that, I continued to abuse opioids and psychedelics to the point of inducing a mental breakdown where I unleashed the self-harm beast inside me. I was lucky to be rescued by an unassuming friend before it went too far, yet I continued to live this way for a few years. It took getting robbed at gunpoint to realize something needed to change. I had lost touch with the game and needed to find purpose again. 

In a panic, I made a phone call that would forever change the rest of my life.

Despite my fear of detoxing in my parent's basement, I've always been a spontaneous girl, and I knew cold turkey was my only option. I was embarrassed and ashamed. Here I was, the daughter of a pastor, experiencing withdrawals in the Vermont cabin in the woods I always dreamed of. My family provided a safe space for me to get on my feet. They let me heal the parts of myself I had the strength to recover, but I didn't know for a long time that there was a much deeper wound. While this was a massive step in the right direction, it was just the beginning of a long journey towards healing. 

My old habit of playing the game resurfaced, but this time, it translated into my love life. I continued to make reckless choices dating men who would psychologically, emotionally, and physically abuse me. I could not see my worth and let their empty "I love you's" be enough to convince me I was valued. I let them do things to me without the strength to tell them "no" when it was unwanted. I was lifeless, empty, and very alone. The game I had relied on for so much of my life was not working anymore. It was time again to make a change.

In the light of seeking change, I found a new addiction, Pole Dance. For the first time, I found a community where I was uplifted, valued, encouraged, and embraced simply for showing up. In the dance world, you must work hard to see progress. That simple practice started to translate into my everyday life. I saw the immediate benefits of working hard and seeing the change.

I am forever grateful to the woman in me who sought a space for herself and found dance. This was a catalyst for reclaiming my life and choosing to do something I wanted. It was my first time committing to something for myself, and no one could take that away. The journey towards self-love, healing, and positive mental health had finally started. 

Through movement therapy, I healed some dark places within me. The somatic healing of dance had released so much of my trauma and PTSD. The studio became my sanctuary, a safe space where I could retreat no matter my emotions. I could always show up there and express myself without using words. My dance teacher became my mentor, and eventually, I started teaching others. I couldn't believe who I was becoming. Students looked up to me, trusted me, and learned from me. I had come so far, and finally, I was forming an identity of who I was. 

This is when people started saying to me, "You're so strong."

Those words were hard for me to hear. Strength had taken on a whole new meaning to me. I didn't know if people meant strong, like the girl who overcame suicidal tendencies and self-harm. Strong like the girl who survived an overdose? Or did they mean strong, like the child who fought against forced religion and questioned everything?

I wondered what it really meant to be "strong"?

Maybe they meant strong, like the D2 volleyball player or the pole dancer competing on stage in front of hundreds of strangers. Perhaps they think I'm strong because they see the scars of thousands of traumatic moments, unable to weigh me down. Indeed, they meant strong, like the woman who stood in the face of her abusers and said, "I deserve better." Maybe they saw the strength of how I kept searching and pushing forward.

For me, being strong meant being hardened by the pursuit of learning your worth and standing up for it, hardened by loving myself enough to see my value, and hardened by the selfless act of never giving up. 

I would not know the depths of this strength until 2021 when I started my first thru-hike on the Appalachian Trail. This quest, spanning over 2,000 miles, was not just a physical challenge but a profound test of my mental and emotional resilience. It was this adventure that brought everything I had learned in life together and showed me what my strength was made of. This walk removed all the distractions of my past and allowed me to see my capabilities for what they were. It was me versus myself, the ultimate test of one's durability. Even after everything I had endured leading up to this journey, the Appalachian Trail would be the hardest thing I've ever been through, and completing it would change my life forever. 

I found a new understanding of myself as I reached Mount Katahdin, the trail's northern terminus. The 'game' was still a part of me, but it had evolved. No longer was it about putting on a facade or suppressing my true feelings to appear 'strong.' It now symbolized rawness, embracing every emotion, and never hiding from myself or others. 

That's when it clicked. 

Life is not a game to be won or lost; it's an opportunity to exist, feel, and explore our inner selves in the presence of this awe-inspiring natural world. It's a chance to understand our strengths and weaknesses and find a path forward. 

It became a way of life, which is not a game at all.