Redefining Toughness

I’ve always been called “tough.” Growing up and over time, I found pride in the fact that people thought I was tough. Composed. Not super emotional. Able to roll with the punches. Able to emotionally and physical handle hard things. Toughness became a part of my identity. 

It wasn’t until 35 years of age that I began to recognize that my perception of who I was had completely morphed into this wack idea of “toughness.” A concept that was actually comprised of a whole lot of emotion stuffing and a major lack of being “real” with people. Sharing my struggles with anxiety in Jiu Jitsu last year was a major step for me in allowing myself to be more real while acknowledging my personal struggles. At first, it felt like weakness, but as I worked through it, it felt like true strength and toughness-different from the feigned strength I’d had for the last however long. 

It’s a good thing I started the process of discovering my true strength and toughness before this year’s injury hit me like a stack of bricks. 

I injured my neck this year, and it was brutal. The “severely pinched nerve” running down my arm and back left my arm useless, and my body with sharp pains most of the time. I mentally decided early on that I wouldn’t cry out of frustration, but only out of pain. I wasn’t going to let this particular injury destroy my outlook on life. I was in constant pain, but of course, sucked it up and showed up to teach my classes, parent my children, and mostly function as expected. 

Constant pain was strike one. 

I slept less than 3 hours of sleep per night for five weeks straight. Lack of sleep is a recipe for disaster. I moved around the house starting at about 1:00 AM, and allowed myself to make coffee at 4:30 AM. I spent my time writing for clients, listening to podcasts, and trying to get my arm and neck to stop hurting enough so I could lie down and rest. 

The long term lack of sleep was strike two. 

It was at about 4 1/2 weeks when it all piled up and I finally lost it. I sat on the couch at 2:00 AM in tears, breaking my “no frustration crying” rule. I decided that even though none of the medicines I had tried had ever helped, I might as well at least try once more. I was wrecked-physically, emotionally, mentally. Walking to the kitchen, I pulled open the drawer that held the medicines. They never worked, but my frustration didn’t care-I had to try something. 

I twisted off the lid, and stared inside the orange bottle, shaking it to make the pills move. “One or two?” I questioned. I kept shaking the bottle to decide, and that’s when I had the thought. “Two never worked before, but I bet if I take the rest of the bottle I might get some pain free sleep.” 

There were probably 10 pills left in the bottle. Pain had pushed past my limits and had snuck into what should have been the logical part of my thinking. It wasn’t long, probably only a couple seconds, before I seemingly “snapped” back to reality and logical thinking. My heart raced as I realized the thought that had snuck through my mind. Sure, I would’ve gotten some pain free sleep, but it also could’ve killed me. I twisted the lid back on, threw the entire bottle in the drawer, and sat crying and praying on the couch. I couldn’t believe what I had just allowed to happened in my own brain. 

The thought of killing myself never crossed my mind. Never, ever. But the thought of needing to have even a small bit of reprieve from the intense pain and lack of sleep did, and it was powerful. It didn’t matter that I had been successfully playing a mental game of toughness with myself for the past 4 weeks. It didn’t matter that I showed up nearly every day to tend to my responsibilities. It didn’t matter that I love life and had already made plans for after my recovery. I was in pain, and it was deeply exasperated by 4.5 weeks of almost no sleep at all. I just wanted relief.

It’s been months since this happened, and I’ve only ever told my husband before now. There was a deep shame that came with understanding the thought that had crossed my mind and its potential consequences, and it’s the last story that I ever thought I’d want to share with anyone. After all, my definition of  “toughness” has always equated with “not sharing emotions and realness.” 

I’m at the tail end of this injury. Still dealing with some pain, but functioning pretty much normally. It’s time to stop allowing stuffed emotions to disguise as toughness and resiliency. I’m not tough because I can keep my emotions and feelings to myself. I’m tough because I can progress and move forward in the midst of challenges and trials and pain while also being willing to share my struggles with others in an honest and open manner. That’s real toughness. 

I’m sharing this with (still) a lot of hesitancy. My friend and jiu jitsu partner, who happens to be a therapist, thought I should share. She says people don’t share enough with others. The result is often that people feel alone, when really they aren’t the only ones feeling what they’re feeling. So, here it is. My toughness alongside my emotions and experiences and pain. I’m guessing you have some of that mix somewhere in your life, as well. Toughness isn’t defined by my ability to hide my emotions and realness from others. In fact, I think a big part of toughness might actually be found accompanied by the opposite.