Don’t fall in the hole in the sidewalk
How many times did I see it coming and still claim it wasn’t my fault?
I read this poem a few years ago and felt personally attacked.
Chapter One of My Life. I walk down the street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in.
I am lost. I am helpless. It isn't my fault. It still takes forever to find a way out.
Chapter Two. I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don't see it. I fall in again. I can't believe I'm in the same place! But it isn't my fault. And it still takes a long time to get out.
Chapter Three. I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it there. I still fall in. It's a habit! My eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately.
Chapter Four. I walk down the same street. There's a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.
Chapter Five. I walk down a different street.
― Portia Nelson, There's a Hole in My Sidewalk: The Romance of Self-Discovery
Ouch. That felt personal. Because there were so many ways that I was choosing to fall down a hole. How many times did I see it coming and still claim it wasn’t my fault?
I wanted my eyes to be open, but for a long time, the habit was too strong. Something about this poem shifted my awareness. I didn't have to fall in that hole anymore - I didn’t have to have squishy boundaries that everyone was allowed to breach. I didn’t have to spend my life trying to get people to like me. I didn’t have to listen to the brutal inner critic telling me that I had to prove my worthiness to even be on the planet.
I could choose to walk down another goddamn street.
And that worked for a little while. I found lots of other lovely streets, until one day I found myself back in the old neighborhood and I fell in the hole again. This time I realized something extra uncomfortable.
I liked the hole.
I missed the hole.
It felt safe down there. Familiar. Dark and cozy. I knew about all the little divots in the walls and the slope of the ground. I mean, I had spent so much time down there, it started to feel like my living room. Down there, I could just be helpless. How could I be anything else? I’m just a poor little person in a hole.
But here’s the thing. It’s hard to grow when you’re in a hole. It’s hard to learn and experience and contribute in a hole. There is no joy. There’s actually not much to do at all except blame everyone else for your pathetic state of being in a hole. And that’s only fun for like five minutes.
So I decided to climb out. I do my best to keep finding those new streets. And when I stumble again, I remember how to get out more quickly.
