15
Yell for the Ball

No memory of having starred

Atones for later disregard

Or keeps the end from being hard.

—Robert Frost

The only time I remember feeling afraid on the volleyball court was my first tournament as a high school freshman. I had made the varsity team, and we were in Palm Springs for the first matches of the season.

We were playing in a huge gym with courts set up everywhere, whistles blowing in all directions. Our setter set me the ball, and I heard a whistle blow. So I caught the ball. What became clear—after everyone stood looking at me with incredulity and annoyance—was that the whistle had come from a different court.

One of my teammates actually yelled, “What are you doing?!?!” I stuttered my way through an explanation and the game went on.

I hid in the bathroom after the match and cried.

This is the perfect illustration of one of my greatest fears in life: you get the set—it’s your turn to shine!—and there you are holding the ball when you’re supposed to be hitting it. Looking like the world’s biggest idiot. Everyone else knows what to do, except you. All of this happening with a crowd looking on.

I don’t remember feeling unsure of myself on the volleyball court after that. Something in me clicked or switched and I never questioned myself again. I had a club coach my junior year of high school who screamed at me in front of a gym full of people, and I remember being furious, but not embarrassed. I remember how red-faced he would get, how he would throw chairs. And I remember proving him wrong about me.

By the time I played college volleyball, I always wanted the ball. Shamelessly. I was a team player, and had no problem with others getting the ball too. But if the game was on the line, I was comfortable knowing the ball was coming to me. I might have even preferred it when the game was in my hands.

I look back at that me, and I admire her. I admire her strength, her assurance, her resilience, her work ethic, her self-confidence. Maybe most of all, I admire how she trusted the competence she had worked hard to earn.

Since college, I have become increasingly wary of myself. I went through a difficult relationship in graduate school, right out of college. I look at the Leeana in that relationship—reduced, scared, scraping—and she is a million miles from the Leeana of the volleyball court days.

I think about myself today and my vocation as mother and wife and maker, and I often spend more time questioning myself than I do cheering for myself. I think about that Leeana in college, full of an inner confidence, hungry for opportunity, and I know my days would be far more fulfilling if I could recapture more of her fire.

Recently, someone asked me what I do for a living. Whenever this question comes up, I feel a fluttery anxiety inside. Like I’m holding the ball, and everyone’s looking at me. I feel the need to hedge, to hide, for some crazy reason. I don’t want to worry about perceived expectations or judgments, and so it’s far easier to play small instead of own up to something that feels vulnerable.

I don’t think it should be lost on me that the first human beings hid when they did not know what else to do. When they were afraid and confused and ashamed of how vulnerable they felt, their first instinct was to hide.

When we feel exposed, we hide. It seems practically primal, right? We cover ourselves and duck and play small to keep from being hurt. We hide because something in us feels threatened, embarrassed, unsure. It’s a defense mechanism, inborn in every creature on the planet.

I get that we hide. It’s a thing. But why am I hiding? What am I afraid of? Why aren’t I yelling for the ball?

Then I hear, “Leeana, you’re not sure how to define success, and so you are afraid to claim your calling until you know for sure you are successful at it. But here’s what I want you to think about: Your calling isn’t an experiment. It’s not a ‘well, we’ll see how it goes.’ It’s an imprint I put on you, a way I have created you, the channel to your soul, the beauty I want to share with the world through you. Because of all that, it’s also very vulnerable.”

How do you own something fully while also releasing the results fully? How do you own your calling while not making that ownership contingent on your arbitrary definition of success?

Believing in yourself is vulnerable. Really vulnerable. It would be so much easier to believe in myself if Oprah called me and asked me to be on her network. Right? Well, that’s actually an interesting assumption: When the success comes, then I’ll know this is what I’m supposed to do. When the success comes, that will be my confirmation to step into my work more fully. When the success comes, then I’ll feel great about myself and my work. Right?

In her podcast, “Magic Lessons,” I heard Elizabeth Gilbert say these right-on words: “Any talent that we have but do not use becomes a burden.” We are lugging something around in our souls that was meant to be released, given away, not harbored. So many of you know what I’m talking about here. You’re carrying the burden of a story unwritten, a point of view unexpressed, a world unmade. Maybe, just maybe, it’s your turn.

Sometimes the most brazen thing we can do is shut up. But sometimes, the most brazen thing we can do is yell for the ball.

Reflection & Expression

What area of your life feels vulnerable right now? When do you feel tempted to hide?

For Your Brazen Board

Find an image that represents you trusting your competence.