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Abstract

f.“She’s no trouble.”“They are so pleased with you.”“We didn’t even notice she was here.”“She gets on with everybody.”There are always two versions to every story. Actually, maybe three or four. The good girl finds her way back after the hike and waits sensibly in the tent for the grown-ups. She performs the synchronised dance routines she has practiced with a lopsided bright smile in front of the mirror,. She swings underneath her favourite tree until she is so high they’ll think she is Supergirl.Or.She is half-asleep in a tent, waiting for her dad, seeking penance from the plastic label stitched into the sleeping bag, rubbing her toe against it until it’s decorated with red criss-crossed promises of goodness. She stops dancing when they point at the wobbly man dancing, costumed as someone else other than a dad, an interloper with a too jaunty pheasant feather on his hat. She spends long afternoons at the village pub with the rusty swing, cheese and onion crisps, and a Vimto. And him talking more and more loudly, and she just swings higher and higher.Maybe they’ll think I’m Supergirl, she wishes.Which version works better for you? As Fleabag quite rightly points out “Being proper and sweet and nice and pleasing is a fucking nightmare. It’s exhausting.” But that’s the way some of us feel safe.I am a good girl in recovery. I learnt early on that I could push shame deep into my recesses by papering it over with goodness. But underneath that smile was a little kid who was scared that nobody would love her without all the good-ness. The reward was specialness. And so it went on until the girl became a woman. There are upsides to this appropriateness, of course. They all love the reasonable, the easy-come, easy-go of their pal who won’t ever let them down, or question them too closely. Their upbeat, prettily costumed friend. You can invite her anywhere.As a woman, changing ourselves to be ‘more acceptable’ can come in many guises. Whether we dim our light a little so we don’t shine too much, quieten the loud exclaim, or mute our choice of clothing, the persistent shadow as a woman to fit in, is always a circling vulture. Whether we know it or not, mostly we have

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been taught to toe the line; not be too beautiful, or self-assured, or confident, and appease. My self-worth was determined by another, in fact anyone in the room, not by the powerful me-ness of ME. I had abandoned nobody but myself.Once you learn that rhythm, how do you escape that sugary, addictive response to people-pleasing? Good girl turns into good woman, good partner, good mother. Am I good enough? No, I am not. How can you ever be? You are shedding parts of yourself along the way to please the others. But there are cracks. You draw to yourself people who are looking to be love-bombed. You may draw Narcissus looking for his Echo. You become used to the flat landscape of avoiding the discomfort of conflict. You stop to look for reciprocity. If you are concentrating on being good at all costs, a lady-in-waiting to any that call themselves Queen, then there is no space to be a Creator.How can one write, or paint, or run a business, or climb your corporate ladder if you are using significant parts of your energy in laying out the red carpet for others rather than yourself? Being creative forces us to stand up for ourselves, examine the painful areas that nobody else wants to look at, and speak from the heart.But reaching midlife can force a perfect shift, and thank goodness for that.Enough of sating the needs of others at the expense of oneself.Enough of making ourselves as small as possible and shrinking our wild, complicated and gloriously messy selves with much to give to this world.Enough of abandoning ourselves. It’s the ultimate crime for our physical and spiritual being.Reclaim yourself. Re-wild yourself.It might not be easy to re-wild. After all, you will disrupt the world of those around us- those who’ve become reliant on the ‘good girl’ and her compliant ways. Be a disrupter, my dear friend. This is what we were all born to do.As I’ve entered this potent mid-life part of my life, I come back again and again to the words of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, “Teach her to reject likeability. Her job is not to make herself likeable, her job is to be her full self, a self that is honest and aware of the equal humanity of other people.”Rewild yourself.</article></body>

Re-wilding Myself

To re-wild: to return to a more wild or self-willed state.

“Sugar and spice and all things nice. That’s what little girls are made of…”

I followed the cloying idiom patchworked into my childhood quilt, with its anxiety underlay stitched in tight, to the very best of my abilities for the first forty years of my life. My South Asian mother sprinkled garam masala over most inedible eighties convenience foods, and daily dosed us with cold liver oil in a spoonful of sugar, so two out of three wasn’t a bad score even for the early adoptee of perfectionism, me.

Sure, I was angry that my home life didn’t have my best friend’s carpeted kitchen, that nuclear war was more likely than me ever getting a Barbie Dreamhouse, and that I had to pretend my dad didn’t drink neat whisky hidden behind the fire logs. But a big smile like the girl in ET seemed to make everything ok.

I was always keen to ensure that everything appeared NICE. Anger didn’t get you anywhere. Not in my house. Saying how you feel didn’t either. I learnt early on that goodness brought with it praise, safety, and acceptance, no matter what else was going on, even if my dad was slurring his words at my birthday party. My bright smile could smooth over any of life’s jagged edges. Or so it appeared to everyone around me. Inside was a different story. Inside were the dark, choppy waters of anxiety and a little girl swimming out of her depth.

But should you choose the beginning of the ‘nice girl’ story? You see, she wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable reading any of her words, even if that means revising her own history.. Let’s start gently with the gold stars, house points and accolades carefully tacked to her bedroom wall to remind the girl that she was truly, deeply good and nice. That’s what little girls are made of.

“She’s no trouble.”

“They are so pleased with you.”

“We didn’t even notice she was here.”

“She gets on with everybody.”

There are always two versions to every story. Actually, maybe three or four. The good girl finds her way back after the hike and waits sensibly in the tent for the grown-ups. She performs the synchronised dance routines she has practiced with a lopsided bright smile in front of the mirror,. She swings underneath her favourite tree until she is so high they’ll think she is Supergirl.

Or.

She is half-asleep in a tent, waiting for her dad, seeking penance from the plastic label stitched into the sleeping bag, rubbing her toe against it until it’s decorated with red criss-crossed promises of goodness. She stops dancing when they point at the wobbly man dancing, costumed as someone else other than a dad, an interloper with a too jaunty pheasant feather on his hat. She spends long afternoons at the village pub with the rusty swing, cheese and onion crisps, and a Vimto. And him talking more and more loudly, and she just swings higher and higher.

Maybe they’ll think I’m Supergirl, she wishes.

Which version works better for you? As Fleabag quite rightly points out “Being proper and sweet and nice and pleasing is a fucking nightmare. It’s exhausting.” But that’s the way some of us feel safe.

I am a good girl in recovery. I learnt early on that I could push shame deep into my recesses by papering it over with goodness. But underneath that smile was a little kid who was scared that nobody would love her without all the good-ness. The reward was specialness. And so it went on until the girl became a woman. There are upsides to this appropriateness, of course. They all love the reasonable, the easy-come, easy-go of their pal who won’t ever let them down, or question them too closely. Their upbeat, prettily costumed friend. You can invite her anywhere.

As a woman, changing ourselves to be ‘more acceptable’ can come in many guises. Whether we dim our light a little so we don’t shine too much, quieten the loud exclaim, or mute our choice of clothing, the persistent shadow as a woman to fit in, is always a circling vulture. Whether we know it or not, mostly we have been taught to toe the line; not be too beautiful, or self-assured, or confident, and appease. My self-worth was determined by another, in fact anyone in the room, not by the powerful me-ness of ME. I had abandoned nobody but myself.

Once you learn that rhythm, how do you escape that sugary, addictive response to people-pleasing? Good girl turns into good woman, good partner, good mother. Am I good enough? No, I am not. How can you ever be? You are shedding parts of yourself along the way to please the others. But there are cracks. You draw to yourself people who are looking to be love-bombed. You may draw Narcissus looking for his Echo. You become used to the flat landscape of avoiding the discomfort of conflict. You stop to look for reciprocity. If you are concentrating on being good at all costs, a lady-in-waiting to any that call themselves Queen, then there is no space to be a Creator.

How can one write, or paint, or run a business, or climb your corporate ladder if you are using significant parts of your energy in laying out the red carpet for others rather than yourself? Being creative forces us to stand up for ourselves, examine the painful areas that nobody else wants to look at, and speak from the heart.

But reaching midlife can force a perfect shift, and thank goodness for that.

Enough of sating the needs of others at the expense of oneself.

Enough of making ourselves as small as possible and shrinking our wild, complicated and gloriously messy selves with much to give to this world.

Enough of abandoning ourselves. It’s the ultimate crime for our physical and spiritual being.

Reclaim yourself. Re-wild yourself.

It might not be easy to re-wild. After all, you will disrupt the world of those around us- those who’ve become reliant on the ‘good girl’ and her compliant ways. Be a disrupter, my dear friend. This is what we were all born to do.

As I’ve entered this potent mid-life part of my life, I come back again and again to the words of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, “Teach her to reject likeability. Her job is not to make herself likeable, her job is to be her full self, a self that is honest and aware of the equal humanity of other people.”

Rewild yourself.