Admitting defeat

I was sitting on the ground at work when one of my colleagues asked me how I was. Tears started to well in my eyes. She told me to go home.

Alexis,

I had just found out that your baby brother was measuring 3 weeks larger than he should. The pain in my ribs, or muscles, or whatever it was, was at its worst. I had only been at work for about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes into my day, I knew that I would have to surrender to the pain. I knew that I wasn’t stronger than it and that annoyed me.

I know pain and I know how to overcome pain. I know the pain of moving my body for 64 long, arduous kilometres. I had run marathons in this body. I had recovered from marathons in this body. I had moved this body over 3 mountain tops. I had moved this body from Wrest Point to the top of Mount Wellington on three separate occasions. I was beyond frustrated that my body, the body that I have been in awe of so many times, was letting me down.

At 9.15am, I felt weak. My emotions were weak and my body was (and is) weak. I was frustrated that my mind wasn’t stronger to push through, like I had known it to. I was frustrated that my body wasn’t holding together how I thought it would and should. I had expected that I would continue to work until 2 weeks from my due date. And here I was, walking up to my manager and asking to go home at the beginning of an eight hour day.

I had decided to admit defeat. I raised my white flag and finally admitted that the pain was not only hindering my body, but also my mind.

I have long thought that admitting defeat is a sign of weakness. When I was running and I admitted defeat in my mind, I would give up and walk – despite knowing that I could and should do better. In battles, the army that is defeated is the loser. They were the weakest. They were the ones that couldn’t come together as a team. When I played netball and basketball, there was always a sense of shame whenever I had to tell someone that my team had lost, that the other team was stronger.

Despite my frustration, I had to tell my manager that I wasn’t coping. I had to tell her that I couldn’t stay any longer that day. I had to communicate that I didn’t think I would be able to see out the rest of the month, that I may have to go on maternity leave earlier than I had expected. I hated it. I felt like a failure. I had made my plan and I liked my plan. It wasn’t that I was letting anyone else down. It wasn’t anyone else’s plan, it was mine. No-one else was attached to it, just me.

When I used to do Bikram Yoga, the instructor would say “just do what your body allows you to do today. Even being here is an achievement.” As I drove home, I remembered her saying that and I thought to myself, “at least I showed up”.

I went on a mental journey that weekend and throughout the following week. I thought about admitting defeat and what that meant and looked like. Finally, I realised that maybe, just maybe, I had been wrong about it. I realised that being defeated or admitting defeat isn’t always a sign of weakness. It could also be a sign of strength. Holding up that white flag and letting people know that I wasn’t okay, well, it was actually really brave. All it meant was that I had admitted to other people that I needed some support, a little more support than usual. I had finally admitted that I not only needed it, but I desperately wanted it.

I was fighting a battle that had been wearing me out. I was fighting a battle against myself and my pride. I was fighting a battle that I had clearly been losing. It was a battle that I had created in my own mind, against myself, to prove what? How stubborn I was?

It was the first time in my story I wasn’t able to be my own hero. Up until this point I had been able to overcome most scenarios, without the help of another. I hadn’t needed to ask for help. I had been completely self-reliant. To keep us both moving forward I had let go of the need to ask for help, with the belief that others would only fail us. I had gotten us this far. I had built a life for us.
I had always taken pride (apparently too much) that I was the helper - my job, duty and purpose were founded on helping others. Giving who I was to help others in who they were becoming.
This was the first time in a bloody long time where I couldn’t overcome. And I was ashamed.

I’ve always been a believer in “picking my battles”. Not all battles are ones that I want to fight, so I back out of them. Before this, I was happy to back out of the battles that I knew were not only a waste of my time but, more importantly, a waste of my energy. I believe that we should save and preserve our energy for the things that really matter, for the fights that require every part of us. I believe that it is important not to get caught up in small daily dramas, which rob us of our focus.

Yet, here I was, in a battle that was robbing me of the energy that I desperately needed to save up.

Now, as a result of one person telling me to go home, I have learnt that admitting defeat can be an act of strength. I think admitting defeat forces us to let go of our pride and arrogance. Clinging tightly to our pride and arrogance makes those who want to help us and love us, feel useless or inept. It pushes them away. Humility, true humility, on the other hand, allows our walls to crumble and enables others to come in, to help us and to love us.

And maybe, just maybe, I need to change my perspective on failure too. I’ve always thought of failure as a bad thing, but I don’t believe that it is. I believe that failure allows for us to learn, in a way that success does not.

It’s only through failure and humility, in which we show our true humanity, that we are able to really connect and love each other. Through failure, we can come together on common ground, with no one person on a pedestal. There, we will realise that we are all the same and that we all need help, love and support.

And so, here I am, Alexis, telling you to admit defeat where and when you need to. If you’re facing a battle that’s not worth fighting, admit defeat. There is no shame in it and it will show your strength. Allow others to step into your story, watch that story transform to one of isolation to one of community and love.

Here is what I’ve realised, people want to give, love and help. The world is full of helpers, including you. But don’t have so much pride, leading you to believe you are the only helper and can’t be helped.
The words “let me know if I can help” are not empty, but full of compassion and depth. Let people in.
Is winning a battle on your own really a win if there is no one to celebrate alongside you?

Hold up that white flag, baby, and hold it with pride. By holding up your flag, maybe you will encourage others to hold up theirs too. Let others stand beside you.

And if you can’t find your white flag for some reason, as it turns out, I have a stash of them, which I think I’ll start using from time to time.