On Performance, Trust, and Learning to Stay

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the person others turn to for support. The calm in chaos. The steady voice on the other end of the call. In leadership, friendship, and family, even from early childhood, I’ve been the grounding presence. The anchor. The one who knows what to say, or when to say nothing at all. I’ve held people’s joys and pain. I remind them that everything can be figured out. And I’ll probably make them laugh while we figure it out. Actually, scratch that, it’s guaranteed. I’ll have you laughing way too hard in the middle of whatever mess you’re in. I navigate even the hardest things with humor, wit, and just enough sarcasm to make it bearable. I’ll hold your boundaries with you when you forget them. I’ll protect you from the people who cross them, and from the self-betrayals that do the same. I’ll hold you accountable to your own values, not out of judgment, but because I remember what you said matters to you, even when you’ve forgotten. I’m your person if you want to cry at sunset over your situationship, spiral about your existential dread, reframe your inner critic, or debate free will vs. nervous system conditioning. I’ll help you write a difficult email, remodel your house, analyze a text message, process a breakup, or reorganize your kitchen. I’ll cook you a meal while we unpack your burnout. I will gently push you to go to therapy, take a spontaneous international trip with you, or talk you down from a bad tattoo. And yes, if you’re being out of line or spiraling into chaos, I’ll call you out, with love, clarity, and only when it helps the story shift. If you need psychological insight, philosophical musing, emotional regulation, comic relief, or a post-crisis to-do list, I’m that person. And it’s not a burden. It’s a gift. I know the impact of that role, and I’m deeply grateful for the trust people place in me during their unraveling. I know how to hold others, and I’m good at it.

But I don’t always allow the same for myself. I know how to offer steadiness, but it’s been a long time since I let myself receive it. That part, the softening, the asking, the trusting, is still rare.

Learning has always been a lifeline. I do it quietly, relentlessly, alone. It’s how I breathe. I research, explore, and build fluency in silence. I teach myself what I need to know, often embodying it before I ever speak of it. That kind of private mastery is a space I trust, and protect. For me, it’s more than acquiring knowledge, it’s a form of refuge. A quiet, steady retreat where I can go to feel capable and whole, without needing to be visible or validated. That privacy makes the experience not only sacred, but deeply rewarding. It’s a space of self-connection, and I guard it fiercely.

But learning while being seen, especially in one specific domain, with someone I respect, still sets off every alarm. It’s not the content that unravels me, it’s the dynamic. The visibility. The memory of what that kind of exposure used to cost. That’s where the system buckles. It’s precise, not global. But it’s real. And it’s loud.

In most areas, I move so freely. But in this one kind of setting, learning something new, in front of someone whose opinion matters, in a context that mirrors old dynamics, I lose access to everything I usually rely on. Clarity, composure, ease, they vanish. And I freeze. Not metaphorically. I mean a literal nervous system shutdown. My brain goes offline. My body locks. Words disappear. Most of the time, I sabotage the moment just to feel in control of the failure. And that’s the part that breaks me open: the same brain that fuels my creativity, joy, and my constant giddiness for learning, my lifelong source of strength, completely shuts down. It’s not just disconnection. It’s a full-system short-circuit. I can’t access the part of me I trust most.

In the past, the only way I could connect with someone important was through performance. I was expected to be perfect. No learning curve. No visible process. Just get it right. And even when I did, connection wasn’t guaranteed. Warmth was conditional. Criticism was common. Cruelty and volatility , too. Still, I excelled. I performed. I achieved. I took care of others. I stayed self-reliant and invisible until needed or useful. But the ground was always unstable and it was never enough.

So my nervous system adapted. In that space: trying became danger, curiosity became risk, visibility became punishment. It was a brilliant system. It kept me safe. This is how the brain protects itself. When repeated experiences link visibility with pain, the amygdala flags those conditions as unsafe. Breath shallows. Movement restricts. Options narrow. What looks like hesitation or lack of confidence is often a full-body override. The freeze isn’t dramatic, it’s biology. The emergency brake gets pulled. Cortisol floods the system. The prefrontal cortex, the center of speech and reasoning, goes dark. You can’t think your way out.

You have to retrain the system by creating new conditions: the same trigger, but a different outcome. But it’s not just biology. That might be the mechanics, but it’s not the full story. This particular freeze lives in me because of my past. What hurts more is the internal judgment that follows. The sharp voice that says, “You should be past this by now.” That voice doesn’t just narrate the freeze, it weaponizes it. It makes me feel small, stuck, ridiculous. And what’s worse? I know better. Which somehow makes it even more maddening. Because I love the uncertainty of learning. I love the free fall of complex thinking, the mental tumbling that happens when I chase a question with no clear answer. That edge of not-knowing has always been thrilling to me. Intellectually, I crave it. But this kind of shutdown robs me of that joy. It doesn’t feel like free fall. It feels like being locked out of the core part of myself, and the part that thrives in ambiguity. And it drives me wild that this still has a grip on me. That it can still hijack me, even now. That this one room still makes me brace.

So why now? Why rewire this part? Because I found a space strong enough to hold it. One with substance, depth, and joy. One I’d regret not learning in. It reflects parts of me that need freeing. The way it's led resonates with me. Which, of course, also makes it harder to surrender. Receiving support is still a beast for me. It requires trust, something I offer slowly, in small pieces, even in safe spaces. I still fight it, not conceptually, but in my body. And yet, there are new moments now. Brief ones. Somatic trust, not theoretical, not verbal. Just felt. A quiet yes in my nervous system. It’s a different kind of knowing. Non-verbal cognition. A story in itself for another time. 

I chose to go back in. Not to conquer, but because I’m no longer willing to keep that room off-limits. I picked something I’m bad at. On purpose. I asked someone I respect, someone deeply skilled and grounded, to guide me. They didn’t flinch.They didn’t fix. They didn’t rush. They stayed steady, present, clear. They said, “You have full permission to suck at this.” And a whole belief system in this particular space wobbled.

I was never allowed anything but perfection, not if I wanted to be worthy. And even then it was not enough. And now I’m learning that connection doesn’t have to be earned through performance. It’s disorienting. And freeing.

I love learning. It’s how I breathe. I chase it with reckless abandon, rebellious joy, and fearless curiosity. In most areas of my life, I’ve grown by leaping first and figuring it out midair, living in motion, trusting my instincts, stretching without hesitation. That kind of growth is familiar. It’s mine. But this environment? This particular kind of learning dynamic, in front of someone whose opinion matters, in this very domain, under conditions that feel historically unsafe, this is newer. This one is still unfolding.

This isn’t just my story. I see the same shutdown show up in front of my camera all the time. People who are exceptional at what they do, athletes, artists, leaders, step into my studio and suddenly vanish. They freeze. They stiffen. They over-perform, or apologize, or shut down. And I recognize it instantly. Because I know that script. I’ve lived it. And now I know how to hold it. I see it in leadership, too, in boardrooms and consulting sessions. People whose identities are built on solving and knowing suddenly hit a wall when the discomfort of vulnerability and true visibility shows up. They overcompensate. Retreat. Freeze. Because they’re still running the script that says: You’re not allowed to be anything other than perfect. Impossible goal. When that goes unacknowledged, it creates shallow, facade driven culture and bad decisions. But when someone finally names it, when they stay in the discomfort long enough to unfreeze? That’s when real leadership begins.

Recently, I worked with a very accomplished client. In his fields, he’s a force, acts with precision, discipline, presence. But in front of the lens? Terrified. He froze. He fidgeted. He tried to “do it right.” I slowed everything down. No performance. Just breath. Stillness. Direction. He softened. He stayed. He allowed himself to be seen. And afterward he sincerely thanked me for helping him face this challenge.

That moment hit hard. This work is personal, for me, and for the people who trust me enough to stand in front of my lens without armor. It’s a quiet kind of honor when someone you admire lets you witness them in their vulnerability. And it’s an act of reverence to guide them, not because I’m above them, but because I know the way through.

I’m deeply grateful to the people helping me unlearn this pattern of freezing, the ones who lead with steadiness, humor, and presence. And equally grateful to the clients, peers, and friends who let me return the favor.

This room, the one that holds my freeze, is becoming one of my favorite places. Still terrifying. Still unpredictable. But also human. Joyful. Alive. Every time I walk in and stay and allow myself to soften even a tiny bit, I remember something: I’m not here to prove. I’m here to set myself free . To rewire. To reconnect. To let go of control, just a little, and lean into something steadier than I’ve known, the kind of safety net that meets me with patience, kindness, sensitivity, humor, banter, just the right amount of earned seriousness, and absolutely refuses to let me tap out.

This kind of learning, the slow, embodied, soul-level reprogramming, isn’t about skill. It’s about freedom. From the outside, it might look like I’m resisting, spiraling, or unraveling. And maybe I am. But what’s actually happening is something deeper, something healing. This is what transformation looks like when it’s real. Messy on the surface. Sacred underneath.

If I’m honest, my default is to push everything and everyone away. I’m excellent at retreat. At disappearing into solitude. It’s how I’ve protected myself. And in most moments, it still feels safer than reaching. But this space asks for something else. It doesn’t force it, but it invites me to stay anyway. And that invitation? It’s starting to land. And maybe, if I keep staying, there will come a day when I can reconnect with my mind there too. Not just my presence. Not just my body. But my full thinking, feeling self. All of me, present in this space I used to avoid. To unfreeze.

I’ve lived with presence and growth in many spaces. I’ve built a life around curiosity and connection. But this room is one I’ve resisted. Repeatedly. I’ve been stubborn. I’ve been akratic, fully aware of what I’m doing and fully resistant anyway. But something in me knows: it’s time. Time to stop letting this one room remain off-limits. Time to allow softness to return, even if only in moments. Time to loosen my grip on this particular old code I no longer need.

So I return. Not because it’s easy, but because staying, even imperfectly, is the  practice. I am relearning to choose the long forgotten softness, not because it comes naturally, but as an act of defiance. Because for me, letting go isn’t weakness. It’s strength. It's the free fall I love and I want in this space as well.

Did I really have to pick something that, while genuinely awesome and fun, also manages to surface every single thing I truly suck at? Yes. Yes, I did. Because if nothing else, I do like me a challenge and those who truly know me will attest to the fact that  I am easily and quite comically defeated by the use of glue. So naturally a place of building something with said glue made the most sense.

And now… The room that holds my freeze, begins to hold my growth, and my joy. And for that, for the space, the support, the quiet path to return to a bit of softness I’ve forgotten, I’m deeply grateful.