Summary: A few weeks ago, I attended a qigong (CHEE-gong) training intensive in Utah. It's an ancient Eastern practice of harmonizing the body’s energy for overall health and wellness. Dozens of us came from across the country to train for three days in a crowded room with Teacher Li. As he called the movements, we went quietly to work, undulating in silent waves through the room. We'd internalized the rhythm; we knew the meaning behind the flow; we were one. But whenever I paid too much attention to my form, and to ‘getting it right,’ I fell out of synch with the group and either went left when they went right, or I knocked into the person next to me with a wayward limb. Despite my attempts to 'flow like water' and 'be light like smoke' I had moments of going rigid, and it frustrated me. If you've ever attempted to learn something new, then you know how much harder it becomes to achieve the results you want when you're feeling self-conscious. There I was, feeling displaced as the 'odd woman out.' I looked around the room, observing their faces; so peaceful—many of them smiling, their eyes closed as they scooped and turned the energy gently around them. And that's when I thought, What are you doing here, Kriste? I'd begun to entertain these voices that had floated in from the ether. These grinning, tree hugging, beatnick hippies, they're not your people... . I was in a new setting, worlds away from home, doing deep work amid a sea of strangers. All was quiet in the room as we moved, yet the voices in my head were gaining ground. They were the voices of old familiars reminding me that I didn’t fit in, that whatever I intended to do, it wouldn’t work, that I was 'acting white,' and forgetting where I’d come from. Faded scenes of past defeats crowded the room and made it difficult to move against the weight of being 'the only one.' I felt increasingly self-conscious and as my resistance mounted, so did my resilience. I’m no stranger to those voices, and I’ve come to recognize them as a good thing when they start clanking in my head—and in my environment. I liken it to the effort of spring cleaning: when old energy gets moved out, it’s bound to kick up some dust clouds in the process. And the bigger the movement, the bigger the clouds. The point is: we've got to stay with the work if we're to witness their passing. Becoming conscious of our energy means we don't get to skate so quickly past what bugs us anymore; we don't get to look away pretending we haven't seen—or heard, or felt, or experienced—the discomfort. It means we must absorb the hits we take. At the same time, we need neither internalize them nor let them define us. In my case, even as my resistance and doubt rolled in, I had to accept the fact that 'those people' were actually my people, too. Just like 'them' I was fully committed to deepening my study of energy work and incorporating new practices into my personal and professional life. And, like ‘them,’ I was no beginner at this; I’d also had years of extensive training in other healing modalities; I have my own clients and have given many trainings too. This wasn’t a fluke; I was in for the long haul. Contrary to what my defenses told me—that I was the only 'normal' one in the bunch, that I was somehow accidentally plunked down in the middle of a metaphysical class—I was right where I belonged, learning and stretching alongside my peers. And if they were ‘grinning, tree hugging, beat nick hippies,’ then so was I. The surprise of the weekend was that I had to expand my idea of who I thought I was just days before entering the room. No matter how much we think we've grown, there's always more. I was reminded of the healing power in embracing the whole of who I am. Doing so invited me to take my place within a new community. It's not that I was invited in or welcomed; I belonged. Brene Brown said it so well: ‘The truth is: Belonging starts with self-acceptance. Your level of belonging, in fact,
