If you’re not in the arena with the rest of us, fighting and getting your ass kicked on occasion, I’m not interested in your feedback. Brené Brown
Many people have recently been inspired by the work of Brené Brown. I’m one of them. Ms. Brown is a researcher in the area of vulnerability and shame and became a sensation when her TED talks went viral and her book, Daring Greatly, became a New York Times bestseller.
To define “daring greatly,” Brown quotes Theodore Roosevelt:
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the one who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly…who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails by daring greatly.”
I love the arena metaphor. It’s a wonderful framework within which to think about how we engage with the world, where (and with whom) we sit in judgment of others, and why we seek some people out in our time of need and instinctively know that others aren’t safe. It’s a visual that enables us to not only see others with greater clarity, but to see ourselves and our own motives with more honesty and acceptance.
By virtue of being alive, we are all in an arena. But there are lots of different arenas in the game of life. In some arenas, we are gladiators fighting for our lives. In others, we are performers in a beautiful dance or a spirited play. In yet other arenas, we are spectators, enjoying what others are bringing to the party. We can’t be active participants in every arena, yet if we find ourselves too often the spectator, we begin to feel disengaged and peripheral to our own lives, as if things are happening around us and to us without our consent; victims.
Every time we step into the arena we take a risk. In Ms. Brown’s vernacular, we are vulnerable; afraid of being shamed by a poor performance or a failure. We resent the people who shout out commands (also known as advice) from the sidelines–or worse, later tell us of all the woulda, coulda, shouldas–but don’t step into the arena to work through their own battles, or to support us in ours.
We all know people who will avoid the messiness of life–also known as stress, rejection, anguish, love and triumph–at all costs. There are no high-highs or low-lows, just an even keel. They aren’t just watching from the stands, they’re in the nosebleed section. My wife is depressed? I didn’t notice. My child is having problems at school? Just a phase. My friend has become withdrawn and is drinking too much? I don’t want to butt in. They keep as much distance from the action as possible to avoid being sullied or tainted in the dust up. And their lives reflect it: Other people don’t count on them to listen or empathize, much less to help out. As a result, they lack connection with other people–but they keep their hands clean.
On the other hand, there are others who always want to be in the thick of the action. The ones who take on every battle, want to be the shining star of every performance. When things don’t go their way, drama ensues in the form of anger, disappointment, judgment, control.
It’s tempting to judge people who are always in the arena or are always out, but in reality, everyone is doing the best they can. When people avoid stepping into the arena, Ms. Brown is saying that it’s fear of shame and vulnerability that keeps them on the sidelines. We’re seeing their weakness, and we can show them compassion or disdain. When we choose disdain, we are, in a sense, the hecklers in the stands of someone else’s battle.
I think the secondary point–who we share our vulnerabilities with and what feedback we let in–is equally worthy of reflection. Would we take study tips from someone who flunked out of school? Parenting advice from someone who doesn’t have kids? Marital advice from someone who has never had a long-term relationship? Talk (and advice) is cheap, especially when it isn’t backed up by hard-earned experience. But when someone approaches you with compassion, curiosity and a willingness to explore a topic, we know we aren’t in it alone. Feedback and shared stories from someone in the trenches feels very different from sanctimonious advice or judgment called out from the sidelines.
But this is a good reminder to myself. After all, do I really know what it’s like to be dating after a divorce? Or to be told I can’t have children? To be widowed? To have a special needs child? I hope I will never have to know. At this point in my life, I’m but a spectator in those arenas. I can offer my love and support, but I can’t give advice, and I certainly can’t judge.
There are some arenas in which we will always find ourselves on the sidelines because it was not our lot in life to be players, either by choice or by circumstances outside of our control. I have shared painful moments with people who haven’t been through the exact same thing, but who I know will join me in my battle (or my dance, as the case may be) because they aren’t the type to stand back while someone they love goes it alone.
There is no question that being in the arena can be scary, but it is also rewarding and exhilerating. Knowing when to engage and when to stay off the playing field is a life’s work. When we put ourselves out there, we leave ourselves open to the judgment of others. Learning how to filter that feedback is also a life’s work.
True wisdom isn’t learned in a book, it’s found in the arena. Sharing that wisdom–and not in black-or-white terms or as criticism disguised as feedback–lets our fellow performers know they aren’t alone. That others have traversed similar territory and have lived to tell about it.
But when we find ourselves on the sidelines, pointing out the mistakes and the missed opportunities of those in the arena (or even worse, exploiting those missteps for our own gain), we have to ask ourselves why–if we have it all down–we aren’t jumping in to help out or to play our own form of the game.