Expanding Into More of Ourselves, One Experience at a Time
Photo by Joseph Hughes on Unsplash
Have you ever tossed a rock into a very still pond or lake and watched the concentric circles ripple outward? The outer circles grow both larger and less defined as they expand, and at some point, the entire set of circles appears to be a still image rather than in a state of constant change.
I’ve watched ripples like that many times in my life, either because I tossed in a rock myself or because a fish or turtle popped up its nose and disturbed the surface of the water. Watching the circles appear and grow is something I find as peaceful as I do mesmerizing.
In all my years of watching the after-effects of a disturbance to the surface of a body of water, however, it wasn’t until more recently that the image of all those concentric circles transformed into a deep understanding of personal growth.
I wrote recently about an experience that dropped me into an identity crisis literally overnight, redefining my concept of rock bottom and what it means to land there. And while that remains the most disruptive, panic-inducing, reality-shattering experience of suddenly and simultaneously having total clarity and utter confusion about who I was, it is far from the only experience like that I’ve had.
For example, there’s the day my therapist led me to the realization that I didn’t love myself. This one happened just like in the movies, when you see a client suddenly sit bolt upright with sudden understanding from lying prone on an outdated leather sofa after the therapist says or asks them something.
Okay, maybe not just like that because I was already sitting up, but the insight that arrived like a bolt of lightning? Movie script worthy.
There’s also the day I realized that freezing in fear after saying “no” didn’t make being raped my fault. It took a long while to reconcile that with decades of societally conditioned self-blame and radically shifted my current relationship with myself as well as my view of the younger version of me.
Or the day I realized my own hands on my legging-covered shins felt unsafe. This one was a doozy… other people touching me not feeling safe? Sure, I knew that already and it made sense considering my history. But myself? My own hands? Over clothing? My shins?? This was a hard one to sit with.
Not to mention the day I realized that loving myself and remaining in my marriage of 20 years were not compatible… I tried hard to backtrack away from and reason my way out of this one, clinging desperately to denial for as long as I could.
And many, many, many more moments since the day I chose to walk the path of healing.
While ultimately no less impactful or life-altering, these experiences become easier to breathe through over the years.
Do you remember learning to ride a bike without training wheels, or to swim, or to climb a tree? Maybe close your eyes and recall the memory of the very first attempt.
What do you feel?
Perhaps some nausea, a racing heart, shaking hands, or wobbly knees.
Likely a boost of adrenaline.
Maybe something else.
Almost certainly fear underlying everything else. Plenty of it.
And that’s normal when facing something new that bears the mark of danger in some way.
But then what happens? Do you still feel the same way when riding a bike or swimming or climbing a tree now?
No. Of course not.
Each subsequent experience gave you more experience and more confidence, while reducing the fear you associated with the activity.
It’s similar with healing. Those first experiences with being triggered or having life-altering insight are often the most destabilizing to your sense of self and way of existing in the world because they’re new.
Where it differs, however, is in what happens over time. As you continue along your healing journey, those experiences don’t become second nature in the way you barely notice or think about the other activities. Instead, they tend to feel more manageable, less violently disruptive, easier to sit with and work through, though never unnoticed and always accompanied by thought.
And as I watched the concentric circles rippling outward from a turtle poking its nose above the water during its swim recently, I suddenly understood why that is.
With bike riding or swimming, we’re mastering a skill. If the motion is repeated enough times, muscle memory kicks in and takes over, and conscious thought or effort is no longer required. And while many skills contribute to healing and growth, healing and growth itself is not a skill that can be mastered and then set on autopilot.
Each experience that challenges us, when faced and worked through, changes us on some level. We are left in the wake of that experience different in some way, having grown—having become more of ourselves.
Picture again the pond. The turtle has just poked its nose through the water. That very first, small ripple is the only one there, but you know as you watch that it won't stay that way. It will expand, and then another ripple will appear, and then another, each one reaching farther than the one before it.
And yet, as they expand, something changes. The edges become softer. The waves become smaller, less distinct, less disruptive to the stillness of the water.
I think we are like those concentric ripples, each one representing a moment of growth that changes us in some fundamental way.
We begin with an experience that disrupts what we knew about ourselves. We stretch beyond the edges of who we had understood ourselves to be, and in doing so, discover that there is more of us than we knew.
Then another experience comes.
And another.
Each one expands the picture.
We are, in a sense, coloring it in as we go—adding dimension and depth and pieces of ourselves that we couldn't see before. Not replacing the person we were, but making the picture of who we are larger, fuller, more complete.
And perhaps that is why growth can become gentler over time.
Not because the experiences stop changing us. Not because we stop being surprised by what we discover.
But because we become more familiar with the feeling of expanding.
The edges that once felt like walls become softer, and the space beyond them less frightening. And little by little, experience by experience, we keep coloring in the picture of who we are, adding depth, dimension, and more of ourselves—not by becoming someone else, but by becoming more fully ourselves.