In Solitude, My Mistakes Make Me Grin

When I was eighteen years old, just released from the hospital following my stroke, I was offered the chance to speak, live and in person, to what I believed was a small group of people about what I had been through. I was having remarkable success with rehab, was planning on going back to school in the fall, and I was thinking about all the positive things that I would say. I am an optimist at heart, and I believed that I would “wow” the small assemblage of people with my story and my encouragement.

So…I didn’t practice. I didn’t write out my words. Who cared, right? I thought I would simply wing it and the small cluster of people who came to the hospital would marvel at the fact that I had battled through this and thrived. I believed I was on the fast-track to stardom post-stroke, in my own little way.

However, when I went into the conference room in the hospital and witnessed what was about to transpire, my heart shriveled up and I immediately shut down. Three or four TV stations were there, with bright lights shining down upon me and news personnel all around. Forty to fifty people were in attendance, not the five to six I thought I would be speaking to. The PR director, though I didn’t even know what “PR” meant at that time, was there to greet me and shake my hand, hurrying me up onto the stage. All within thirty seconds of me arriving.

To say that I was shellshocked would be an understatement.

Obviously, I floundered. I believe I said one or two sentences about the tingling sensation that I experienced right before my stroke, but I couldn’t think of much else to say. I didn’t come prepared, didn’t put into bullet points the three or four things I was planning on saying. I didn’t look up at the crowd and declare some sort of mind-bending thought or thoughts. I was lost and clueless for the twenty or so seconds I was “on stage,” and as I was returning to my seat, the PR director said something to the effect of: “…ok, well…thank you, Nathan, for sharing!” as she quickly rose up and thanked the members of the press and the public for coming to the event.

I will remember that day for the rest of my life, not only for the fact that I couldn’t think of the correct words to say (or any words to say for that matter!), but also for the fact that I failed to inform the large group what I had been through and how my stroke had affected my life. I know now that I should have gone ahead and practiced my speech, should have written more than two blurted-out sentences, and should have done a much better job at preparing myself for the unknown.

It has been twenty years since that fiasco happened, and I chuckle every time I think of it. I smile at being so incredibly oblivious. Yes, the entire event could have gone better. I could have shined. But as a highly introverted youngster who didn’t have any idea what the rest of my life was going to look like, I think I did pretty well - all things considered.

Self-acceptance is far easier when no one is around.

When no one is looking at you.

When no one is judging you, laughing at you, or criticizing you. When there aren’t forty or fifty people in the audience and TV stations itching for a scoop or an angle.

Now, when no one is around, I can laugh at myself. I will sing in the shower, be a horrible dancer (because I am), and acknowledge that in my own small world I have many faults. When I am with my family, I can joke in my dry, easy-going way. When my wife and I are alone, we can literally scream with laughter.

But when I am around others, particularly around others at work or in an area where I don’t know the “rules,” I sometimes commit errors that I am embarrassed about. Angry about. Sometimes they are more egregious, sometimes they are minor. But every time I make a silly mistake around people I don’t know, I blame myself.

I blame myself with abandon. Unfortunately, there are times when I shut down and give up. There are times when I give away my agency and totally remove myself from the situation. I know that shutting down and relinquishing my influence never works in the end, but I do it anyway. I revert back to my past and give up the power that I have. Whether it’s therapy or my own reflections, I acknowledge that part of myself and work to continuously correct it. If I am in a small crowd, my mistake doesn’t seem as big. But, the bigger the crowd, the more I feel pain if I make even the smallest of stumbles.

In solitude, I can easily shake the frustrations out and be on my way. I can, and do, modify my relationships to the outside world and become a better person. But when I try to do this in the company of others, I nosedive. Hard.

In On the Brink of Everything, Parker J. Palmer speaks of the Taoist master Chuang Tzu’s telling of a man who is crossing a river in a small boat, only to realize that another skiff, without a boatman, will crash into his boat. After the crash happens, the man does not become angry, as most people would, and the lesson that Tzu is conveying is this:

Empty your own boat as you cross the river of the world.

In solitude, as my story could easily tell you, I can empty my own boat. I can make mistakes over and over again. I can laugh and not give a hoot. But when I am with others, concerned with my own insufficiencies, I am absent with myself. And when I am absent with myself, I am not being fully present - not to myself, and not with others.

Going forward, I know that I will need to get over this hump if I am going to be a whole person, a person with a polyhedral sense of myself and what I represent to the world. If I choose to be that whole person, I will inevitably be a better person.

Solitude, I believe, is one way to overcome that fear that everyone has within themselves: of blame. Of the unknown. Of finding fault. Solitude is not loneliness, nor is it isolation. It’s the state of being alone, but by being alone one has the opportunity for growth and expansion.

Solitude is about being present with ourselves, whether or not we are with others.

Related reading

• Losing Yourself — Perhaps Never to Be Found

This article was previously published on Nathan’s Substack, A Man Incomplete.