Anatomy of a badass

You’ve seen her. She’s remarkably talented, brave, confident, even fearless. Ethics drives her; she cares deeply for those around her and seems to slay work and personal responsibilities easily. She’s open-hearted and kind, and strong enough to be vulnerable. You see her as an absolute badass.

While you’ve likely called a few women around you badass, I’d like you to consider shifting your perspective. Swapping outward with inward. Why?

You’re a badass too. 

Now, if you ducked that last statement like a meteor directed at your head, you’re in good company. I’ve heard from dozens and dozens of clients who see the badass in other women but struggle to accept the same title for themselves. They admire another woman’s determination, strength, inner resilience, sheer competency, and resourcefulness, but yet they struggle to accept the term for themselves. Why is this? 

Women, in particular, are much more likely to see this in others. While we can effortlessly admire the women we work with, embracing those same qualities in ourselves is much harder. This is because we must love ourselves at a deeper level, which is hard for many of us to do. 

The path to badassery 

Years of being taught to be selfless, devoted caretakers, giving to others, and supportive of others train us to ignore our own magnificence. We’ve learned to turn on ourselves, hurling self-criticism in a misguided attempt to whip ourselves into better and better achievement. This can be a daunting habit to overcome. 

Instead of the kind, loving words we offer our friends, family, and work sisters, we offer a biting criticism and nagging complaints to ourselves. If we even stop to consider this voice, we would be horrified to say the same things to others that we have on intravenous drip to ourselves. This makes us better, and sharper. But it just tears us down and keeps us disconnected from ourselves. Of course, not every woman has this challenge. But enough of us do for a burgeoning self-help industry to sprout up. 

Nourishing that inner badass

One of the most game-changing things you can do is embrace how badass you are. Because turning to love instead of criticizing ourselves is a genuinely next-level jiujitsu move. 

So, how can we reconnect with ourselves? How can we tap into our inner knowing and resourcefulness? How can we fully embrace our badassery? 

The first step is becoming aware of the inner critic and shutting her down. Catch that negative talk and challenge it every time. The next step is to replace the criticism with a practice of self-love. Not sure where to begin? Try guided meditations on loving and accepting yourself. You can also deepen into a daily practice of self-love through journaling and nurturing your inner voice of compassion and care. Turn that loving compassion toward yourself.

Turning to yourself enables greater access to your heart, self-compassion, and internal alignment. When you start filling yourself with as much love as you do others, you can transform your inner landscape. When you heap all that love on yourself, you will see you are a badass.  

Taking the Leap

On a foggy morning, we leave our warm cars and descend into a small forest in Mendocino County. Our team comprises women of various body shapes and sizes, each with different levels of confidence and athletic ability. We sip coffee as we listen to an instructor sharing fundamental pointers on how to belay each other. We then secure our harnesses and ropes in preparation for the day's activities.

We are here to do a ropes course among the trees. We begin quickly enough with warm up exercises. Next, we move to trust falls, each falling backward into another’s arms. The exercises progress to plunging backward into the teams’ collective arms from a 3-foot stump. For some, it is a serious challenge to let go and trust others. I take the fall with ease. I’d spent years learning to confidently throw my body into the air to stop shots as a field hockey goalkeeper. We progress to short climbs on belay, trusting others to keep us safe. I eagerly scramble through each small task without a second thought. 

But the afternoon was a different story. Our instructor led us to a new site high above our heads among towering trees. The instructor went over the course. She pointed to a vertical rope ladder that swung and twisted in the breeze. 

“Climb up to the platform,” she began. “While still on belay, walk along the wire between these trees.” 

She pointed to the 50-foot length of wire strung above our heads. She reminded us that if we fell, we’d be safe on belay, but the sense of precariousness was undeniable. Once on the other side, the final challenge awaited. Each of us would need to jump from one platform to another, situated about four to five feet away. It would be easy enough with a running start, but the platforms were small, allowing just two steps to take flight. Over and over, I mentally measured the distance, retracing the path between the first platform and the second in my brain. It was as if my mind was on autoloop, replaying a distance it couldn’t quite comprehend.

 “Is this even possible?” I murmured softly.

 A drip of sweat formed high on my forehead then slowly trickled down the side of my face. My stomach tightened into a vice-like grip. 

One of our more athletic teammates volunteered to go first. She worked steadily through the course, climbing quickly up the twisty ladder. 

“You got this.”

“Go, girlfriend.”

We sent up quiet words of encouragement from below. She maneuvered slowly and methodically across the wire. And then she arrived at the jump-off platform. She paused to take in the distance. Sensing her hesitation from the ground, we cheered with increasing volume and frequency. A minute ticked by. Then another. Finally, with a great roar, she jumped and safely landed on the far platform. As she descended, she glowed with a mixture of relief and exhilaration. I audibly exhaled, startled by the realization I’d been holding my breath.

Each person took their turn through the course. Some stopped to contemplate each new obstacle, seemingly weighing personal harm with determination. Many leaped. A few did not. Either way, we’d haul them gently down by their harness, even still full of catharsis and glowing. Each of us challenged ourselves through the course, one by one. Each returned to earth with relief and exaltation, no matter the outcome. Each had challenged herself to her edge, wrestling with fear, which made her bolder. My heart swelled with a mixture of connectedness, relief and inspiration as each returned to the ground.

Trying was the thing. Could we each navigate a personal crucible, logically knowing we were tethered to each other but facing a significant fear of falling? Would we allow our inner drive to push past this fear? These were the kinds of questions we contemplated as we cheered the next woman up the ladder.

And then it was my turn. My confidence in navigating the earlier short courses faded as I considered the path I’d just seen others attempt to complete. Up I went hand over hand, to the top of the tree platform. The rope ladder swayed with each shift of my body weight, twisting in on itself. Nearing the platform, I grabbed a pull rope and hoisted myself up and over.

From this new perch, I could see the high wire to the next platform. Although the traverse seemed unnerving, it was doable with a long pole for balance. I steadily planted each foot in front, building confidence step by step. My sense of accomplishment was short-lived as I turned to the final challenge—the big leap across. 

I paused, taking it in. I visually assessed the distance. It seemed too long a leap to make with surety. It would take everything I had to take a flying leap without guarantee of making it. Then, there was the shame of not succeeding if I fell short. I began to feel an inner resistance. My heart pounded loudly; my mouth went dry. Was this a doomed outcome? If I slid down, I would have the surety of control and an illusion of safety, but also the disappointment of not testing myself nor realizing my capacity to meet the moment. It was a maddening dilemma. I felt constricted. The time ticked by.

I had to try, right? I wasn’t feeling any spark of inspiration. I bargained with myself. Was it too late to slink down? Yes, it was far too late to slide down without even trying. Logically, I knew my friends below had me on belay. I’d witnessed the embodied exhilaration of those who had leaped but not landed, caught by their friends. Taking the leap was what these badasses did. That was the point.  

I studied the distance again, eyes focused on the far platform beyond. Could I do it? I wasn’t sure. I was undoubtedly athletic enough. It was more an overriding sense of fear and possibly self-preservation gripping me. Encouraging words came from below. Feeling the weight of time passing, I mentally clocked the distance again. It was just a tad further than I felt comfortable. 

I’m pondering a leap into deep discomfort, I slowly realized. Voices below continued to float up, encouraging me to take the leap. It wasn’t as much about making the other side, though I wanted to do that. It was more about holding the fear and doing it anyway. I felt a small battle emerge within–the intractable fear pulling me back and determined conviction willing me forward. I tentatively toed the edge of the platform. I got quiet and listened to my heart. I felt an emerging sense of daring, a bubbling up of all the “fuck yeah!” from my life. 

My eyes remained focused on the far platform as my energy tipped towards conviction. I stepped back, sucked in air, and took two running steps forward, launching myself into the abyss and barely making it onto the far platform. Cheers erupted from below. I let out a howl in celebration, sweat dripping down my spine.

Decades later, I’m facing another epic leap, with all the fear-inducing precariousness of that jump so long ago. I am moving from a 30-year tech career toward a life helping others as a transformational coach. I’ve been doing this work for many years but am now making a commitment.

Once again, it’s a leap without any guarantee of a landing. It’s probably the most significant leap I’ve ever experienced. The stakes are so much higher this time because I’m leaping without the certainty of where I’ll land. Pivoting from working for corporations to working for myself. It requires a certain level of letting go and trusting my landing will rise to meet me. Beneath me, I still have friends metaphorically belaying me, calling up words of encouragement.

This would be alarming to the younger me. It is fear-inducing to the older me. But I also see the wisdom of the experience, the teaching of the moment. As with my earlier experience, this is both scary and exhilarating. I weigh the inherent personal safety of staying my course with the desire to leap into a bigger life. As with the ropes course, I feel the tension of the moment, the pull back into safety, and the spark to leap into the new. Head and heart are at odds.

I feel stuck. 

On the ropes course, I found my inner truth by getting quiet and listening to my heart. Now, I sit down to journal. I am very familiar with my brain’s chatter to stay safe and take another corporate gig. I pivot instead to write from my heart, the source of my inner truth. 

I sit at my keyboard and write “I want to help people…’ 

And then I sit back, dumbstruck by the simplicity and power of this statement, finally arresting the endless chatter into one beautiful truth. In this moment I choose myself, my competency, my path. I feel the familiar sensation burning in my chest, tipping toward conviction. 

I leap, my new life rising to meet me.