Learning to Fall

I learned how to ride a motorcycle in Mongolia, by falling and getting up — again, and again, and again.

photo by Scott Schell

What surprised me, after I fell the first time, is that I felt relieved. When I got back on my bike, the worst thing had already happened, and I was fine. Totally fine. Perhaps even better. I was gripping less, and riding faster. Over time I became more annoyed by falling than afraid of it.

The last time I fell, I was so annoyed that I didn’t even wait for my boyfriend to come help. I just picked up my bike and got back on. I didn’t know I could do that until I did. This was the turning point. Now I was learning to ride the motorcycle, instead of trying not to fall.

When you fall off of your motorcycle, you get a body slam to the earth; you get immediate feedback that trying to stop on an uneven surface doesn’t work. Falling in our career, or our relationships is subtler. What I know now is that if we don’t get clear on where we fell, and what we learned from it, then the fall doesn’t serve us, and we don’t learn to ride or to live.

I’m writing this blog and exploring things I learned the hard way because writing helps me get clear, and I want to be clear. I want to harvest the gems and live vibrantly alive. I want to know where my bruises are so that I can be proud of them, and honor their duty. I’m writing my way back to my bike, and my life because I want to ride like the fucking wind.

Photo by Scott Schell

When I was a young officer in the Air Force, speaking up at a meeting and challenging the process in front of Colonels didn’t scare me. Leaving the Air Force to pursue my dream job in international health didn’t scare me. I remember feeling like I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. In fact, losing wasn’t a thought at all — I was singularly focused on what I wanted to do.

A friend sent me a funny onion article about the fantasy to escape work, titled Health Experts Recommend Standing Up At Desk, Leaving Office, Never Coming Back. The article concludes by saying, “Walk until nothing looks familiar anymore and your old life is a distant memory.” I can feel my twenty-six-year-old self, who felt chained by the neck to her cubicle, longing for this walk, cheering for this escape — and in her honor, I did escape.

I walked right out of that damn cubicle the minute I was legally allowed to. I took off my blue polyester straight jacket and traded it in for a flowery tunic and hiking boots.

I pursued exactly what I wanted to do for nearly a decade. I worked on programs that prevented unnecessary deaths in childbirth in Afghanistan. I sat on the UN Civil-Military coordination working group and investigated case studies of Special Forces taking over compounds of aid workers in remote, and underserved communities.

I worked with people who inspired me, in an environment that, to me, was the most stunning, stimulating, and compelling place on earth. But now, the truth is, I wouldn’t mind a cubicle. The truth is my priorities have changed, and that scares the shit out of me.

It took me a long time to leave Afghanistan. I spent years taking short-term assignments, and in between doing whatever I wanted: driving cross-country, yoga training in Costa Rica, spa retreats in Thailand, surf trips in Australia. This was all very fun, for sure. The problem was, I really wanted a home and a family.

When I did finally leave Afghanistan, I put myself on a three-year plan to train as a midwife; start a thriving midwifery practice; be an influential policy activist in midwifery; own a cozy house, have a sweet dog, and adorable baby, and a loving partner. Anticipating how long things take, is, well, not my strong suit. 

After eighteen months of trying to force this unreasonable timeline, I relented — I quit school. And it’s taken me longer than I would like to admit (two full years) to recover. This recovery has taken me so long because I’m just now able to see where I fell. The pain was sort of all over, and all the time. It took a lot of slowing down; a lot of support, and a lot of edits, to find this relief of clarity.

Midwives are the most amazing humans I know. Training as a midwife made me a better human, but the reason I fell had nothing to do with midwifery. I fell when I didn’t know how to take care of myself because I didn’t know how to make this transition into the next phase of my life.

It’s embarrassing and tender to admit, but I needed midwifery as my holy grail. Midwifery was another cool, worthy, and admirable thing to do — out there. When my ride, my life, my next chapter is quite literally — in here.

Photo by Scott Schell

The bike I’m learning to ride, now, here, in Seattle, is how to be a mom.

I did find a loving partner, and we are expecting a baby in a few months. I do not know how to ride this bike, and good for me. I want to always be learning how to ride — by falling and getting up — again, and again, and again…

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"Life is a succession of lessons, which must be lived to be understood." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

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