02 My Light – Spot 1

I have reached the bottom. Torch in hand. This is where everything I never wanted to look at is stored. And there is something written on the wall. I shine the light on it.

I can’t do that.
I’m not allowed to do that.
That’s not me.
I don’t deserve that.
I don’t belong there.

Where do they come from? What did I learn as a child that takes my courage away today? I grew up in a world that counts. That counts my mistakes. In the family. At school. At work. It is always about what I do wrong.

Right from when I was small. Too loud. Too wild. Not enough sleep. Didn’t finish my plate. Broke something. Got my own way. And every time, the bill.

The bill came in many forms. Hitting. Telling off. Love withheld. Being shown up in front of others. Days of silence. Locked in. Left alone. The lesson went in: there is something wrong with me, just as I am.

Love is the reward for falling into line.

Then school. This is where my failure becomes official. Test after test, in black and white: here are your mistakes. And in between, the things the teachers said.

You’ll never get this.
You’re not clever enough.
You can’t sit still.
You’ll never amount to anything.

And in adult life? It carries on merrily. Not pretty enough. Too fat. Too thin. Wrinkles. No career – or no children. Bad mother. Too much, too loud, too demanding. Wrong clothes, not enough in the bank.

Nobody can stand that. How on earth am I supposed to survive all this? I build myself some protection. Like in sport: helmet, pads, the seatbelt in the car. Except this protection isn’t for the body. It is there to protect the soul.

Armour. Shield. Mask.
Behind it I disappear. Nobody gets through. My inner child still knows exactly what an attack feels like – the blows, the shouting, the mockery. Never again, it says. Never again.

So am I traumatised? It sounds big. It sounds like war and catastrophe. But it applies to all of us. We all carry wounds from childhood around with us.

Trauma happens when a child experiences violence – with fists, with words or with silence – and is left alone with it. When nobody is there to hold it, comfort it, protect it.

That is too much for a child. It lodges itself in. And it reports back years later – as fear, as heaviness, as difficulty letting anyone close. Sometimes as pain in the body that no doctor can explain.

Until one day I come down here and switch the torch on.
You’re not musical.
You’re not sporty.
You’re all fingers and thumbs.
You’re just shy, that’s all.

An old friend comes towards me. Beaming, arms wide open. We hug, warmly, the way you do. I say “lovely to see you”, I smile, I ask how the children are.

And inside something wants to come out. A warmth, a “God, I’ve missed you, how are you really?”. It only gets as far as my chest. Then the wall closes.

The hug I can manage. The closeness behind it I can’t.

I feel it every time. At the compliment I mumble away. At the film that brings tears up in me – and I swallow them fast, before anyone notices.

For a long time I thought that was simply who I am. On the cool side. Not the emotional type. Not true. I trained myself into it. The armour.

As a child it was a good deal. Protected from attack. Survived the day. I stopped feeling anything – and that was exactly what I wanted. I only noticed the catch years later.

There is no armour that keeps only the bad things out.

The same wall that stops the blow stops the hug too. The same numbness that dulls the fear dulls the joy. I don’t get to choose what comes through. If I shut myself off, I shut myself off completely.

And the thicker the armour, the lonelier I get. Because it doesn’t only keep the blows out. It keeps the people out too.

What I hide most carefully eats me from the inside. The shame I show nobody. The fear I don’t talk about. The mistake nobody is allowed to know. In the dark they grow.

Nobody wants to stand there and be laughed at. Nor do I. So I picked up a few tricks to make sure nobody catches me out.

I make myself invisible. Say nothing, want nothing, stand out in no way. Anyone who doesn’t stand out doesn’t get hit. Or I do everything perfectly. No mistake, no gap, nothing to attack. Never give them an opening.

Or I get my blow in first. Talk about other people, cut them down, drag them through the mud. If you are always firing, you never have to take a hit. That is the plan, at least.

Three different kinds of armour. One result. Behind my walls I am safe – and nobody gets in. Nobody sees who I am. Nobody touches me. Nobody connects with me.

And my life? It trickles along. Get up, function, sleep. A bit of fun in between. Nice. Lukewarm. Forgotten the next day.

I know the game from the other side. From the safe seat. I sit in the stands and watch other people fighting down below. I cheer the winners. I laugh at the ones who fall. I wave my flag and go home in the evening without a scratch.

And secretly I think: down there? Never. Far too dangerous. You can lose down there. Make a fool of yourself. Bleed.

But my arena is not the stadium. My arena is the meeting where I hold my idea back. The conversation where I don’t say what I think. The person I never show what they mean to me. The thing I have been meaning to tackle for ages – and never do.

That is where my life happens. And I am sitting in the stands. For years I have been watching my own life go past me.

“We’ll see.” “Maybe next time.” “I’m staying out of this one.” “Let somebody else go first.” “Sorry, Saturday’s no good for me.” That is not how stories start. That is how they end before they begin.

Is that really what I want? Or do I dare to walk down into the arena, step by step? I want to collect stories too. Stories that are worth telling.

Armour A: I expect the worst
Armour B: I mustn’t make a mistake
Armour C: I numb myself
Armour D: He who brakes, loses
Armour E: I charge straight in
Armour F: I make myself scarce
Armour G: Look how much I am suffering
Armour H: I am the coolest one here

Armour A — I expect the worst

My daughter is asleep. I stand in the doorway and look at her. This small person, this quiet breathing. A warmth spreads through me. And in the same moment it flips. What if she gets ill? What if something happens to her? What if I lose her?

The image is there instantly. Razor sharp. My most beautiful moment, and I poison it with a horror film.

I know this in every size. The promotion – there must be a catch. Things are going smoothly – so the blow is bound to land any minute. And if I run out of material, the news supplies more. War, illness, disaster.

Why do I do it? Because it feels like protection. If I stay small, in lack, in worry, fate can’t hit me so hard. If you stay down, you can’t fall.

And something else whispers: who am I to simply be happy? When other people are having such a bad time? When so many children are suffering?

And? How often have my horror images actually been right? Out of a hundred catastrophes I painted for myself – how many happened?

The fear still feels real. And that is fine. It is allowed to be there. I just want to understand where it comes from. For that I separate two things that are easily confused: fear and anxiety.

Fear comes from outside. I stand at the edge of a drop and fear the fall – so I step back. The waves are too high, I don’t go in. I give the dog with foam round its mouth a wide berth. That is sensible. That keeps me alive.

Anxiety comes from inside. I make it myself. No drop, no wave, no dog. Only thoughts.

My daughter is ten minutes late – and I can already see the accident. My boss wants a word – in my head I have already been sacked. My heart skips once – it must be a heart attack.

None of it happened. But I was as frightened as if it already had. This anxiety has a sender. My head of security.

Her job: protect me. She sits at the radar in my head and works through everything that could go wrong. Day and night. She means well.

She is the one who sends the horror images at my daughter’s bed. She thinks: spot the danger early and you can avert it. Except there is no danger. Only a sleeping, healthy child.

The sentence that changes everything:

I am not the voice in my head. I am the one who hears it.

I am the captain. She reports. I decide. So I don’t fight her. I listen. I say: thank you, understood. And I check for myself. Sleeping child. Quiet breathing. All well.

So I send my head of security off for a break. How do I do that? With gratitude. Anxiety and gratitude don’t fit into the same moment. Try it. It can’t be done.

I look into the cot and I am endlessly grateful for my wonderful daughter. The catastrophe fades. It can’t stay where gratitude is.

Yes, I feel anxious when I let the joy in. Climb high and you can fall far. But every foothold shows me: it is worth it. I let the joy through. All of it. I look at my sleeping daughter – and just let it be beautiful.

Anyone who can handle their anxiety builds something. Foothold by foothold. My head of security wants to spare me pain. My heart knows better. It climbs.

If somebody next to me has been hit hard by fate, I don’t suffer along with them. I am there for them – that is something different. If somebody has lost a child, I can fall into anxiety about my own. Or I can take joy in my healthy child.

The world doesn’t need me to suffer with it. It needs what only I can contribute.

Whenever I honour what I have, I also honour what somebody else has lost.

Armour B — I mustn’t make a mistake

My daughter’s birthday. She is turning five. I am in the kitchen. The napkins folded, the cupcakes lined up in rows, each with the same number of sprinkles. I straighten the last candle.

Next door she is laughing. Shrieking with delight. Tearing wrapping paper to shreds. And I am standing in the kitchen.

I get everything perfect. For a child who couldn’t care less about the napkins. Who wants one thing only: me. I miss the best moment. Because I am fine-tuning the decorations.

It always goes like this. I check, I smooth, I do it again. Not because it gets better. Because I am afraid it isn’t good enough.

And has anyone ever thanked me for it? Has my daughter ever said: “It’s lovely that you wear yourself out so everything is always perfect”? I am confusing two things here. Doing good work. And being perfect.

Good work looks inwards. Does this matter to me? Am I doing it properly? That is healthy. Being perfect looks outwards. What will other people think? Will they find a mistake? That is fear.

Perfectionism is not a strength. It is a shield.

I hold it up so that nobody finds a flaw in me. So that I am allowed to belong. But behind the shield nobody can see me either. I make myself flawless – and invisible.

The research is unambiguous. Perfectionism doesn’t make you better. It makes you ill. Depression. Anxiety. Addiction.

And it chokes off exactly what I have in me. Anyone permanently afraid of mistakes doesn’t get creative. Doesn’t follow their gut. Doesn’t risk anything of their own.

And the worst of it: perfect doesn’t exist. I am chasing something I will never reach. Every mistake becomes proof. See – not good enough.

So I put the shield down. Slowly. Every time my head says “What will people think?”, I turn the sentence round: “I’m doing really well.”

And I talk to myself the way I talk to somebody I love.

A friend messes up a presentation. Do I then say: you failure, you can’t get anything right? No. I say: it happens. It’ll go better next time. That is what I do with myself now too.

When I am criticised, I no longer tear myself down. I sit down quietly with my DoD and look at it. What exactly is the criticism? Is there something in it – did I really mess something up?

Who is it coming from? From somebody who means it honestly? Or from somebody who wants to look important at my expense? Do I need to put something right? Then I do it. If there is nothing in it, I let it go.

A mistake doesn’t make me a bad person. It makes me a person.

I am also learning where care counts – and where “quick & dirty” is perfectly enough. The short walk I actually take is better than the three-kilometre run I keep putting off. The pizza night beats the gala dinner that never happens.

And I ask myself: who am I making this perfect for? For me – because I enjoy it, because it makes me happy? Or am I waiting for praise and recognition from somebody else?

Maybe I even take up something that doesn’t have to lead anywhere. Painting. Pottery. Something that is allowed to come out crooked. Because what is allowed to be crooked is alive. The shield starts to crack. And through the cracks comes my light.

At the next birthday I don’t fold any napkins. I sit on the floor. In the middle of the paper chaos. And I am there. And the cupcakes taste magnificent anyway.

Armour C — I numb myself

Hard day. Door shut, shoes off – and my hand reaches for the wine as if by itself. Before I even think. Before I even feel what is going on. That is how it goes every evening. First one glass. Then the second. And the day is far away.

It doesn’t have to be a glass. There are plenty of substances. Cigarettes. Sugar. Box sets. The phone. And the least conspicuous of them all: work. Always busy. Because as long as I have no time, the truth about my life can’t catch up with me.

It is a trap. And it snaps shut:

I numb the pain of not being good enough. But anyone who numbs themselves has something to hide – so I feel ashamed. And I numb that shame too. Another glass. Another hour of work. Another episode.

The spiral turns. Tighter and tighter. Deeper and deeper. Alone.

I want out – with more discipline, better lists, more apps. And when I can’t keep it up, I go off the rails, because you have to have some fun too. I look for tips on how to keep living like this. When the question would be: how do I stop living like this?

We are the richest people who have ever lived. And at the same time the most indebted, the fattest, the most addicted, the most heavily medicated. Maybe we have got something wrong somewhere.

And here comes the catch I know from Armour A: I don’t get to choose what I numb. If I drown my dark side, I drown my light along with it.

One thing first. Honestly, with nothing glossed over.

If addiction has a firm hold on me – if I can’t get through the day without alcohol, without pills, without my phone – then that is an illness. Not weakness of will. Not failure. And it can’t be breathed away.

Then the bravest and strongest step is to get help. A doctor, a support service, therapy, a group. That is not weakness. That is strength and self-care. I am worth it to myself.

What follows does not replace that. It is not a cure. It is an exercise for the everyday reach for something to numb me.

It begins at the moment my hand reaches for the phone. Check for new messages. That reach is no accident. It is a signal: something in me does not want to be felt right now.

Sometimes I catch the moment. Often I don’t – only afterwards do I notice that I have zoned out again. That is fine too. It is not about being strong every time, it is about trying at all.

When I do catch it, I stop. Hand on the phone. Switched off. And I ask: what would I feel if I didn’t switch it on now? Maybe emptiness. Maybe anxiety. Maybe that old voice: not good enough.

I give the feeling a name. “This is loneliness.” “This is being overwhelmed.” And then I let it be there. Just a little way. I breathe. And maybe I notice: this one time, it doesn’t kill me.

That is not a great victory. It is one single time. But it shows me: I can bear the feeling too. A bit longer than yesterday. And if it doesn’t work, I don’t condemn myself. Tomorrow I try again.

Then, at some point, the question behind it: what do I actually need? Not the phone. Sleep. To be seen. To finally cry. To shout. To set a boundary. To soften. To let go.

The phone was never the answer. It never quite fills the hole, which is why I always need more of it. What counts is the search for what really does fill it. And sometimes I don’t search on my own, but with somebody who knows what they are doing.

The magic phrase is: “That’ll do.” It means two things. Stop – with the glass, the work, the scrolling. And: it is good enough. I am good enough.

Because the two are connected. The more I drink, work and zone out, the less I am worth to myself. And the less I am worth to myself, the more I numb. I turn it round: only when I believe that I am good enough can I also say “that’ll do”.

Except that the moment I try to set a boundary, my head speaks up:

“What will people think?
Don’t make such a fuss.
A good woman puts up with it.
And gives a bit more on top.
Is the princess tired?”

My head senses danger. Boundaries make me vulnerable, so it wants to protect me. But it is wrong. It is exactly the going along with things, the overriding of my own boundaries, that keeps me outside. Behind the armour I am safe. But nobody gets in.

We human beings are simply built for connection.

So I loosen the armour. I let my light out. I show myself. This is how good I am – no better, no worse. I have something to contribute, and I am grateful for that. I like myself. I let myself be touched. And I touch others.

Showing myself vulnerable means walking onto the stage naked and hoping for applause – not laughter.

Armour D — He who brakes, loses

Ten thousand years ago. Night. Us at the fire, the others out in the dark. Whoever belongs to us is protection. Whoever is a stranger is danger.

Whoever belongs survives. Whoever falls out of the group is lost. Nobody gets through the winter alone – least of all with a child in her arms. So don’t go weak. Don’t be a burden.

Weakness was not a flaw. Weakness was death.

That sits deep. Deeper than I think. My mother didn’t want a cry-baby for a daughter. So she made me hard. That was her way of loving. She got the rucksack from her mother. And she from hers.

In some worlds that still counts today. At work, where I have to hold my own. In court. Anywhere I have to be twice as tough, as a woman, to be taken half as seriously. There, hardness saves my skin. That is where it belongs.

It is a tool. A heavy spanner. I pick it up when the job needs it – and put it down when the job is done. Except: I forgot to put it down. And so the tool becomes a shackle.

Family coffee. An aunt says, half joking: “So, do the children ever actually see you, with that job?” Everyone smiles. My throat tightens, my head goes hot. My fist closes round the spanner.

I fire back, right on target, below the belt. Nobody is smiling any more. I have won. And ruined the afternoon. At home I talk to my husband as if he were an opponent. To my daughter as if she were taking orders.

Win every fight and you end up standing there alone.

In time I learn to recognise the signals. The hot head. The tight throat. The shame of being caught out. The reflex to fire straight back.

This is ancient. It has been firing for ten thousand years. But there is no enemy in the dark here. Here sits an aunt making a remark. So I stop. One second. One breath. And I ask myself: what would count as success here?

Cutting the other woman down so that I don’t have to feel my own sense of being worth less? Hiding my shame behind a sharp line? Or showing myself. Making myself attackable. Staying connected.

Success is not the exchange of blows I win. Success is when I get past the shame and say what is really going on. “Sometimes it tears me in two. The job, the children, all of it. I’m doing my best.”

I thank the old programme. And I put the spanner down. Because what is real strength? The truly strong have nothing to prove. That is exactly what makes them great. Real strength needs no loud voice.

My husband.We are arguing about money. The spanner is already in my fist. I could win. Instead I listen. Behind the accusations there is no anger. There is fear.

“You’re afraid we won’t manage it. So am I.” Suddenly we are standing side by side. Against the same fear.

My daughter.The glass goes over. For the third time. Water all across the table.

Before: “Can’t you be careful?” Now: “Emergency! Flood! Where’s the fire brigade?” She grabs one cloth, I grab the other. We laugh. The table is saved.

She learns that she is not clumsy. When something goes wrong, we are a team.

My friends.“Tell the one on the plane again!” The one with the cup of water in her lap – and everyone thought you had wet yourself.

I would have gone red once. Now I tell the story myself. I laugh loudest at myself. The whole table is in stitches. Not at me – with me. Nobody has power over a woman who can laugh at herself.

And if I meet somebody still right in the middle of the fight – somebody who intimidates, threatens, has to win everything? I don’t get into the ring. I don’t get angry, don’t get loud, the way she is used to.

I stay on the level. I show understanding – and still say clearly how I see it. I don’t let myself be intimidated. And I stay connected.

That is the woman I want to be. Not the one who wins every fight. The one who no longer has to fight at all.

Armour E — I charge straight in

New colleague. First prosecco after work. We haven’t been there twenty minutes. And I tip everything out. The crisis in my marriage. The therapy. My mother, who was never satisfied. How lonely I often feel.

I talk and talk. She nods, moves her glass a bit further away. Laughs too loudly in the wrong places. Looks at her watch. Next time she “unfortunately hasn’t got time”.

What happened? I wanted closeness. Immediately. All of it. I can’t bear the slow feeling out, the careful sizing each other up. I want the shortcut. Straight into the middle of a deep connection.

And I think it works like this: if I show all of myself, she will see straight away how much she matters to me. Then I will know at once whether the connection is any good. I confuse tipping everything out with honesty. And I believe that if I give my innermost self, she has to give hers too.

But that is not how it works. I can’t force closeness.

The other woman is overwhelmed. Dazzled by my glaring light. She has known me for twenty minutes – and suddenly she is standing in the middle of my living room without ever having opened the door.

So she backs away. And what do I do? I turn it up. Add more, tell her more, more intimate things – because now I really do have to reach her.

I intensify exactly what the problem is. And I harvest the proof I fear most: I don’t belong. The others don’t want me.

But closeness is like a delicate plant. It grows. At its own pace. I can’t pull at it to make it go faster. All I do is pull it out of the soil.

So I feel my way forward. Carefully. I show a small piece of myself – and see what comes back. Does she take a step towards me? Or does she pull back?

I pay attention to her pace, not only my own. Overwhelming somebody doesn’t create closeness. It creates distance. I have a simple trick for that. Before I tell somebody something about myself, I send it through three gates:

Is it true?Or am I exaggerating, colouring it in, making myself bigger or smaller than I am?Is it necessary?Does it actually get us somewhere – or do I just want to talk for the sake of talking?

Is it kind?Does it do us both good – or am I putting too much on her?

And there is one rule I keep to the first time round: no open wounds. Nothing that is still bleeding, nothing I can’t make sense of myself yet. The deep things have their time. But not over the first glass.

With the next colleague I do it differently. I tell her one step’s worth. Not the whole cellar. I ask her things too. I listen. I leave her room. And I am patient. With her. With the plant. With myself.

How trust grows step by step is something I have already learned, as it happens: in chapter 01 “My Journey”, Step 4.

Armour F — I make myself scarce

A friend hurt me. One sentence, two weeks ago, and it landed. I said nothing. Of course not. I left, smiling, “all good”.

Since then I have been avoiding her. Her message? I’ll read it later. Her call? Goes to voicemail. Meeting up at the weekend? Sorry, busy. That is how I do it. I run.

And not only from her. From everything that gets uncomfortable. I put things off. I dodge. I talk the matter down, blame the other person, invent excuses. Sometimes I simply don’t tell the truth.

What I like best is waiting. Maybe it will sort itself out. It doesn’t. Quite the opposite. What I put off gets heavier. A bit more every day.

One hurtful sentence turns into a mountain. At first it was a misunderstanding that one conversation would have cleared up. After two weeks it is an ice age. After a month it is a broken friendship.

And nothing has been added. Only time. And time has doubled the weight, over and over.

It gnaws at me. I sleep badly. I think about her when I don’t want to think about her. Left unresolved, it eats more energy than the conversation would ever have cost. So I ask myself the magic question: what is the worst that can happen?

I picture it. I ring her, I bring it up – and then? It gets uncomfortable. Maybe we argue. Maybe she digs her heels in. Will I survive that? Yes.

And is there a route to the same place that avoids this conversation? No. There isn’t.

So I take one deep breath. I don’t have to have the perfect conversation. I only have to start. One message: “Listen, what you said the other day got to me. Can we talk?”

That is all. The first small step. But the mountain is gone. The moment I face it, the weight I have been dragging around for weeks falls away. And I notice: carrying it was heavier than facing it.

It doesn’t always run in only one direction. Sometimes I am not the one who was hurt. Sometimes I am the one who did the hurting – and then crawls away, because the conversation frightens her.

The same thing applies there too. I face it. I bring it up. Maybe I have let somebody down – and I get the chance to put it right.

Or maybe not. Some connections are carried by one side only. I make the effort, I go towards her, I do my part – and nothing comes back from the other side. I am allowed to see that too. And then I am allowed to let go.

I can’t love everyone. And not everyone can love me. That is not a defeat. That is the truth. What counts is this: I didn’t run away any more.

Armour G — Look how much I am suffering

I come home in the evening. Tired, empty. Everyone busy. No “hello”, no glance. Then I trip over the school bag in the middle of the hall.

And it bursts out of me. I spin round and shout at my daughter: “How many times?! Put the bloody school bag away!” And I kick it out of the way.

She freezes. Eyes wide. She makes herself small, backs away – as if a blow were coming. And for a second I see myself. The same fright I knew as a child.

What was that? A school bag. And I lose it as if she had set the house on fire. When my reaction is so much bigger than the trigger, it is never about the trigger. That was not the grown woman. That was my inner child.

And what came out was anger. But anger is only the tip. The iceberg above the water. The bulk lies underneath, where nobody looks. Not even me.

So I dive. Under the anger. Down there I see myself as a little girl who wants to be seen. To belong. To matter.

That hurts so much that I don’t want to feel it. So my inner child turns the pain outwards. Fear becomes anger. “I am alone” becomes “put the bloody school bag away”.

Anger feels strong. Fear feels small. And small was the one thing I never wanted to be again. Anger is only a strategy. This armour has many faces. Sadness. Tears. Indifference. Smothering people with care. Humour. Arrogance. Control.

Whether I withdraw and suffer or shout at you – it comes to the same thing. I control the situation. And I make myself untouchable.

Because now I am the victim. And the victim is always right. Look how I am suffering – so I can’t have done anything wrong. No criticism gets through to me. And I don’t have to look at my own part in it either.

Anyone who suffers wants to be in the right.

My anger covers the grief – and I keep control. My complaining covers the fear of not being lovable – and I get attention. My great suffering covers the shame – and I force closeness and pity.

With it I cover up what nobody is allowed to see. Because as a child it was too dangerous. Too painful. Not allowed. I was sad. I looked for comfort. “Oh, don’t be like that.” I was hurt. Angry. I looked for protection. “Don’t be so stroppy.”

I was afraid. I didn’t dare. “Don’t make such a performance of it.” I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. “Don’t make such a fuss.” I was lonely. Helpless. “I’ll come later.” Nobody came.

Every time the same lesson. What I really feel is wrong. So I suppress it. I push it below the waterline. Down there it grows.

Until somebody sails into it and sets off the protective reaction. Anger. At the wrong person. Over a school bag.

And nobody sees what lies underneath. They see the angry woman – and they react to her. Nobody sees my pain. Not even me. So what wants to heal cannot heal.

Whenever I lose it – whenever the reaction is bigger than the trigger – that is my sign. I take a moment. I grab my DoD and dive under the iceberg. What is down there? What do I not want to feel?

I breathe. I grow calm. It is not about the school bag. Yes, it is annoying. But that is not why I go off like that. What did my inner child want in that moment? What did I really want? What disappointed me so much?

And then I hear my inner child.I want to be seen. I want somebody to be glad when I walk in. I want to be loved.Now I take my little one in my arms. I see you. I am here for you. I love you.

And together we look. My husband. My daughter. Busy. Distracted. But I know it now: they love us. Me and my inner child. We don’t have to fight for this love. It has been there all along. We are allowed to simply let it flow.

I go to my daughter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you.” I put my arms around her. I go to my husband. “Good to see you.” He takes my hand. And the ice melts.

The school bag was not the problem. A little girl inside me was, one who came home and wanted to be seen. Today I saw her. At last.

Armour H — I am the coolest one here

Barbecue. A good friend hums and haws, then comes out with it: he wants to hand in his notice. Do his own thing. A fashion label, sustainable, fairly produced. His eyes are shining.

I lean back and grin. “Seriously? You haven’t got a clue about fashion. There are far too many rag shops already. Better stick with your safe job on the building site. A sewing machine isn’t a cement mixer.”

A few people laugh. He doesn’t. His light goes out. I have landed the line of the evening. I feel big. Superior. Quick-witted.

Why him, though, of all people? He has done nothing to me. He was simply excited. Why do I have to switch that light off straight away?

I attack. I cut down, show up, drag down. I am the cool one who stands above it all. The wisecracker, the loudest one in the room.

And mostly I don’t even notice what I am doing. It happens fast, the line lands, everyone laughs. Next. But there is more behind it. With a line like that I am pushing something away.

And now I want to know exactly what. Because cutting people down isn’t simply nasty. It is armour. What am I protecting myself from?

My mate has something I don’t have. Not the fashion label. The courage. The courage to want something. Out loud, in front of everyone. The courage to make a fool of himself, to fail, to be laughed at – and to risk it anyway.

That is exactly what I don’t dare to do. He is holding up a mirror without knowing it. In his light I see everything I am not living. The dreams I have buried. The risk I never allowed myself.

That hurts. That mirror hurts like hell. And I have two options. I can look up at him – and feel tiny. Or I can drag him down to my level.

I choose the quick one. One line, and the mirror is smashed. He is as small as I am now. And I don’t have to feel the gap any more. Because there is a gap down there. A sense of self-worth that doesn’t hold.

Deep down I believe: I am not enough. I haven’t got what it takes. I never made anything of myself. I can’t bear that. So I need somebody who is below me. His fall lifts me. For a moment I am on top.

But only for a moment. The line fizzles out, the laughter dies away – and the pain of my small life stays. And I have plenty of masks to hide that gap.

I show off about my job, my title, my handbag. I drop in casually who I know and what I can afford. I know better about everything. I join in where I haven’t got a clue.

And the most important thing: I need nobody. Never show weakness. Never be dependent. I manage on my own.

It is all varnish. A shiny layer over the place where I feel small. The thinner the self-worth, the thicker the varnish.

I set myself a task. The next time I point at somebody and laugh at them, out comes my DoD. Think it through: what was I actually laughing at?

I open it. And there is a sentence I wrote in it a while ago.I consider it possible that I am wrong.Maybe I don’t always have to be the cool one.

Maybe the woman who stands above it all is really only standing up in the stands. In the cheap seats. Everybody can do something I can’t. Anyone who already knows everything learns nothing. Anyone who learns nothing doesn’t grow.

I look at what I was laughing at. And suddenly it is clear. I am not cutting down just anyone. I am cutting down the person who has what I lack. My mate’s courage. I would like some of that too.

My mockery is not a strength. It is a signpost. It doesn’t point at the other person. It points at me. At what I don’t dare to do. So I turn it round. No more dragging down. Looking. Learning.

Somebody put this perfectly more than a hundred years ago.

“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 man who is actually in the arena;

whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause;

who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.”

My mate is in the arena. I am sitting in the cheap seats, throwing lines. It is time I came down. Down to him. Right into the middle.

Next time I don’t switch his light off. I say: “Tell me more.” And maybe I tell him about my own dream, the one I mocked away for so long. That feels unsafe. Exposed. Naked.

Eight kinds of armour. And underneath every one of them lies the same thing. Fear. The fear of not being enough. Of being shut out. Of not belonging. My inner child learned it early. And it carries it to this day.

Somebody presses the button – an accusation, a look, a remark – and I hide behind my armour. Automatically. Before I think.

I fire back. Or I lose it. I stonewall, make myself invisible, polish everything to perfection, numb myself. I hit out before the other person can land one first. I pick my favourite piece of armour.

And yes – the armour keeps the blows out. But it keeps the people out too. I am safe. And alone.

That is the price. I don’t live with my whole heart. I hold back what I would have to contribute. I don’t dare to go into the arena. I never say: here I am. I am good enough.

And the people I love most don’t get me. They get the hard shell of my armour. But I have understood something: that isn’t me. I learned it. I had to learn it – back then, when I was small and had no choice.

I can’t change that any more. No different parents are going to turn up. No apology is going to be handed in late. And no man is going to heal me – that is not his job.

So I let go. I forgive. I stop arguing in my head and justifying myself. I let them drift, like clouds across the sky. And then? Do I simply take the armour off and show myself?

It isn’t that simple. Nobody takes off thirty years of armour in one evening. It goes step by step. Like a ladder. The easiest rung at the bottom. At the top, the one I am most afraid of.

There is an old sentence sitting inside me.If I show weakness, I will be rejected.I have believed it since I was small. But I have never tested it. I have only ever avoided it.

So I start at the bottom. I show my best friend one small weakness. Just one. And I watch what happens. The catastrophe doesn’t come. She doesn’t turn away. She comes closer.

The old sentence isn’t true. For the first time I have the proof. Next time it comes more easily. Until that rung feels normal. Then I climb one higher.

That is how the fear shrinks. Not because I fight it. But because every time I experience it: the old sentence is wrong.

And I don’t go through it in order to be brave. I go through it for something that means everything to me. For real closeness. For my family. For a life lived with my whole heart.

As long as I avoid it, the fear stays enormous. Only when I walk towards it – for what matters to me – does it get small.

All my life I have run from fear. And broken a lot in the process. And missed a lot. What I don’t dare to do, I don’t get to live. Today I don’t run any more. I walk through.

Anyone who can handle their fear builds something. A foundation of respect. For herself. For everyone.

No fear. Only respect.

It was me I was waiting for. I am good enough. And I’m doing really well.

My Light:

Spot 1 I break open my armour

Spot 2 I am not my mistakes

Spot 3 I am enough

Spot 4 I let you get close to me

Spot 5 I heal my inner child

Spot 6 I belong