Mantras Swirling in My Mind
Just Do it
We Can Do Hard Things
La Vida Es Dolor
We’re Gonna Bring The Blood and Pain
Believe
What are the words and phrases I repeat, either out loud, in my mind or in a whisper, under my breath? Too often, “Are you f*cking kidding me?” is my go-to under-my-breath phrase.
But a mantra should: motivate, ground, inspire, remind, encourage. Shouldn’t it? Unfortunately, I’m not much of an “oooooohhhhmmmmmm namaste” type of gal - just ask my friends who recently encouraged me to take a gentle yoga class with them. As I struggle to stretch my aging body and try to remember to breathe, rather than Just Do It, the words most likely to pop into my mind are “Are you f*cking kidding me?”
Breathe In: Are. You.
Breathe Out: F*cking. Kidding. Me.
In the “before times” (pre-pandemic), I would have said I leaned unequivocally toward optimist. I believed in people and our capacity for good. I knew that love and hard work always paid off and that love + thoughtful action would 100% result in my family’s happiness. (Are you f*cking kidding me?)
Have I become a cynic, battered and bruised by the havoc the pandemic wrought on my family? I still believe that my powerful connections with friends and family ground my healing process and are key to reclamation of joyful community. While I no longer expect that everything will turn out alright, I do believe that We Can Do Hard Things.
Our group at women’s camp donated a small sum to the YMCA to install a brick in front of the dining hall inscribed with our message: We Can Do Hard Things. This phrase has achieved some popularity in the mothering & self help communities I’m a part of; I first encountered it via Glennon Doyle. We Can Do Hard Things offers a cheer of encouragement for beleaguered mamas everywhere who are exhausted, questioning their parenting decisions, and pushing against stifling (patriarchal) notions of womanhood and mothering. We do our best when we look each other in the eye, and say to ourselves and each other We Can Do Hard Things. We inscribe the phrase on bricks to give the mantra solidity and permanence. Given my radical feminist personality, my next likely move would be to use that brick to smash the glass ceiling, but I should probably remind myself that we can also build something beautiful together, brick by brick.
My daughter’s roller derby team shouted We’re gonna bring the blood and pain as they stomped their skates and huddled with arms linked around their teammates in a rousing pre-game cheer. This mantra invokes boldness, confidence and a fierce, competitive drive that I delighted in seeing in teen girl athletes. I stand by my enthusiasm for this phrase. Period.
La Vida es Dolor (Life is Pain) reminds me that I need to practice radical acceptance in my life. When I’m compelled to ask “Why me? Why my family?” in the face of deeply painful medical and mental health challenges, I remember this mantra so that I can radically accept the things - and people - I cannot change (while also taking steps, as best I can, to find and generate support for myself and the people I love). I can trace one contemporary use of the phrase La Vida es Dolor to my current obsession, the delightful Queer pirate show, Our Flag Means Death. The phrase emboldens my inner bad ass pirate queen; she is a person who brings the blood and pain.
I chose Believe as my key word for 2024. Believe pushes me to reclaim the optimism that I used to come by naturally. Believe feels like the right mantra for me in this moment because it reminds me of super positive Coach Lasso, who uses it to motivate his soccer team on Ted Lasso, a television show that got me through some of my darkest moments of the pandemic. Since Ted is a TV character, I’ll have to rely on myself to deliver the perfect inspirational locker room speech to myself when I find myself in those “are you f*cking kidding me” moments:
I will just do it.
I can do hard things.
I understand that life is pain.
I bring the blood and pain (as needed).
I believe.
C
Cosplaying as Coach Beard from Ted Lasso
