Summary of Carry On, Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life - Book Summary (2016)

Part I. WAKING UP

Chapter 3. On Writing and Dancing

A friend recently told me that she’d love to write but doesn’t because she’s not any good at it. I have some thoughts about that.

When I got sober, I dreaded weddings. I was so terrified of weddings that I cried upon receiving invitations. At the weddings I had to attend, I sat straight up in my chair and fake-smiled at the dancing people and prayed that no one would invite me to the dance floor. I tried to look very busy chewing my gum or reapplying lip gloss, and I made many, many unnecessary trips to the ladies’ room. The dance floor, sober, was a terrifying place to be avoided at all costs.

During my festive days, I was the first and last one on the dance floor. Thirteen glasses of chardonnay doesn’t make a girl confident and sexy, but it sure makes a girl think she’s confident and sexy. Sober, though, I was too self-conscious to dance. Dancing at a wedding is like being naked out there in plain sight. It’s like a confidence test. And people dance in groups, so it’s also a belonging test. It’s also, let’s face it, a dancing test. I have never been an expert at feeling secure, belonging, or dancing. Also, watching other couples lose their inhibitions and just let go with each other made me feel sorry for myself and Craig. I felt like we were missing something important as a couple—like we couldn’t really experience fun together. It all made me feel loserish and claustrophobic in my own skin.

At my cousin Natalia’s wedding a few years ago, I sat alone at my table, smiling at the couples flirting and pulling each other onto the dance floor. I felt sad for myself. I thought about how much I missed drinking. Then I made myself think a little harder. And it became clear what I was missing wasn’t really the drinking, it was the dancing, and nobody was keeping me from dancing. So I stood up and joined Sister and Husband and all of my cousins on the dance floor.

✵ ✵ ✵

That night, I danced like I’d never danced before. Wildly, horribly, embarrassingly, relentlessly. Sister and Husband understood this to be the breakthrough spiritual experience that it was, so they stayed close, which was helpful. I danced for three hours straight. My hair became a rat’s nest, I got sweat stains all over my dress, and I almost broke my ankles twice because I refused to take off my stilettos. Despite Sister’s efforts, there were still many of those terrifying moments in which I found myself alone because the dancing circles had closed without me. So I had to awkwardly push my way back into a circle or just close my eyes and sway as if I was so lost in the music that I didn’t care that I was alone. Like I wanted to be alone, anyway, because I was having a moment. Sometimes we have to do that. But I kept dancing, as a gift to myself.

I didn’t dance because I was good at it; I did it because I wanted to. Because nobody else can dance for me, no matter how “good” she is. If I feel a yearning to dance, then I’m going to dance. It’s not about whether I’m good or secure or I belong. Here’s my hunch: nobody’s secure, and nobody feels like she completely belongs. Those insecurities are just job hazards of being human. But some people dance anyway, and those people have more fun. On my deathbed, I’m not going to wish I had danced like JLo; I’m just going to wish I had danced more.

The night I first danced sober was one of the most important nights of my life. “Dancing sober” is what I try to do every day. Dancing sober is what I do when I write. I just try to be myself—messy, clumsy, crutchless. Dancing sober is just honest, passionate living.

If, anywhere in your soul, you feel the desire to write, please write. Write as a gift to yourself and others. Everyone has a story to tell. Writing is not about creating tidy paragraphs that sound lovely or choosing the “right” words. It’s just about noticing who you are and noticing life and sharing what you notice. When you write your truth, it is a love offering to the world because it helps us feel braver and less alone. And if you’re a really, really bad writer, then it might be most important for you to write because your writing might free other really, really bad writers to have a go at it anyway. Kind of like how watching Sister’s confusing lurching on the dance floor finally got me out of my seat at my cousin’s wedding. Because I thought, Well, if she’s allowed to keep dancing, certainly no one’s going to call me out.

If you feel something calling you to dance or write or paint or sing, please refuse to worry about whether you’re good enough. Just do it. Be generous. Offer a gift to the world that no one else can offer: yourself.