Flailing Upward

Flailing gets a bad rap, but should it?

Years ago, when I was 24, I almost died on a river in Colorado. Or in it, more specifically. Our raft upended and I’d been swept over a waterfall, then up against an undercut rock, the current sucking me down against the boulder’s slick surface.

Panic doesn’t begin to describe it. I wasn’t ready to go.

So, I flailed.

With every ounce of energy I had, I scrabbled my hands and legs at that rock, casting around for something—anything—that would break me free. Eventually, I moved enough in the right direction, and popped up at the surface, gulping for air, and newly aware of how quickly things can change.

I survived because I flailed—with intention, but also with urgency and abandon—and it worked.

Socialized not to flail from an early age

Too many of us spend our lives performing a role.

We follow established ladders to career and relationship success, measure ourselves and each other along the way. We take pains not to ask for too much too quickly, or to jump ahead and skip steps.

Why?

We don’t want to fail, sure. But failing breeds learning, we all know that by now.

More to the point, we don’t want to be seen as failures

To be seen as ridiculous, a try-hard, doing too much, straying outside our lane… there are so many ways to call someone out for simply trying their best, and not nailing it immediately. It’s part of why Imposter Syndrome affects 75% of women in business.

But here’s the thing: If you never risk “posing,” then you never try anything unexpected. And if you never try anything unexpected, then you’ll never get exciting results.

Even our struggles are meant to fit a certain mold

We’ve been so thoroughly socialized to maintain decorum: to stay “mindful and demure.” Grief should follow a certain format. Upset about a divorce? Put on a brave face—everybody loves a comeback story. Fail to conform, and you will quickly find your means of support, and your social circles falling away.

Which is heartbreaking, really, because that posturing gets in the way of getting real help—cutting off authentic connections before they begin, nipping potential opportunities in the bud; not to mention wasting precious energy on keeping up appearance.

Who assigned these prescribed ways of being, anyway? These codes of conduct? Who gets to decide what we’re capable of, what we should focus on, when, and how we should interact with the world?

I guess the first place I’d look is… who benefits?