The Courage to See and Be seen

This Is My True Story

Years ago, when asked about the secret of his success, actor Steve Martin said, “Become so good they can’t ignore you.” As soon as I heard this, I took it to heart. It became one of my go-to motivational quotes, serving as the driving force behind most of what I do every day. It never gets old.

Well, almost never.

You see, in the last few years, I’ve done much to make an impact, to get noticed. I endeavoured to become so good they (whoever ‘they’ are) wouldn’t be able to ignore me.

Anyway, as Bugs Bunny would no doubt point out, I must have taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque, because as I waited in line that wintery Friday morning, along with my 14-year-old son, Jason, I felt worse than ignored. I felt invisible.

Oddly enough, however, a part of me was okay with that. To be completely honest, while there, I wanted to avoid being recognized by anyone I knew. So, at that moment, invisibility wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Conversely, I had an intense longing to be seen by someone, anyone. I longed to be acknowledged for the value I could offer, but felt torn between this unfamiliar duality, those conflicting desires of anonymity and recognition. The dichotomy of the situation was unsettling, to say the least.

I vividly recall my whole being inwardly screaming, “I don’t belong here! Even though I don’t have a degree, I am well educated. I’m perfectly bilingual. I wrote ten books, for crying out loud! No, this makes no sense.”

Okay, I’ll admit, I was swallowing the little pride I had left, and it was choking me. The remnants of my ego were now in their final dying moments, jolting and jerking, kicking and screaming, as they slowly faded into oblivion. Nevertheless, there I stood, resolute and immovable, along with a dozen others that day who probably also thought they didn’t belong. Maybe they too felt invisible. Perhaps they, too, wanted to be seen.

Or did they?

As I looked at them and considered their demeanor and appearance, I wondered, “What sad story brought them here?” Standing there in line, I knew I was now part of that sad growing statistic of people in the last couple of years—those who just weren’t making it. Those who, as the saying goes, had more month at the end of their money. And what about Jason? Should I really have brought him along? Would this experience impart a valuable lesson, as I intended, or potentially traumatize him? Regardless, I needed to be here. I had little choice at this point. My family needed it. And yet, I felt… deeply ashamed.?

The questions rage in a situation like this, like black ominous birds pecking mercilessly at your soul. Have I done enough? Am I too picky? Should I have asked friends and family for more help? Am I a victim, an idiot, a loser, or just lazy? I thought, “Perhaps I’m all four.” Well, I knew I wasn’t lazy. There was at least that. After all, I had spent 18 years working full time as a postal worker, at a job I despised, no less. It was all for them, my family, that I had endured this long. Yet, despite upholding my sense of duty for nearly twenty years, when I hit my midlife stride, I made a bold decision. One that, although I don’t regret it, ultimately brought me here.

Back in 2019, I made the daring decision to relinquish job security and embrace the uncertainty of pursuing my bliss. I was going, against all odds, to become so good they wouldn’t ignore me. Was this a typical midlife delusion of grandeur? Based on my current perspective, I considered how some of my acquaintances might have been right. Perhaps this was simply, as they coined it, “a fool’s pursuit.” Or maybe I had been not just foolish, but selfish as well? Oh, well, regardless, I had opted to cash in my pension and fully commit to my goal of becoming a successful author and freelancer. My wife, Elisabeth, was also fully on board—well, back then, at least.

Anyway, my stark reality now was that, after three years of committed effort—during which I wrote and self-published six books, offered coaching services online, and developed digital courses—I was destitute and utterly bewildered by my predicament.

Despite everything, I can attest that I had thus far gained valuable insights from life's experiences. Some of these lessons, however, didn’t seem to align with this particularly rotten circumstance.

For one, my mom always taught me to be like herself: self-reliant. So, I heeded her advice. I prided myself on being autonomous and never being a burden to anyone.

Second, my mentors always said I should seek to give more than I take—that I should always aim to add value to people. So, I’ve applied myself to live out this motto as best I could. I endeavored to be considerate about the needs of others, to make myself valuable to people and society at large, and to give back as much as I could.

As far as my father is concerned, he served mostly as a cautionary tale. He and my mother divorced… twice. Yes, I know. That’s unusually pitiful, isn’t it? Moreover, he was unemployed and irresponsible for most of my upbringing. As a result, in my teens, resentful and disappointed, I promised myself I wouldn't become like him. While this thought slowly stabbed my mind, I glanced over at Jason once more. I knew I had now failed him—and myself. History, it seemed, was repeating itself.

As I beheld my son, he just stood there, next to me, observing the others silently, and then putting his head back down. “I'll need to tackle this in the car,” I reflected with more than a tinge of guilt, as the lady's voice interrupted my train of thought. “Next!” she said.

I approached the counter; she smiled kindly at me. I handed over my coupon. She looked at it, then looked up at me, confirming, “A family of five?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling uneasy.

She then turned her gaze towards Jason and inquired, “Do you like Gatorade?”

His countenance brightened as he eagerly replied, “Yes.”

“Gus!” she called out to the man behind her, “Can I get a five or six here?”

Gus, a tall gentleman with greying hair and a kind smile, came over pushing a shopping cart overflowing with groceries. “Where to?” he asked.

“Oh, to the white minivan outside,” I said, leading him to our twelve-year-old vehicle. He assisted me with getting everything inside and bid us a nice day.

????????? As we drove back home, Jason’s demeanour had changed somewhat. He now appeared to be okay, maybe even happy. Could it be? I proceeded cautiously, nonetheless, “Son, remember, this is just a temporary situation. Sometime in the future—soon—we’ll be able to give back to…”

“Dad,” he interrupted. “It’s okay. I mean, this is great! We got tons of food for the weekend. Mom will be thrilled. And I got Gatorade!” he said, holding the bottle up proudly and giving off a goofy smile, as if staring at a hidden camera behind me.

I couldn't help but chuckle at his youthful and enthusiastic attitude. Whether it was naivete or positivity, I’m not sure. But Jason reminded me of something really important that day. He reminded me to tackle life day by day, to be grateful for all blessings, no matter how small, and to keep my optimism intact, regardless of the circumstances.????????

This episode of my life happened roughly two years ago. I wish I could say that I'm flourishing now, and that those days are behind me. But alas, at 49, I’m still going through the ebbs and flows of this merciless recession, and the harsh reality of my being unemployed persists.

I’ve visited the food banks in my area multiple times since then. Every single time, it was a matter of necessity, not choice.

Contrary to the nagging feeling, however, I know I’m not alone. There are many more like me, each carrying the burden of their own frustrating chapter. The knowledge that their distinct voices and talents are seemingly unappreciated in a society with limited opportunities weighs heavily on each one. They are Canadians, like me, and like you, from far and wide, with their own hopes and dreams, burdens and pains, and families. I’ve seen their faces monthly, and I can only imagine their secret tears.

Mother Teresa once pointedly asked the well-to-do and the press in an interview, “Are you aware of the poverty-stricken people around you? Do you know them? Do you know your poor?”

????????? Well, after being counted as one of them for about two years, I can honestly say that I do know the poor around me. Better yet, I see them now. Most of them are regular people like you and me. They’re individuals who are simply experiencing an unwarranted season in their lives. They’re folks who are navigating the whims of fortune as best they can. And, contrary to popular belief, they’re not all newcomers, or uneducated, or lazy, or single parents. But, if this is what you think, I get it. I used to have my own biases, too. Then I learned the hard way that the needy are like the fabric of our very nation, an amalgam of diversity and all walks of life. The poor are simply a microcosm of our beautiful country; a varied and living tapestry of individuals whose unique giftedness often goes unseen, unsung, and uncelebrated.

????????? There’s a popular aphorism in the field of personal development that goes, “Failing doesn’t make you a failure.” Therein lies the challenge, doesn’t it? For those who, like me, visit food banks once a month, the challenge is to keep your chin up and your head held high despite the overwhelming feeling of shame one can experience. The challenge is to keep believing that this too shall pass, that the sun will come up tomorrow, and that my present circumstances do not determine my worth. Indeed, the real challenge is to remain steadfast in the belief that failing does not make me a failure.

????????? So, to my beloved wife and children, if you’re reading this, I want to reaffirm: Someday, it will be our turn. We’ll be the ones giving back and helping those in need in our community. We’ll be first in line to do so. For we know the poor in our midst, and we’re all the better for it.

And to all of those who, like me, are standing in line monthly and yet stand strong, to all of those whose worth far exceeds the weight of their disenchantment—I see you. I recognize your plight and I honor your bravery to be seen in these less-than-enviable circumstances.

Popular author and speaker, Brene Brown, put it this way: “Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen.”

So, while I am just one among many who see you, hopefully, I’m not the only one. Chin up. Keep believing that someday—soon—the darkness will cease, the sun will come up, and it will be your turn. And when that day comes when you are counted, just be sure to make it count.