How to know when you're stuck -- and what to do about it

When I was 21 and a recent college graduate, I packed some essentials into a newly purchased, used Toyota Corolla and drove to a city where I'd never been to try to find a job. I stayed with an accommodating alum of my college I'd found in a directory while I searched for an apartment and - after a series of temp jobs - eventually landed a job in media.

At the time, I didn't know what possessed me to start from scratch in a place that was sight unseen. There was just this visceral compulsion to leave what I knew. A suffocating part of me yearned to pull up my roots and place them in unfamiliar soil, even though it was bound to be hard. So I did.

My mother has always been a gardener, and she taught me how you can tell when a plant has outgrown its pot. The first sign is the plant seems stunted. When you water it, the liquid will run straight through to the holes at the pot's bottom. This means the plant has a condition called root bound. Searching for space, the roots wind themselves around and around the inside of the pot till there are more roots than soil. When you put a plant like that in a bigger pot with fresh soil, it wins some breathing room, absorbs water and gains nutrients. It springs up fast and lush.

The metaphorical lesson here is obvious: too long in the same small space can be limiting. True for plants, and true for people. Maybe that's why my mother, to her eternal credit, didn't bat an eye when I moved to Atlanta for no apparent reason. Maybe she knew I was root bound.

I have continued to uproot myself often over the years. I ended up moving to three different countries. I have worked in many different industries. And I have had success and failures in all of them (this is where I part ways with my metaphor - not all has been green and lush). My choices were often challenging and uncomfortable. Still, for me, change has always proved better than staying put whenever faced with a situation in which I have stopped growing. I am tired and uninspired when not learning or stretching, just like a root-bound Rex Begonia.

I don't think you have to move to a new place (or a new company or relationship) to find new soil. But something about your circumstances needs to expand so that you can, too. There has to be change.

I'm trying to do this right now with my life outside work, where there are hemmed-in parts of me (especially with my creative life) that need expansion. Then I read something Emilia Lopez, a colleague of mine, said in answer to a Hispanic Executive interviewer's question about her personal life:

"My biggest win is having a loving and respectful relationship with my husband after almost fourteen years together. We complement, cherish, and push each other in ways that make us better partners and better people. Recently, we decided to stretch our creative side by participating in a broad range of adventures: we have done pottery, painting, pyrography, archery lessons, and signed up for the challenge of walking 150 miles in National Parks over the summer—all things that we have never done before. Challenging myself in a situation where I can fail gives me perspective and courage to try different things professionally by applying a similar mind-set."

There are so many ways to uproot ourselves, and Emilia reminded me that one of the most powerful is to put ourselves in the role of beginner. If you are new to something, it sparks learning and stimulates growth that carries over into all facets of your life. It's a powerful way to change, made all the richer with a companion.

One of life's great paradoxes is that we are predisposed to fear the very changes we need. It's scary to try new things, even if they are the ultimate root of growth. Left unchecked, fear can make us root bound. It will convince us that it's safer to stay put, in space we know so well that we never know discomfort. But the comfort of the familiar is an illusion, because at the subterranean level of our soul, deeper parts of us are circling the walls of our self-imposed constraints, desperately seeking sustenance.

One way out of this conundrum is to separate the emotion of fear from the stories we attach to it. It's one thing to feel anxious. It's another to tell ourselves that means we're not ready for that next step, that we're not good enough, or that we're somehow unworthy of a great big pot with plenty of room to grow. Every wise person I've ever known has told me to separate the emotion from the narrative, because as Pema Chodron says, "Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth."

Fear doesn't mean we shouldn't change. It means we're onto something big within us. We need to listen to what that is and what it says about how we can expand into something more. So attend to any part of you that feels stuck (there probably is at least one if you chose to read this post). Mind the fear that typically comes on the tails of a desire for change. And when you've turned that fear into curiosity, ask what subterranean piece of you needs more space than it has. Give it breathing room with a step, however small, into something that is new.