Welcome to Part 2! Please read Part 1 first if you need to catch up. Also, one small edit: Awaken was actually four days instead of two—haha foggy brain amirite. Thanks to Janet for pointing that out! Now let’s continue…
Day two of the Awaken training was upon us. But before we dig in to that Friday, let’s go back to that second exercise on day one.
We all separated into rotating groups of four. One person would stand before their group. The remaining three would take turns approaching the standing person and give them feedback by saying, “I experience you as…”
This was still an exercise in Being Called Out, but now everyone got to practice giving and receiving honest feedback. I usually struggle with giving people critical feedback when it comes to their character, but the nature of the training made it easier. I dished out, “I experience you as brave” as easily as, “I experience you as a clown” (yes I actually said that to someone and we came out of the training as good friends).
My own cluster of feedback was surprising. The descriptions I received the most were “intelligent,” “confident,” “intimidating,” “hidden”… and “sad.” I was dumbfounded because none of them said I was funny.
Now, I don’t think I’m the most hilarious comedy solo act ever by any means, but I felt like humor was core to who I was. Looking back on how I’d shown up in this training, though, I hadn’t actually brought that part of me into the room. I had arrived exuding confidence and friendliness.
This exercise showed me two things: where my inner and outer worlds were disconnected, and what my relationship to the words I was given was.
Being called intelligent, hidden, and sad ironically made me feel seen. For the longest time I didn’t believe people who called me smart because I’d received the opposite message as an adolescent. I’d also been the “funny one,” often being told that being sad wasn’t me so I should stop. And yet these strangers, on day one, could see right through parts of my façade.
I was starting to realize that for me, it wasn’t really about creative confidence. It was about…
… It was about time for more work. When we entered the room that Friday, the lights were off. We’d barely spread out and sat down on the floor when Nathan explained that we were on a sinking ship, and there was only one lifeboat for two people. Each of us would have 30 seconds to stand up and make our case for a spot. Then all 20ish of us had to figure out who the chosen ones would be.
We were all flabbergasted by the prompt, but already people were standing up, ready to plead for their life… or not. The first person to stand claimed that she’d like to give up her seat because she’d lived a good life. She hoped someone else would honor that sacrifice and go after their ambitions with their second chance at life. Others said similar things, though a few argued for their shot at that second life.
It was surprising to see the spectrum of selflessness and selfishness play out before me. I had assumed everyone would want to live. My immediate reaction to Nathan’s prompt was that I was going to fight for my life. I wanted to survive, desperately. This was no time to be a saint. And no one was going to make me feel guilty about that.
I used my 30 seconds to say my name, that I would get on the boat because I was committed to doing great things, and I wasn’t done. I still had so much to live for, and I was just as worthy as anyone else on the ship to be on that boat.
After everyone had made their case (or non-case), we had to unanimously decide on a method to pick which two people would be on the lifeboat. Some folks argued that people who had children should be put at the front of the line. I called for drawing straws, arguing that no one’s life was worth more than anyone else’s. Eventually, we found an in between that gave each person decisive control: We each would get two popsicle sticks. We could give them once to anyone, including ourselves.
Nathan mandated that we stand in a circle, which we’d take turns going around. We’d face each person, and say their name and either, “I choose you,” or “I don’t choose you.” I observed people crying, apologizing, and hugging each other as they offered or denied someone a popsicle stick.
When it was my turn, I offered one of mine to a man I saw as a kindred spirit—he had creative aspirations and was modest and sincere. I wanted him to live long enough to succeed.
As for myself, I knew I would have at least one stick a la moi. But I was unsure if anyone else would choose me. Had I sounded too selfish? Had I held back until this moment, and now it was too late to get enough votes?
In the end, I received three sticks—two from others, and one from myself. One guy gave me a stick because I reminded him of his family. The other gave me a stick because he saw me as someone who took her responsibilities seriously. He was confident I would keep my word to share everyone’s stories in their memory.
We tallied up the votes. The man I’d given a stick to got first place. I tied for second place with another woman. You’d think the three of us could merrily squeeze on the imaginary lifeboat, but Nathan decided only the man would go on in the event of a tie.
It was a strange and frustrating feeling to realize how close I’d come. Part of those emotions were because I can get competitive, but the other part was a frustration at myself. Was this the summation of my interactions with people? Had I hidden myself away, and this was the metaphorical cost?
Nathan gave us a definite answer: yes. He asked the people who had given up their seat why they thought they had a right to do so. “It was never your seat to give up,” he explained. “The way you show up in this room is the way you show up in life. You had a chance, a major opportunity, and you didn’t take it. You made excuses instead. You didn’t choose yourself. You took yourself out entirely.”
It wasn’t actually about creative confidence, it was about…
We took a break again. Just like the day before, everyone was in a contemplative mood. Two people came up to me, almost cautiously.
“Dang Mai, you were ice cold in there!” They explained that when I had told them I didn’t choose them, they were hurt. Not because I didn’t choose them—that was understandable—but because I seemed indifferent when I said it. As if I hadn’t been spending an incredibly intense, heart-opening past day and a half with them.
It was true. Why had I done that? While others were pouring their hearts out to each other as they said their pretend goodbyes, I had looked at people I had joked and laughed with earlier that day and expressionlessly told them I didn’t choose them.
I thought back to my personal relationships. Moments when I could’ve been open about my feelings but put up a wall. There was that time a classmate I admired showed up at my karate school and I ignored her. There was the time a boyfriend had broken up with me, and when I simply said “okay” and opened the car door to leave, he responded in dismay, “This is what I’m talking about.” And a time when a coworker-turned-friend confided in me years later that when he first met me, he felt like he wanted more of me, like I was holding back. And most recently with that dramatic heartbreak, I had kept my growing feelings to myself only to end up cradling the pieces when I’d overinvested.
I was hiding myself away. That classmate thought I was stuck up. That ex-boyfriend thought I was unreachable. That coworker was one of few who had the patience to see my potential. That heartbreak was completely avoidable. All those times, I thought I was protecting my inner world, but I was actually hurting others, and in turn, myself. As MySpace lyric-y it sounded, it was true.
It wasn’t actually about creative confidence. For me, it was really about true intimacy—letting people in when I had the most to lose.
To be open is to accept the inevitability of being misunderstood and rejected. To be open is to bravely be yourself—shadows included. To be open is to let yourself be seen, even if it’s messy.
I made a decision on day two to be more open with the people around me. And by the last day of Awaken, my grand speech about making a game and being a creative leader had transformed into conversations about vulnerability. I let people in about that heartbreak, how I hadn’t been honest with this person, and how I had hurt myself in the process. As people smiled and their gazes softened (Nathan included!), I felt myself become known.
In the months after the training, I brought a team together to make Hearthome, a game about a Girl and her Heart on their quest for a Home. We got as far as a prototype. The moral of that story was that the Home existed within the Girl the whole time. No need to look any further.
That not-so-small step I took to make a game allowed me to participate in a game jam the following year. I made a full working game called Fýri with five other openly brave and talented people. It was its own beautiful story. I couldn’t have foreseen that getting my heart smashed into smithereens would’ve led me there, but I’m grateful.
Every day after Awaken has been an unlearning of barriers and a relearning of bravery. Bravery isn’t showing up with armor and shields; it’s being willing to show the battle scars.
And the great (and scary!) thing is, I get to try that every day. We all do. Hopefully next time Saturn returns, I’ll have had enough practice so that I can dance through the transformations with open arms.
—Mai
So ends our January One-Hit Wonder stories. I hope you enjoyed reading these. Be brave, be curious, believe.
(And play Fýri for free.)
Thank you for reading! ‘Til next Friday.