6 weeks later…How ya’ll doin’?

I’m not sure about you but this is not what I thought I would feel like 6 weeks later. I thought Fear Experiment would make me fearless, a savage fear conquistador, a boldly silent hero of the war on fear…you know…basically cooler than the dos equis guy.

Instead I have felt more fear, more intensely, than any other time in my life. It is the kind of fear that sits high on your chest, balancing in between your collarbones, taunting you to swallow or to sing. And it has been brilliant.

After years of self-diagnosed anxiety (thank you webmd), it is a privilege to actually feel fear instead of just worrying about feeling fear. Anxiety can only be explained as severe constipation of the fearful heart. And Fear Experiment was like the ultimate laxative.

Here is the short list of things I have been afraid of in the past 6 weeks: a trip to the dentist, riding a bike down Ravenswood, a first date, applying to a kick ass job, wearing a skirt without pantyhose, admitting I want to write a book, talking about my emotions and stuff in front of strangers, ordering the spicy tom yum, writing something personal and possibly embarrassing, applying for PhD programs.

The thing I learned the past six weeks is that Fear Experiment is not about conquering your fears. It is about taking a step forward with your fear; it is about recognizing that fear is part of that step; and it a weird way it is about thanking fear for giving you something to fight against.

And while I’m thanking my fear I would also like to thank:

CC for dancing in the air suspended only by ribbon.

Saya for quitting the “day job” so she can scare the shit out of more people.

Pete for proposing to that brave girl instead of farting.

My Jump4Joy team for making me run and not laughing at my blue and yellow snot.

Mama Lew for letting a girl cry into her vodka soda.

Amy and Derek for being the best version of 1+1=2

Everyone who shared a bottle of wine with me in the past 6 weeks, who talked about the ridiculousness of online dating and tiger tattoos, or who just shared, commented or liked a Facebook post.

I hope the world for all of you is still as bright and stingingly sharp as it was on April 29^th.

May you never be fear-less but always heart-full!

A Letter to my Fellow Fear Experimenters

Before we go onstage tonight, I would like to tell you all this:

You are inspiringly courageous.

You are softly strong.

You are gorgeously empathetic.

You are imperfectly beautiful.

You are simply lovely.

And you are going to rock it tonight. This is how I know:

Being a gigantic nerd, not only did I join Fear Experiment to learn about fear first hand, I also bought three books on Amazon and researched the shit about fear, why we feel it, and how we deal with it. I know I’m that girl.

The thing that kept coming up over and over again was how essential fear is to life. If you are alive, you feel fear. One of my favorite books—literally called The Dance of Fear—says this:

“If you are never fearful, you may also have trouble feeling compassion, deep curiosity, or joy. Fear may not be fun, but it signals that we are fully alive.”

This is how I know you are going to rock it. Because you choose to take this journey, you did something scary to feel alive, you showed up. And that is effin’ awesome.

The entire first month I lived abroad in Argentina, I cried. I was lonely, confused, and afraid I had made the wrong choice. My mom sent me this quote/prayer:

“May today there be peace within. May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others. May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content with yourself just the way you are. Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise, and love.”

This quote has turned up randomly in my life when I most needed it. Once on the mirror at a yoga studio. Once in a book about love. Once at a church service. This week I have been reminding myself of this quote every morning and the one line that sticks out most for me is “May you not forget the INFINITE possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others.”

If there is an opposite of fear, it may not be bravery or even courage—it may be faith. Faith that our fellow Fear Experimenters will catch us, that they will say “yes and.” Faith that the audience will accept our mistakes and awkward pauses along with our sweet moves and funny one-liners. Faith that whatever that stage brings us, we will make it shine.

Go own it, beautiful people! I have mountains of faith in you all!

Niki

Niki: Dance: Dress Rehearsal and Reality

I can only describe dress rehearsal as rough: both physically rough (my body has been dancing for almost a week straight and my inner thighs went numb about 3 days ago) and emotionally rough (from the non-dance-related stress of crazy work to the wearisome worries of tickets, overnight guests and not publically humiliating myself). The reality of dancing on stage in front of 700 people is rough.

It was the kind of rough that just brings tears to your exhausted blurry eyes. The kind of rough that demands a good cry, a deep breath and an exhale of faith. The kind of rough that gives you the kind of growth you’ve been craving. A rough that helps you suddenly understand “growing pains.”

And it was a rough that made me remember why I joined Fear Experiment in the first place.

Last week DE Dancer (one of Chicago’s most eligible bachelors ;)) Matthew Lew had all the dancers circle up after a particularly exhausting and draining practice. We must have looked a bit defeated and the ever-encouraging Matthew wanted to give us a boost to get us through the next two weeks. He asked us to all tell the group (and remind themselves) why we chose to do Fear Experiment.

Between nursing bruised knees and mastering the body roll, a lot of us have gotten “lost in the details.” We are so focused conquering the steps that we have forgotten the fears we came here to conquer in the first place. From expanding our social circles to taking time for ourselves to loving our bodies again, I related to a lot of what my fellow dancers had to say.

But as for my personal reasons for choosing Fear Experiment those were a bit harder to summarize in front of my 20 new friends. Despite my relative ease in social settings, I am forever a bundle of nerves and anxiety when it comes to performing, especially performances that can’t be edited or spell-checked.

It has taken me a few weeks of mulling to understand why I chose this journey.

My mother always says I always take the more difficult path even if the easier one is the right one. For the most part she is right. I’m in constant pursuit of self-improvement, the best example of which is my yearly NYE “theme.”

Instead of resolutions, each NYE I think of a theme for the year; my 2011 theme was courage. I “courageously” signed up for Fear Experiment honestly thinking I wouldn’t be selected; thinking I was too “normal” to be chosen. Or to be even more honest, I thought I was too “normal” to bring anything of value to a group of brave people.

And then I got the email that tested my courage of 2011 and swung me full steam ahead into 2012: the year of patience. Still riding on the high of the year of courage, Fear Experiment more than anything else has been about learning patience with myself. It has been about saying kinder things to myself. It has been about forgiving my own mistakes. It has been about realizing that I have something to give.

But more than all of that, more than courage and more than patience, Fear Experiment has been about that stage. It has been about putting myself, Justin Bieber hair and all, on stage and saying this is me. It is about believing that me is worth being on stage with 19 other amazing people, that me is worth 750 people cheering, supporting and loving me, that me is enough.

2011 was courage, 2012 patience, and the future may just be realizing that I don’t need a yearly theme to better myself because myself is pretty damn great as it is.

Inspiration from our fearless leader, CC:

quote of the day, from Editor In Chief of Cosmopolitan Magazine:

“People think chutzpah is in the genes. It isn’t.. it’s in the needing and wanting and being willing to fall on your face. It isn’t fun.. who wants all that rejection, but life is sweeter if you make yourself do uncomfortable things.” – Helen Gurley Brown

i am just overflowing with respect for all of you. You should be so excited for, and proud of, yourselves!

Ruthie: Improv and the NO APOLOGIZING

When I was growing up, I would make videos with my little brothers. One in particular that stands out: my brother Danny with a pom pom on his head (to represent my hair), standing in front of a make-shift soccer goal in our basement, and blocking goals, yelling “I’m sorry” every time he touched the ball.

He had me pegged, that observant little bugger. I was a soccer goalie on my school’s team, and I’d dive for a ball—”I’m sorry!”—or accidentally knock someone on the field—”I’m sorry!” It was constant. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. (Needless to say, I am not now a professional goalkeeper.)

That constant need to apologize hasn’t really left me, even as an adult. I often don’t even notice myself saying it anymore. Friends tell me to stop (“why are you apologizing?”), my fiancé gives me a look whenever “sorry” sneaks out—even my yoga teacher noticed that I apologized every time I couldn’t quite get a particular move right: “Your assignment for the next two weeks: don’t apologize.” Hmmm. Good luck with that. I’m resigned to a life of using “I’m sorry” whenever a situation where I’m uncomfortable arises.

Last night at improv, Teacher Pete was wondering about our low energy after a particularly challenging game. Called Complaint Department, one person was a shopkeeper and the other was returning an object they’d bought from the store. The catch: only the shopkeeper (and the audience) knows what the object is. She’s supposed to give clues—if the object is fruitcake, for instance, the shopkeeper might say, “Why you RAISIN such a ruckus about this, lady?” (I can’t take credit for that one: that goes to Colleen.) It’s all about giving silly/stupid, punny clues that the other person onstage may or may not get, but the audience loves.

We were having trouble getting to that pun area—we were trying so hard to guess the object, or help the other person guess, that we sometimes lost our way. And during the scene or afterward, even if we weren’t outright saying it, we were (in our facial expressions or attitudes) apologizing for the things that we said or did. They’re not funny enough, we thought, or this is taking too long!

Whatever you do onstage, own it, Pete reminded us. Don’t apologize for anything you say or do—just make it into a part of the scene.

After class, I asked him whether doing improv could help me stop apologizing. He considered it for a second, and said, well, if you’re apologizing because you’re just a generally considerate person, improv—which teaches you to be extra-thoughtful toward the people onstage with you, so that you’re all working together and creating a world that the audience enjoys and understands—might make you apologize more.

But what if I apologize all the time because I feel like I’m doing something wrong? I asked.

Oh yeah, Pete said. Improv can help you stop thinking so hard about what you’re doing “wrong”—there’s really no such thing as “wrong” in improv, as long as you make it your own.

Despite what I said above about resigning myself, I’m going to try so, so hard for the next month to not apologize. To just own everything I do, in improv and in life. But just for one last hurrah, I’ll leave you with this.

Niki: Week 8, Ticket Anxiety and New Fears

When I did the Fear Project with the kids at Marconi, I was amazed and a little humbled at how open and vulnerable some of the kids were able to be. I remember middle school as a time when you threw on your Tommy Hilfiger ensemble like a giant, expensive, yuppie mask and never ever admitted that you were anything less than totally chill and cool. But some of the kids at Marconi, with a little encouragement from Ms. Saya, got beyond their cool masks. I was particularly impressed by Kristian’s fear to be “alone.” (full disclosure: I may be a little biased since he is my pen pal.)

Up until this point, I had thought my biggest fear would be failing (or falling or both) in front of 750 people. But after realizing slowly that my biggest supporters wouldn’t be able to make the show, I began to realize there was something worse than failing in front of 750 people—it was not having anyone in those 750 people that would cheer you back up. It was being alone.

It has been a perfect storm of coincidences and busy life schedules that left me without a cheering section. My parents are down in Florida, wintering and enjoying retirement. My family in the city is expecting the first grandbaby of the family the day before the show. My bestie recently moved to Philly to pursue her DOA and will be in the middle of finals during the performance. But perhaps the biggest kicker: April 28 is my very dear friend’s birthday, a fact my muddled and perhaps overexcited mind forgot when I signed up and started trying to recruit people. And thus my college friends cheering section is gone.

I think in a way this is the universe’s way of saying, you wanted scary, I’ll give you scary. And so I had to deal with the idea of being alone, something I’ve always told myself I’m quite good at. But after more than one sleepless night thinking about being alone on that stage, I realized, maybe I couldn’t do this alone. As much as I wanted to pretend I was fine without my cheering section, I wasn’t. I needed the support. I can’t do this alone.

And so I had to face my next great fear of Fear Experiment: asking for help.

I e-mailed my coublings (cousin-siblings), who live in Minnesota, and basically begged for them to come. It is a seven-hour drive plus possibly taking time off work. It is a hassle, and if there is one thing good Midwestern folk don’t like is being a hassle or a burden. But I needed them, so I asked. It was not an easy e-mail to send or an easy response to wait for. Luckily, there was a quick yes.

The relief, gratitude, and genuine love I felt with their response was perhaps one of the best feelings throughout this whole experiment. That feeling, the feeling that you have people in your life who love and support you enough to drive seven hours after a long work week just because you ask, that feeling is priceless (or, more accurately, it is $48 and a few bottles of wine—the extra incentive I threw in for my coublings—and worth every penny.)

I think/hope I’m learning that with fear you can turn away, put on your mask, and pretend you are not afraid, or you can be truly brave, like the kids at Marconi, and declare your fear, ask for help, and hopefully get some loved ones to share your fear so it is not so damn heavy.

So what are you really afraid of? A lot of us are afraid of the stage but why exactly? Failure? Success? Mediocrity? Write what you are really afraid of on a sign and take your picture with your fear. Then send it to me at nrfritz@gmail.com for the Fear Project video.

We’re also arranging a little IE/FE get-together and Fear Project art time!

Where: Four Moons

When: Sunday, April 1, at 6:30 p.m. before classes!

What: Food/drinks/time to create a sign with your fear and let me snap a quick picture for the video!

See you all next Sunday!

Niki: Week 6 and the Fear Project

I’ve spent the past three years in Chicago simultaneously loving and hating, criticizing and coveting, exalting and diminishing the Tribune’s RedEye. The truth I was not willing to admit over my conflicted three-year journey: I wanted a column in that stupid frickin’ 20-page free paper so bad, but I was terrified of what people would think, terrified that they would hate my writing, terrified they would reject me.

I was afraid of not being good enough.

And then I started Dance Experiment. And I realized what it really meant to not be “good enough,” to literally stumble and misstep and make tangible mistakes.  And I realized it was not the mistakes I was afraid of, but how people perceived me because of these mistakes. It seems like a fine line, but I was not afraid of not being good enough, I was afraid others would think I wasn’t good enough.

This fear was so visceral I could feel it electrifying my skin, like it was rising to the surface from my core. And I let it. I let the fear come up through my skin and out. I vocalized my fear to anyone who would listen; I told my friends and dancemates about it, I blogged about it, and I admitted it to myself. I was afraid.

And suddenly with that recognition (and the confirmation from 19 other people that fear is normal), I e-mailed the editor at the RedEye and pitched an idea.

Three weeks later, this happened.

And it felt amazing. It was not that I stopped fearing what others would think during the entire writing, editing, and publishing process; I just didn’t let it stop me this time. You never “conquer” fear; you just let it come along for the ride with you.

I think one of the most powerful things about Fear Experiment is not just feeling the fear but vocalizing the fear and sharing the fear. I think that when we share it—and realize how normal we are—the fear stops owning us. I think what we are probably most afraid of is that we aren’t normal, that we don’t belong, that we are not good enough to be a friend, S.O., sister, daughter, writer, dancer, human being.

But the truth is, we all have fear. And if we share our fear, our imperfections, our struggles they can unite us more than any other common interests.

Taking inspiration from one of my favorite blogs, Brené Brown’s Ordinary Courage, I’ve decided to create an “I’m Terrified Too” iMovie, inspired by the Perfection Protest video Brown created last year. The idea is to put all of our fears out there and get rid of this idea that we should be “fearless.”

Want to vocalize your fears and contribute to the project?! I know you do!

All you have to do is get a piece of paper and write, draw, sketch what you are afraid of, what you fear. Take a picture with yourself and the piece of paper, and send it to me at nrfritz@gmail.com. I think a combined group bar bonding experience will probably be in order for sometime in the next few weeks, and I will bring supplies as well.

Feel free to be silly or serious. The Marconi kids already did the project and offer some great examples of what they are afraid of. Some of their honesty about their fears was so impressive. It made me really dig deep to discover what my real fears are. Check out the photos below.

 

On a side note, if you don’t want to participate in the slideshow but want to share your fear, I think it is a super-healthy awesome practice to do. I know by sharing with my fellow DEers, I already feel way less crazy and way more connected. So feel free to also comment your fears on this post!

Hope you all are having a courageous week!

Dance: Shar and the Other Fear

I think when the group heard that Shar, one of the lovely dancers of DE3, had studied dance in college and was, for all our novice concerns, a “real” dancer, there was a collective intake of shocked air followed by an exhale of  “whaaaaat?!” We thought we were all newbies, neophytes to this crazy body-rolling world. The presence of a professional threw off our sense of security that we would all be sucking together. And more than one of us were wondering, “If she is a dancer, then what is so scary about this Dance Experiment?”

So one night after an exhausting practice and gorgeously soothing IPA at Four Moons, I asked Shar why she had joined Dance Experiment despite her past skills. Her answer points to something I think we often overlook in Fear Experiment: Fear Experiment is about more than stage fright; it is also about overcoming social anxieties, big and small, with a healthy dose of personal growth. With that, I turn it over to Shar.—Niki

I prefer the term “Shar, the failed dancer.”

I started dancing very late in my teens taking one class a year in high school.

Somehow, in my senior year, a dance teacher talked me into auditioning for the dance program at the university I chose to go to (she was an alum). Really, I don’t know how I got into the program because I really only had two full years of dance training. I honestly think it was connections that I didn’t realize I had.

The first day, I met the other girls in my program, and I knew right then and there that I had no place or earned credit to be in the same room with any of them. My skill level and talent were way off. Everyone—including myself—was always wondering why I was there and how I had managed to get accepted. By the end of sophomore year, I was on academic probation and being asked to redo classes with the students the year below me. A lot of the time, I skipped class because the girls were so mean and made the environment very uncomfortable.  Their judgment and lack of support and camaraderie left me frustrated, labeled an outcast, and beat down. I switched my major with my posture low and my dance shoes hung up for good.

I never thought I would be able to dance along with others, learning choreography, again. The thought brings feelings of shame, disappointment, anxiety, fear, and tears to my eyes. The feeling of people judging me and not accepting me all over again is one of the worst things to put myself through. Yet here I am again, in a room with people that are wondering why I am in the same room as them.

Well, I am here to overcome an upsetting past event that changed everything about me. I am not going to let something like that make me squirm back into a hole. I will overcome all these insecurities about myself and others.

I am suspecting my fellow Fear Experimenters feel the same way, either about dance or about being a part of the group. Nobody wants to be shunned, laughed at, judged, or talked about. Though dancing is a big part of it, Fear Experiment is also about other types of insecurities and fears. You can’t know anybody in a room of 20 strangers, looking at yourself in huge mirrors for four hours a week, putting yourself out there to everybody. It’s all uncomfortable to me.

I’ll bet 99 percent of us are our own worst critics in that mirrored room, and none of us are actually looking at each other. I can honestly say that I have no idea how the rest of the class is doing because I never look at anyone but myself and the dance teacher. Yes, I am able to pick up a majority of the moves fairly quickly, but can I charm a crowd like many of you? Heck no! I will be sitting in the corner wondering what the cool kids are talking about.

Rebecca: Dance, Week 5

Fear Experimenters love sharing—embarrassing stories, wicked dance moves, and apparently, germs. Whether my cold actually came from Niki or one of the stream of library patrons I see most days, I’m tucked in bed with a decimated box of Cool Touch Kleenex and a bottomless cup of tea. Despite the various leaks my face seems to have sprung, it’s been a great week.

Over the course of a few weeks, various Dance Experimenters will be dropping by the Scale program to teach the students one of the songs we’ll be performing. On Wednesday, Shar, Ewa, and I made our first trip to Marconi Elementary to meet the students in the program, where we got schooled in spunk and style. Before pressing the buzzer on the main entrance, I hadn’t thought too much about our first visit to Marconi. When the door clicked open, a tiny knot wrapped itself in my chest. How on earth am I supposed to teach anybody this dance?

When Shar and Ewa arrived, we had a few minutes to huddle before the students were ready to get started. Shar thought we should start with a warm up similar to our “dance parties” at rehearsal. After a quick round of the name game, Shar had the students—and the grown ups—skipping forwards and backwards in a circle, with some body rolls and assorted wiggles thrown in. By the time we were lined up and ready to dance, my tiny knot had unwound, and I was having fun.

DE rehearsals are fun. I joke and laugh and love to hate Kanye’s “Workout Plan,” but The Show and The Audience and Looking Foolish are always in the back of my mind. Let’s face it, when it comes to air guitar, there are those that can pull it off, and those that look like they’re scratching their stomach. Marconi rehearsal was unfettered, refreshing, look-at-how-awesome-these-kids-are fun.

Kids don’t need Fear Experiment. Trying something new isn’t a big deal, because every day is an opportunity for new, before curiosity and playfulness are overtaken by caution and self-consciousness. DE rehearsals are full of questions: “What angle should my arm be at?” “Should my weight be more on my front foot or my back?” “Is it more of a pivot or a spin?” The question I heard most at Marconi: “Can we try it by ourselves?”

After an unexpectedly difficult rehearsal on Thursday—I’m blaming an excess of cold medicine for my sudden loss of recall—I’m looking forward to another visit to Marconi on Monday. Shar and I will teach some more choreography and hopefully learn how to stop worrying and start dancing.

Niki: Dance, Week 5; Chicago Winters, Head Colds, and Being Imperfect

There is a thrill during the first few weeks of Fear Experiment, an exhilaration that only comes with taking a risk, with doing something truly terrifying. It is like skydiving or bungee jumping: a quick burst of excitement and adrenaline that makes you feel like you are really living.

But unlike skydiving, Fear Experiment lasts longer than a few minutes. Eventually the thrill and the adrenaline wear off. And suddenly you find yourself in the middle of a Chicago winter, exhausted by snow, snot, and sit-ups, and you are forced to really face the fear—without the jolt of adrenaline.

We not talking about the 30 seconds of external fear-for-your-life kind of fear; not that “oh shoot, I really hope my parachute opens” fear. We are talking about 30 years of internal fears: Am I good enough? Will I get it right? What will they think?

Facing these fears is what the experiment is really about. There comes a moment in dance when the novelty wears off; you get annoyed that your partner doesn’t get a dance step, or you feel the annoyance that you missed the third beat yet again. An edge of competitiveness leaks in. The sheer exhilaration of doing something new is gone and the reality -and fear- sets in.

This is where I found myself at week five. A combination of yet another Chicago blizzard, a head cold with a death grip on my sinuses, and a nagging unidentifiable bout of self doubt left me exhausted and bed-ridden on Thursday night. Wanting to contain my horrible mood and the copious amounts of germs now seeping from my nose, I had to skip Thursday night practice.

I soothed both my physical and mental exhaustion with some extra spicy tom yum soup, the expensive tissues with the aloe in them, and a lavender salted bath. As the Chicago winter dripped from my weary nose, I took a deep breathe and thought about what was really scaring me.

We are all in DE to dance, but we all have different fears—this thing terrifies us all for different reason. My snot-soaked self realized I was really afraid of letting other people down, by being sick and missing rehearsal, by consistently forgetting the third beat, by being crabby and pessimistic. I am afraid of letting down this group of strangers whom I barely know but deeply respect.

I traditionally don’t do things I’m not good at—OK, I don’t do things I’m not the best at. I don’t take challenges I can’t conquer. And this, Dance Experiment, I’m not sure if I can do this, conquer this. And that is scary.

Really scary.

But one bath and a box of tissues later, I feel like Dance Experiment is a challenge I’m ready to take on, knowing I won’t be doing every step perfectly, knowing I will get sick or crabby or both, knowing I won’t look like a graceful dancing swan in every one of Rich’s photos, knowing I won’t be the best, and realizing that being imperfect doesn’t mean letting other people down.

Sometimes I curse this city and its seemingly endless winters that leave me and my snot-prone sinuses bed-ridden for the majority of February. But I’m beginning to see that Chicago is a wise city indeed, forcing her patrons to occasionally sit down, blow the snot out, and breathe in deep. We are all the more ready for spring to come when we have lasted through the frustrations, exhaustion, and darkness of a Chicago winter.

“She could never go back and make some of the details pretty. All she could do was move forward and make the whole beautiful.”—Terri St. Cloud

Niki: Dance, Week 4; Dance is Permeating my Pinterest and My Soul

Four weeks in, something about dance has begun to permeate my soul—or, more aptly, permeate my Pinterest. I’ve started pinning so many dance-related things that I had to make my own “DANCE DANCE DANCE” board, filled with little inspirational lines and enough yoga clothes to make me happy for life. For proof, see the board here.

We are four weeks, eight classes, four minutes of dancing, several unusual bruises, and countless body rolls into this dance experiment, and it suddenly feels like something very real. Not just like some grand silly experiment but something solid, like the muscles building in my thighs underneath a layer of cellulite; this dance thing is more than just some jiggle—it is a foundation.