You Can't Have What You Want

My body went hot and then numb. I walked into my house to change out of my heavy riding gear as if I had parked my motorcycle upright in the driveway like a capable person. 

Except I had just dropped my day-old, $12,000 motorcycle in my driveway when I lost my footing on uneven ground. I looked at the broken-off clutch lever on the kitchen counter where I had just set it. The one that, without which, I couldn’t even start my bike.

I tried to will myself to ignore the voice that came from the sickening hardness in the pit of my stomach. I had sensed its murmurings for the previous few months as I let myself dream about what it would be like to ride a motorcycle—my own motorcycle. 

There were many competing voices in those month. There was the one that sounded an awful lot like my dad: “It’s irresponsible to buy something so expensive for yourself for no other reason than that it's fun and you want it.”

And the voice of the good daughter in me: “It’s selfish to have a bike—it will destroy mom if something happens to you.”

And from the part of me who hadn’t made it more than two years in my marriage in my early twenties: “What if you buy the bike and then find one you like better, but you can't have it because you've already committed to this payment?”

But this voice on the day I dropped my new bike was different. And it was so loud that even my best efforts at ignoring it failed. There, from the very center of me, a voice that was matter of fact said, See: because of who you are, you’ll never have what you really want.

Despite the fact that I had fallen passionately in love with riding motorcycles, at barely 5’2” and all torso, there were hardly any bikes I could fit on. Sure, there were little cruisers with low seats and low cc’s, but that's not what I wanted.

I wanted a bike that made me giddy to look at and that had enough power and size to pack panniers on and go and go for thousands of miles. But the reality was, most of the bikes that I drooled over, that I dreamed of having, were too tall for me to ride. 

Even adjusting the suspension or getting customizable Franken-boots to extend my legs a few inches wouldn’t have helped. I’m too small. It’s just how I am. I thought I had figured it out with the bike I had just bought—that I could just make it. I thought I could have a bike of my own that I loved.

How sweet, and how sad, the voice from the center of me condescended. If you had listened to me sooner, you would know that you can't have what you really want because of who you are. Of course you broke it. 

I knew this wasn’t about the bike. The bike was a stand-in for what I had wanted for so long: a lasting, loving, fulfilling partnership. My short legs represented all the things about me that made me incapable of having it: 

I was a maddening combination of avoidant and needy, fiercely independent and insecure. I was an impossible combination of emotional and all in my head. I seemed to have a man picker that had gone on the fritz ten years ago and then positively haywire five years later. And I hadn’t figured out how to be a stand for myself while being close with another person. 

For all those reasons, I was convinced I couldn't have what I really wanted because of who I am. And like wearing a pair of Franken-boots, therapy and self-help books could help me “reach the ground,” but I'd never actually feel like I was on my own two feet. 

Like the 250-cc cruiser that would only let me putter around town, I could have a mediocre committed relationship but not one that would delight me, make me feel lucky and last for the  long haul. It just wasn’t meant for me.

This day that I dropped my bike almost seven years ago was a major turning point in my life. After crawling into bed filled with shame and bawling myself to sleep, I woke up the next morning determined not to let that crappy voice from the pit of my belly run me.

I swallowed my pride, had my bike towed back to the dealership and paid to have it fixed. When I got it back, I focused on learning how to handle it with my short legs. I dropped it a half dozen more times. I also put thousands of miles on it. And then thousands and thousands more.

In large part due to the confidence in myself that I learned from riding—and allowing myself to ride in the first place—I also arrived at a no-more-bullshit place when it came to my work and my relationships.

I got serious about valuing myself and committing to my work. And I found the mentor I always dreamed was out there who helped me heal the relational wounds that I didn’t think I’d ever heal but secretly knew was possible.

In addition to having the bike of my dreams—complete with a rebuilt motor because of the tens of thousands of miles I’ve put on it—I also have the business of my dreams. And most importantly, the relationship of my dreams. (And yes, he has a bike, and we adventure together.)

I wanted to share this story because when I first work with new clients, I can sense that same voice in them. The one that says You can’t have what you really want because of who you are. 

There’s some fatal flaw they believe they have that will make it so they can never break out of their old patterns. And yet, they’re talking to me because there’s still a part of them who wants to believe that they can change.

They can. But that kind of change does take getting to that no-more-bullshit place, making an investment in yourself, leaving the shame tied to your old stories behind and moving forward toward your own fulfillment as bravely and as doggedly as you possibly can. 

I’ve helped enough people over the years to know that this mixture of nervous system regulation, embodied self-awareness, psycho-education, and the support of a mentor and fellow people on the path works. 

There’s nothing fundamentally broken or flawed about you (or any of us). The first step to living that truth is believing in it enough to fight for it. 

If this seemed written for you, start Yours Truly today. It will help you find whatever that wind in your hair sense of delight and fulfillment looks like for you.