It was October of my senior year in high school. My family had just moved to Georgia from Texas. I had spent the last 6-7 years of my life in Flower Mound, Texas and this move was dramatic for me, especially with it being my last year of high school. It wasn’t easy making friends at first, so I ended up spending a lot of time with my mom.
My mom found herself working at fitness equipment company that summer and with no friends, I ended up working there as well. I did deliveries where I either dropped off equipment, or more frequently, assembled it as well. I had the opportunity to travel all around Atlanta and get to know the city.
The Haunted House
Anyway, back to October. My mom’s boss invited us to a haunted house. I had never heard of it before, but realized years later that it was Netherworld, the number one haunted house in the country. The line was long, but we were told that it was worth it. I’m not a big haunted house fan mostly because I have a hard time suspending my disbelief in what I am seeing. So I found myself just observing others as they were startled or scared or grossed out.
Most of the time I would see one of three responses. Fight, flight, or freeze. Some would yell back at the performers or give a cursory swing back (you can’t hit them or you get thrown out!). Some would hurry and run past the performers, putting their fear behind them. Some would freeze and cower in a corner, paralyzed to make a move.
We went through the entire haunted house and opened the door at the end, relieved that it was now over. We could let down our guard and relax and just enjoy the crisp night time fall air. That was of course until, BRRRAPAPAPPAPPAPPPPAPPAAPPPPAPAPPPP!!!!!!!!!! The ripping of a chainsaw behind the door roared with anger. A large man in a gruesome mask stood with the chainsaw screaming over his head, and he pointed it at my mom.
The scream that my mom let out still echoes to this very day. I’ve never in my entire life seen my mom run, but this day, at this moment, Usain Bolt could not catch her. A puff of smoke from her heels, and the smell of burning rubber was left to linger behind her flaming tracks. My mom took off, with chainsaw man trailing behind, and didn’t stop until she hit the parking lot. I doubled over in laughter. Never had I laughed so hard in my life. I’ve never seen my mom run before and I’ve never seen her run after.
I was a runner.
We see this outside of haunted houses as well. Something terrible happens, and some will stand their ground and fight, others run from situations, and others sit in silence, afraid to speak up. Like my mom at the end of this haunted house, I was a runner. When I was afraid or felt like things were out of control, I would run. I would run away from my problem and run towards those things that would take the pain away. They never really took it away, only covered it up for a moment, and then I would have to run again.
Running made me tired, because I was always on the run, but it was the easiest thing for me to do. If only I could stand and fight! Then maybe I wouldn’t have to run anymore, but I was too scared. Thankfully, I found some friends who had fought these fights before and won. They gave me hope and encouragement. So I learned to fight.
Fighting meant having to change the way I interacted with the world around me, with my fears, and with myself. I would need to lose some things, in order to gain some thing better, but losing things is painful. I would have to lose those temporary hiding places, and lose those things that covered my pain, so that I could face it and fight. Sam Chand says in his book Leadership Pain, “Reluctance to face pain is your greatest limitation. There is no growth without change, no change without loss, and no loss without pain.”
So pain has now become an awkward, but necessary friendship. I never seek pain, for pain sake, but if pain leads to growth, if pain leads to truth, then I’ve learned that it’s time to put away my running shoes and pick up my boxing gloves, because it’s time to fight.