On Roast Chicken and Facing Fear
As a coach, one of my promises to you is to show up without judgment. I'm here to listen to your stories. To take in and be curious about your daily life. To search for meaning with you about what you think of as bold actions, big fears, and true meaning. My questions come from a place of care with a desire for you to get exactly what you want. We are working together to discover what it means for you to live authentically, with purpose and joy.
To help you feel comfortable in this process and to get to know me a bit better, I want to share a little of my shadow: that part of me that's hard to admit, that's kind of embarrassing, that isn't filtered for my digital presence, that touches on my sensitivity to confrontation and being accepted, and that will hopefully make you laugh a little, and open you up.
Yesterday was one of those days. Call it what you will—the wrong side of the bed, the wrong side of the house, the wrong side of the earth—it was not going to be my day. I had not slept well. I was dreading the early-ish train I had to catch and dreading my upcoming appointment with immigration. I left my apartment in a hurry to take out the trash (which, by the way, we're now only allowed to do two days a week) and in the rush I left a full mug of coffee on the table and forgot to brush my teeth. When I tried to buy a travel toothbrush kit at the drug store the guy wouldn't take my five euro bill because someone (not me) had ripped and then taped it back together. So I just got on the bus to my appointment where the screen that should have displayed the upcoming stops blinked on and off with a Windows error message and a scrolling ticker of warm wishes for a merry Christmas.
It wasn't even 10:00 am.
My day did turn around at lunch when I got my teeth brushed, shared some laughs with a friend, walked by the sea, and managed to find oat flour at the organic market. But the moral of the story is not that you can turn your day around. The moral is that when I got home that evening I was tired. And I didn't want to cook.
But I did want a roast chicken. Delivered. To my door.
This isn’t New York we’re talking about where you have the whole gamut of worldly cuisines at your fingertips. This is Sicily. Seaside, small town, pandemic restricted Sicily: 10:00 pm curfew, non-essential shops closed, bars and restaurants only do take out, and food delivery apps don't exist. There are maybe six restaurants open for take-out (on a good night). Three of them might deliver and two of them are pizzerias. The last is a pizzeria that also does rotisserie chicken. Not ironically, this place is called “L'Inferno Dei Polli” or "Hell of Chickens." Let that tell you something.
You might think that it's named for the heat that cooks the chicken, but I think it might have to do with the woman who takes orders over the phone. During my first and last encounter with her this past summer she barked at me to wait outside my house because the delivery guy wouldn't ring the bell and then hung up the phone on me before I could tell her I wanted roast potatoes, not french fries. I did not argue. I did not call back. I waited outside. And I ate those french fries willingly.
So when last night rolled around and I really wanted a roast chicken, here's what happened. I thought about it. I practiced how the conversation would go in my head. I dreaded the call for 40 minutes. It felt like...so…much…work...just to call. I stared into the fridge for seven minutes thinking what else I could eat. I called. It was busy. I could still back out. I looked in the fridge again, but nothing spoke to me. I really wanted a chicken. I called back.
Italian conversation ensues:
Where does the chicken need to go?
I share my address.
What’s your name?
I don't bother with my first name and I go straight for "the name on the buzzer is Garrison." I even TRY to pronounce it in Italian but I will never conquer the double "r" or the award open "a" sound. It doesn't feel right for my last name.
What time?
Well, early would be…
7:30.
Ok. Thanks.
Click.
(Again, french fries it is.)
What does this story say? Many things.
First of all, I can be a coach and still be afraid of ordering a roast chicken. I can also be grateful, bask in joy, be brave, be sad, be earnest, be a sister, daughter, good friend, hopeless romantic, and terrible standardized test taker, and still be afraid of ordering a roast chicken. I can post beautiful pictures online, share inspiring stories about surviving dengue fever (twice), and still be afraid of ordering a roast chicken.
Second of all, if you have the slightest hesitation, ever, in our conversations that you are not answering a question right, that you are a bit embarrassed, that your dreams feel too big or your fears too small, just remember, you are speaking to someone who is afraid of ordering a roast chicken.
Finally, it tells me that "early" for a roast chicken is 7:30 pm. Now I know.
I hope this encourages you to say hi, share your delivery story nightmares, and tell me more about what's behind the person you are projecting. I hope you see it as an invitation to laugh, get curious about your fears, and share more of yourself in a way that feels good.
Lastly, the best part of all this is that the delivery guy is the absolute sweetest.
As always, sending sunshine,
Henna