From Imposter Syndrome to Empowerment: Creating a Movement-Centered Writing Retreat
- Carolyne Whelan
- Oct 24, 2024
- 10 min read
or, how I stopped worrying and learned to love a challenge
Before my writing and cycling retreat, Pedal and Prosody, started, I was nervous. So nervous I almost canceled. My partner, Alex, gave me many pep talks about the life I want to live, the value I want to bring to the world, the talents I have that I hoped to share. Before the first sign-up, it was easy to imagine pulling out. After that first participant paid in full, though, it was embarrassing to think about canceling. When three people signed up and I realized the house I rented wasn't available for the dates I had planned for the retreat (more on that in a moment), I was mortified, started shaking, may or may not have thrown up. I CERTAINLY wanted to quit. But after my little pity party that was more of a self-loathing party and not very fun to attend, I sent out my emails, tail firmly between my legs, trying to seem as professional as I could amidst a tsunami of imposter syndrome and self-doubt.
The thing about falling on a bike is that when you realize you're still alive, and don't need a life lift to the ER, there's a rush of adrenaline. That isn't just the body's hormonal response to threats helping you get up and run. It's also an inate celebration of the worst not happening, of surviving. At my lowest point, processing layers of grief and trauma, I wrote in my journal that the term "survivor" felt wrong, because I didn't feel like I was surviving. It felt like a slow and agonizing spiritual death that might lead to a physical one. Dramatic and possibly hyperbolic, I know, but the heart feels what the heart feels. Coming out of that state, coming to Montana to live in my van for the summer while I gained footing at my dream job, riding my bike just after sunrise down a dirt road, coffee cup in hand, dog running along side, cows and horses strolling toward their fences to have a look at us, I realized I had survived, and there was nothing more that could really happen to me to shake me. If that multilayered blow didn't knock me down, then really I could face any challenge.
It was with that energy that I bounced back from this humiliation, contacted the AirBNB, emailed my attendees, adjusted my website and ads and social media posts, and kept pedalin'.
I offered discounts off the top, because I know myself well enough to plan for mistakes like this. Then I offered additional discounts to people without the financial resources to attend without it. Alex gave another pep talk as I fretted about losing all my money on this wild idea. "Do you want to do this? Then you gotta just do it. Think of this as business expenses. You need to invest in yourself and your dream if you think you and your dream are worth investing in. And you are." I donated a spot to a local raffle in support of a friend and community member who needed a new prosthetic leg. When the person who won that spot canceled last minute, I decided to offer it to someone who had shown interest but gave the impression that cost was a barrier. If I was already planning to not get paid for that spot, then why not pass it on? I certainly didn't want the room to sit empty.
As the retreat went on, I spent most of the time badgering myself. When we rode off for the day and stopped somewhere picturesque for a writing prompt, I spent the time writing about what I had done wrong and what I should do better next time. I was nervous to enjoy myself because that would mean I wasn't caring enough, wasn't attentive enough, wasn't taking my own concerns seriously enough. And yet, I did enjoy myself!
The idea behind Pedal and Prosody was that movement helped breakdown mental and emotional barriers — in a group dynamic, among colleagues in a writer/editor setting, and within ourselves. Even before my ADHD diagnosis (keep reading), I knew that I struggled with focusing, with keeping my thoughts in order, with small details. The first line in my ad for this retreat was something like, "Are you an outdoor kid with an indoor mind?" Being a writer with ADHD and dysgraphia is a cruel joke, but I know that movement, fresh air, and specifically cycling all help me organize my thoughts and break through blockages. So it makes sense that while we were on bike rides, my brain would be booming with all the ways I could make the retreat better. The struggle was to not beat myself up too much, or detail the current retreat by trying to implement changes mid-journey. And it was this spirit of acceptance and change, of being able to edit myself but not in shame, that was the heart of the retreat. I was proving my own point in real time.
I couldn't have done it without my volunteers, which is a gift as a human being and also something I need to figure out for the next one. My chef needed to cancel last minute due to childcare needs, which meant I would need to cook for everyone myself. Alex once again stepped in as my darling and supportive partner who is also a phenomenal cook, and showed up in the mornings and evenings to prepare breakfast and dinner according to dietary needs. My friend Kyle, who has worked in bicycle tourism for years, arrived at different pre-planned spots along each daily ride to provide snacks, mechanical support, and the adorable company of his toddler June. Lauren was my point person for those who didn't go riding when it was exceptionally smoky outside. And I met David when a friend told him I was looking for a photographer to trade work (photography for editing lessons or writing/editing work) and we became fast friends. His photography blends portrait and editorial work seemlessly, not just finding the polished moments but telling the story of the event as a whole — exactly what I wanted. I'm so incredibly grateful for everyone's support and generosity. It is a very real and non-hyperbolic statement to say I wouldn't not have been able to do this without them, even if I had it all planned in my head to do so.
Growth is accepting that you are just one person. Even if you're a big dreamer, even if you think you are bad at everything and therefore should do everything to make up for it all being trash, it's important to delegate. You are not a show pony. You are not a circus clown. You are not Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins, playing nine instruments at once while chalk drawing comes to life (thought you might have ADHD). And that's probably for the best.
At the end of the retreat, I asked for some feedback from the group. Some of it confirmed (helpfully) my own critiques: it wasn't organized well, there wasn't enough one-on-one time with me, we didn't do enough talking about the business of publishing. Others, though, countered those points. This feedback was what reminded me that my own instincts that led the retreat are worth leaning into and not feeling sheepish about. I helped writers and editors break through writer's block, get over the feelings of shame that come with a shitty first draft, tap into creativity they hadn't felt in years, and remember the sound of their own voice. When I got out of my head what a professional was supposed to be, what type of event I was trying to host, what value I bring, and just let Pedal and Prosody become its own wild beast, it was more of a success than I thought.
About a week before the retreat, I got my test results back: ADHD, frontal lobe processing disorder, dysgraphia. I had a feeling about the ADHD but was previously misdiagnosed; I was diagnosed with dysgraphia in elementary school but thought I had "beat" it or maybe it was just symptoms of the ADHD manifesting themselves; frontal lobe processing disorder (actually listed as "frontal lobe defect" on the form, ugh), that one stung a bit. It all also made a lot more sense why I wanted to create this retreat to begin with, and why some parts of it were so damn hard while others came so naturally. In a future post I will go into the various tests I've been taking in this summer of reclaiming myself post-burnout. It was helpful for me to have this context in my steps toward "making adjustments, not judgment."
Here are five takeaways from putting on my first retreat:
There is no perfect timing. A holiday weekend (longer weekend) doesn't guarantee people will be more likely to show up — in fact, most feedback when I announced the dates was that people already had something scheduled for Labor Day Weekend, sometimes an annual event or something scheduled a year in advance. And while the weather was fantastic all summer with reasonable heat and low smoke, the smoke rolled in during this weekend and made riding impossible for some attendees. So just choose a time of year that works with your location and your schedule, and be prepared to get creative when things don't go as hoped.
Play to your innate skills, not to an idea of the market. I had an idea that because of what roles I've played in the publishing world, people would *want to know what I know* (hard, because I often feel like I know nothing, but that's a different post) and would want to spend a lot of time talking with me about publishing. So I marketed that angle. But as soon as people showed up, my personality took over and the retreat became more about manifesting a safe space, providing options for people to create and share, building trust and confidence among participants and helping people tap into their playful and imperfect impulses as writers. I'm so glad the people who signed up were down for that environment, but it led to more imposter syndrome on my part and feelings of guilt for not offering what was advertised, even if I let the event go on its natural course.
People want you to facilitate and control the room. Working with adults, taking their money, and wanting to create a space where everyone felt supported to share and be heard, I didn't realize the harm I was potentially causing by failing to properly facilitate. Luckily, we had a fantastic group of participants, but when some personalities are stronger than others, energy levels differ, or ways of expressing ourselves aren't aligned, some people can end up having an outsized voice in a room. I should know better: being an introvert with a frontal lobe disorder and dysgraphia, I have a hard time speaking up, finding my words quickly, and being assertive. Which means I know what it's like to be a quieter, calmer person in a room with more assertive personalities. What one person has to say isn't any more valuable or worth hearing due to how eager they are to say it, and it's up to the group leader to make sure there's a balance. In the future, I will implement a pause before people start sharing, and a rule that everyone needs to have the option to speak before someone else speaks again, and to keep it top of mind that the goal of the discussion is (for example) to offer actionable and constructive feedback.
It's OK to niche down your participants. I wanted everyone to feel included and welcome at this retreat. I wanted to give everyone the opportunity to attend. I wanted it to be participant-led. When people wrote me asking for specifics, I gave answers that now seem to me to be cagey and indirect. What kind of bike should I bring? Whatever kind of bike you want! That doesn't help people. I also have some fiction background but it's really not my strength. Someone wrote me saying she was a roadie who wrote fiction and while I encouraged her to sign up, I'm so thankful (for her sake) that she didn't. It wouldn't have been a good use of her time or resources. I wasn't trying to mislead her or take her money, I was just being dishonest with myself about the experience I was willing, able, and interested in creating. In the future, I will do more up front planning and sharing of the event, so people will know what's in store for them and be able to make a more informed decision without just rolling the dice and hoping it works out.
If you tell people, they will come — which means you have to tell people. A few weeks before the retreat, I was talking with a friend of mine who, without going into too much detail, is a social media influencer with a sizeable following of people who would be interested in my retreat. "Why is this the first I'm hearing about this? I would love to attend. I'd pay $5,000 to attend, but I'd need a year to save up and mark the space on my calendar, I'm booked solid. I also would gladly have sent out advertisements, posted about it, let everyone know they need to sign up because we've worked together and I know what a gift this is. But who could go now?" I didn't charge $5,000, I was charging $1,200 by that point and no one had paid even $1,000 because they all got at least the early-bird discount. I was offering him the free spot and still, it was too short notice. I had paid for ad spots on Facebook and Wordpress, but that wasn't enough. I needed to actively use my network and the relationships I have with people who already know and like me and who believe in what I do because they've seen me do it. I was so shy to actually reach out. He isn't the only one, either. Just days before the retreat, people were saying, "Why am I just hearing about this now?" Because I didn't tell you, because I was ashamed of taking this big leap and afraid of success, is what someone might assume. Really, it's because I'm shy, have ADHD, and am not very organized. I'm still figuring it all out, but that's who I am and next time I don't want that to stop me from letting the world know I'm also brave and trying something new because I think it's worth doing.
The next retreats are already in planning. I have learned a lot and am planning on bringing in some additional professional help. No, my therapist isn't coming with us, I've enlisted a top-tier professional writer who works with publications like the New York Times and the Guardian, to help with the business workshops so I can focus on coaching.
Coaching as a vibe, though, is the theme of another blog post. So stay tuned.
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