We need to chat.

In the final two weeks of a challenging course load for my Masters degree, after a day of work and a four hour class-my professor was requesting a chat. The summer has been full of an incredible amount of work blended in with the fatigue of dealing with some incredible personalities.  You know the type.  Ready and willing to point the finger at you, forgetting there are three more pointing back at them.

I agreed to a chat.

After the class cleared, we took chairs and sat in the middle of the classroom.

I was anticipating something wrong with my internship placement.  Maybe?  Or perhaps, with any luck , permission to forgo the last two classes seeing as I had completed all my work.

Silly me.

No, it seems there had been a complaint.   One that warranted immediate attention.  One that needed to be addressed.  My mind began to wander.

What?   What on earth is going on? I asked.

Was I being asked to do something?  To take on an academic challenge?  Give a speech?

Silly me.

No, none of the above.  It seems, as the words spilled from the professors mouth, another classmate had some concerns about my power.

You see, said the professor.  I think you need to learn to control your power.  You have too much power.  It is intimidating people. I mean, sometimes, well, sometimes, you know, you are very direct with your words,very passionate about what you do-what you say, you are very clear, and heck, I am even intimidated by your power. Your tone, said the professor.  It has been mentioned to me, she went on,by one of your classmates that you need to do something with your power. Change it.  I mean, well, how can I say this?  Be less with it. I mean look at you.  Dark hair,dark classes……

Did I mention this was a course in practicing skills to be a counselor? A program designed to help people feel empowered. This was a class full of adults, mostly women I might add.

I was dead silent.  Stunned even.  I thought the professor was joking.  I even waited for the punch line. Had I missed something?

I have been on this planet for 51 years. I have thrived and survived with the best of them.  I have embraced the imperfection of who I am.  I have been lost along the way, found new direction, lost the essence of who I am, found her again, claimed, reclaimed and claimed again the voice of all that is me. I have held the space for those who are dying, weeping, struggling and negotiating for one more day, one more dollar, one more hit-just one more breath.  I loved, and still do, with wild and reckless abandon,pursued my dreams, met them, got up and did it again. I ran a marathon.  Three of them. I know how to go the distance.  I know how to sprint. I have seen the world and been just as content in the comfort of home.  I have looked into the face of danger, wrangled( and won) an attacker, sang at Vegas, weddings and funerals, rediscovered old friends, laughed with new ones, howled at the moon, cursed circumstance, married, birthed, raised, let go of, held onto, beat the hell out of a drum, performed, achieved, lost, won, failed, tried again and again, and again, planted seeds of all kinds, stood in the middle of a path divided.  I have been biopsied, diagnosed, medicated, mediated, cursed at, loved on and celebrate with. I have been there.  I have done that.  I am here.  Still.  Carving a new path-rediscovering an old voice-sitting still with a new voice.

The younger me, the one who was so willing to please and not bruise feelings would have apologized  profusely and taken on the soul crushing task of changing who I am to meet the needs of those who were intimidated.Those who pointed the finger tainted with their own shame and ignorance. However, that was then.  This is now. I like my tone.  I adore my passion.  I cherish my power and reward her from time to time for getting me through-for not turning out the lights when things got real dark, real fast. I  have earned this power.  I have earned this voice.  I hold onto my ability to be direct, open, honest and passionate about my beliefs. I hold onto my truth.  I hold onto me.

I teared up, sitting across from that professor, listening to her go on about what was all wrong with me, according to someone else.I felt sad for her, allowing the small mind of someone else to dictate to her what should be done with me.  With me. I felt sad that someone, that grown up, had to tell the teacher.

Then I got still.  Very still-and that mighty power of mine rose up and took a moment to nestle into the very seat of my soul.  And then I spoke.

With all due respect, I said.  I am not changing who I am.  If someone has a problem with my power, that is their problem, not mine. That is their trigger, not mine. This is who I am. I like my tone.  I like my tone just fine.

Was there anything else? I asked.

No.

I left the room.

On the commute home, I thought about my daughter and the way I am raising her. She is so confident in her power and in her choices.  She is insightful and on the way to discovering her world and those she will call to it.  I thought about the countless number of children I have worked with over the years in various stages of development and self-awareness and what finding power has meant to them. I look to the ways I will continue to learn, teach and grow.  I will not be holding back my power.  I am that.  That I am.