I’ve been thinking lately about the famous Teddy Roosevelt quote:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

There’s a major distinction between talking about doing something, and actually doing something. Nearly seven years ago to the day I concluded my first foray into politics, in a loss for a newly created city council seat. I learned many lessons during that campaign which I’ve chronicled here in this space before. But chief among those lessons was the idea of daring greatly. I was so taken with the concept that I read Brene Brown’s book Daring Greatly, followed up it’s companion, Dare to Lead.

As I step back into the arena for my current race for a state house seat, I’m returning to many of the same lessons to guide me. For example, within the first week of our launch I was reminded that perfectionism is the enemy of anyone in the arena. So many things have not gone according to how I planned it, I’ve even had a few public mistakes already. But what are you going to do? That’s what happens when you put yourself out there on a stage to lead. People get to see your full humanity (if you let them). I’m finding that it’s easier this time around to show up in the campaign as my full self, rather than being overly concerned about image keeping (which can be a full time job in itself). As Brene Brown writes, “sometimes when we dare to walk into the arena, the greatest critic we face is ourselves.”

Another way I’m attempting to show up differently this time, is leaning into vulnerability. As Brown writes, vulnerability begets vulnerability, courage is contagious. Yesterday I was asked by someone whose endorsement I was seeking, why are you running? I’ve been asked that question more than once, and truly I think it’s a trap question. There are lots of reasons why I’m running. I rattled off the key issues I’m passionate about addressing and the ways I want to help shift the discourse in politics back towards the middle. And while these are all true, probably the deepest reason I’m running is because I have to, for me. Either we’re running towards something or from something, and I just can’t shake this notion that I belong in this particular arena. I want my girls to see that, in particular the vulnerability that comes with putting myself out there.

When we told the girls that I was running for office a few weeks ago and had a conversation about how things would shift for us as a family, everyone seemed to take it in stride, except my daughter Olivia. She told us that she remembered how sad I was after the last race (she was only five years old at the time!), and being the empath that she is, she didn’t want to see me disappointed again. While I appreciated her concern, I told her that I’d rather follow my dreams and fail trying, and even be disappointed or sad in the process, than do nothing and always regret what might have been. She understood, and I hope that as a result of my example she’s more willing to dare greatly herself, knowing that she’s more than capable of getting into the arena.

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