a couple years ago, an event planner called me

because I was going to do a speaking event.

And she called, and she said,

"I'm really struggling with how

to write about you on the little flyer."

And I thought, "Well, what's the struggle?"

And she said, "Well, I saw you speak,

and I'm going to call you a researcher, I think,

but I'm afraid if I call you a researcher, no one will come,

because they'll think you're boring and irrelevant."

(Laughter)

And I was like, "Okay."

And she said, "But the thing I liked about your talk

is you're a storyteller.

So I think what I'll do is just call you a storyteller."

And of course, the academic, insecure part of me

was like, "You're going to call me a what?"

And she said, "I'm going to call you a storyteller."

And I was like, "Why not magic pixie?"

(Laughter)

I was like, "Let me think about this for a second."

I tried to call deep on my courage.

And I thought, you know, I am a storyteller.

I'm a qualitative researcher.

I collect stories; that's what I do.

And maybe stories are just data with a soul.

And maybe I'm just a storyteller.

And so I said, "You know what?

Why don't you just say I'm a researcher-storyteller."

And she went, "Haha. There's no such thing."

(Laughter)

So I'm a researcher-storyteller,

and I'm going to talk to you today --

we're talking about expanding perception --

and so I want to talk to you and tell some stories

about a piece of my research

that fundamentally expanded my perception

and really actually changed the way that I live and love

and work and parent.

And this is where my story starts.

When I was a young researcher, doctoral student,

my first year I had a research professor

who said to us,

"Here's the thing,

if you cannot measure it, it does not exist."

And I thought he was just sweet-talking me.

I was like, "Really?" and he was like, "Absolutely."

And so you have to understand

that I have a bachelor's in social work, a master's in social work,

and I was getting my Ph.D. in social work,

so my entire academic career

was surrounded by people

who kind of believed

in the "life's messy, love it."

And I'm more of the, "life's messy,

clean it up, organize it

and put it into a bento box."

(Laughter)

And so to think that I had found my way,

to found a career that takes me --

really, one of the big sayings in social work

is, "Lean into the discomfort of the work."

And I'm like, knock discomfort upside the head

and move it over and get all A's.

That was my mantra.

So I was very excited about this.

And so I thought, you know what, this is the career for me,

because I am interested in some messy topics.

But I want to be able to make them not messy.

I want to understand them.

I want to hack into these things

I know are important

and lay the code out for everyone to see.

So where I started was with connection.

Because, by the time you're a social worker for 10 years,

what you realize

is that connection is why we're here.

It's what gives purpose and meaning to our lives.

This is what it's all about.

It doesn't matter whether you talk to people

who work in social justice and mental health and abuse and neglect,

what we know is that connection,

the ability to feel connected, is --

neurobiologically that's how we're wired --

it's why we're here.

So I thought, you know what, I'm going to start with connection.

Well, you know that situation

where you get an evaluation from your boss,

and she tells you 37 things you do really awesome,

and one thing -- an "opportunity for growth?"

(Laughter)

And all you can think about is that opportunity for growth, right?

Well, apparently this is the way my work went as well,

because, when you ask people about love,

they tell you about heartbreak.

When you ask people about belonging,

they'll tell you their most excruciating experiences

of being excluded.

And when you ask people about connection,

the stories they told me were about disconnection.

So very quickly -- really about six weeks into this research --

I ran into this unnamed thing

that absolutely unraveled connection

in a way that I didn't understand or had never seen.

And so I pulled back out of the research

and thought, I need to figure out what this is.

And it turned out to be shame.

And shame is really easily understood

as the fear of disconnection:

Is there something about me

that, if other people know it or see it,

that I won't be worthy of connection?

The things I can tell you about it:

it's universal; we all have it.

The only people who don't experience shame

have no capacity for human empathy or connection.

No one wants to talk about it,

and the less you talk about it the more you have it.

What underpinned this shame,

this "I'm not good enough," --

which we all know that feeling:

"I'm not blank enough. I'm not thin enough,

rich enough, beautiful enough, smart enough,

promoted enough."

The thing that underpinned this

was excruciating vulnerability,

this idea of,

in order for connection to happen,

we have to allow ourselves to be seen,

really seen.

And you know how I feel about vulnerability. I hate vulnerability.

And so I thought, this is my chance

to beat it back with my measuring stick.

I'm going in, I'm going to figure this stuff out,

I'm going to spend a year, I'm going to totally deconstruct shame,

I'm going to understand how vulnerability works,

and I'm going to outsmart it.

So I was ready, and I was really excited.

As you know, it's not going to turn out well.

(Laughter)

You know this.

So, I could tell you a lot about shame,

but I'd have to borrow everyone else's time.

But here's what I can tell you that it boils down to --

and this may be one of the most important things that I've ever learned

in the decade of doing this research.

My one year

turned into six years:

thousands of stories,

hundreds of long interviews, focus groups.

At one point, people were sending me journal pages

and sending me their stories --

thousands of pieces of data in six years.

And I kind of got a handle on it.

I kind of understood, this is what shame is,

this is how it works.

I wrote a book,

I published a theory,

but something was not okay --

and what it was is that,

if I roughly took the people I interviewed

and divided them into people

who really have a sense of worthiness --

that's what this comes down to,

a sense of worthiness --

they have a strong sense of love and belonging --

and folks who struggle for it,

and folks who are always wondering if they're good enough.

There was only one variable

that separated the people who have

a strong sense of love and belonging

and the people who really struggle for it.

And that was, the people who have

a strong sense of love and belonging

believe they're worthy of love and belonging.

That's it.

They believe they're worthy.

And to me, the hard part

of the one thing that keeps us out of connection

is our fear that we're not worthy of connection,

was something that, personally and professionally,

I felt like I needed to understand better.

So what I did

is I took all of the interviews

where I saw worthiness, where I saw people living that way,

and just looked at those.

What do these people have in common?

I have a slight office supply addiction,

but that's another talk.

So I had a manila folder, and I had a Sharpie,

and I was like, what am I going to call this research?

And the first words that came to my mind

were whole-hearted.

These are whole-hearted people, living from this deep sense of worthiness.

So I wrote at the top of the manila folder,

and I started looking at the data.

In fact, I did it first

in a four-day

very intensive data analysis,

where I went back, pulled these interviews, pulled the stories, pulled the incidents.

What's the theme? What's the pattern?

My husband left town with the kids

because I always go into this Jackson Pollock crazy thing,

where I'm just like writing

and in my researcher mode.

And so here's what I found.

What they had in common

was a sense of courage.

And I want to separate courage and bravery for you for a minute.

Courage, the original definition of courage,

when it first came into the English language --

it's from the Latin word cor, meaning heart --

and the original definition

was to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart.

And so these folks

had, very simply, the courage

to be imperfect.

They had the compassion

to be kind to themselves first and then to others,

because, as it turns out, we can't practice compassion with other people

if we can't treat ourselves kindly.

And the last was they had connection,

and -- this was the hard part --

as a result of authenticity,

they were willing to let go of who they thought they should be

in order to be who they were,

which you have to absolutely do that

for connection.

The other thing that they had in common

was this:

They fully embraced vulnerability.

They believed

that what made them vulnerable

made them beautiful.

They didn't talk about vulnerability

being comfortable,

nor did they really talk about it being excruciating --

as I had heard it earlier in the shame interviewing.

They just talked about it being necessary.

They talked about the willingness

to say, "I love you" first,

the willingness

to do something

where there are no guarantees,

the willingness

to breathe through waiting for the doctor to call

after your mammogram.

They're willing to invest in a relationship

that may or may not work out.

They thought this was fundamental.

I personally thought it was betrayal.

I could not believe I had pledged allegiance

to research, where our job --

you know, the definition of research

is to control and predict, to study phenomena,

for the explicit reason

to control and predict.

And now my mission

to control and predict

had turned up the answer that the way to live is with vulnerability