THE CLIMB: AM I WORTH IT

The body knows before the mind does.

This week I learned that in a way I will not forget. Not through a vision or a message or a ceremony. Through a taste. A foul taste coming out of my mouth during meditation — almost like a cleansing — my body registering something my mind had been managing for a long time.

What comes out of my mouth means something. What comes out of my mouth should be true and meaningful and not just verbal garbage. I don't just speak to speak. I've always known it. I've always been aware of it. But my heart told me this week. It's no longer of the mind.

That was Monday. By Saturday I was crying my eyes out, absolutely terrified, and clearer than I have ever been.

This is what happened in between.

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## I. The Call

The meditation took me backwards.

Not through visions or symbols. Through inventory. Everything I gave up on, everything I quit, everything I jumped from one to the other to escape pushing through — it went through all of it until I got back to my childhood.

My grandfather gave me the stability that every child needed. That everyday nourishment. And when he died when I was fifteen, I can really see the rails come off.

My dad was pretty much gone. Life was catching up to him. And so, to get his attention, I started quitting sports — because that was the one thing that he would do anything to come watch me, be with me, that he was just present then. As I started quitting, he started quitting.

I did not know this was going to bring me here. But I eventually quit everything. I was not playing sports, I was not singing, I was not writing poetry. I was just abusing myself, taking all of it out on me, because I didn't know what else to do.

They loved me. They just did not know how to raise me. And those are two different things.

I see that with my kids: I love them. I just did not know how to raise them. And I'm learning how to raise myself.

That pattern stuck with me the rest of my life. Job to job. City to city. Woman to woman. Excuse to story, story to excuse. As soon as things started getting good, as soon as life started collecting good people and good rhythms — I'd ruin it. I'd sabotage it in some way and run.

Here's the difference now: I know this is what I am supposed to do. I feel it, or I would already quit it.

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## II. The Fracture

Tuesday morning I sat with a part of me that has been waiting a long time.

I didn't have a talk with him. Didn't really have anything to say. I just hugged him, just held him, and let him cry.

I didn't understand the weight of it until the door opened.

When I let my dog out and opened that back patio door, I can't explain the magnetic pull to stand there with my arms — literally, not metaphorically, literally — wide open, opening my heart to say: come, give me all that you have, take all of this away.

Just like a house contains you, that's what your heart and your soul is being held into when you allow fear, pain, and suffering to hold you. It contains the vastness and the spaciousness of life and what you can reach and what you can do.

Then immediately after, something released in me — completely and fully, everything I had been holding. There was one moment at the end where I was overthinking and something said — nope, you're not done, one more.

You can't fake feeling it. And you know it when you feel it.

That is a distinguishing marker now. If it doesn't have that connection to my heart and soul, then it's a look, then it's appearance, then it's aesthetics. I now know what it feels like.

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## III. The Forge

Everything that came out of the ceremony — the beautiful lessons, the insights, the conversations with the parts of me, the messages about the women and the relationships, all of it — that's the look.

I'm not taking away any of the validity of it. It's real. It means everything to me. But that's the look.

What's the feel?

It's the worthiness wound. And it is just crushing me.

The meditation took me through my life — little Cory leading, the Poet, Riggo — and then it got to Big Daddy. That's where it got real. It actually skipped parts of my life to avoid feeling the pain.

It hit me like a ton of bricks: am I worthy?

I broke down and cried. The pattern of my life for decades just sitting there in front of me. The jumping from job to job, city to city, woman to woman. The excuse becoming the story becoming the next excuse. Cyclical. For decades.

So I stopped. And I asked Big Daddy directly — what do you need me to do to prove to you that this is real, that this is what we're supposed to be doing?

He brought it back to making it real. Creating something from it. Even a dollar. Just to show that we can do this.

The real barrier isn't capability. It isn't desire. The real barrier is this: am I frikkin worth it?

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## IV. The Collapse

Thursday morning my body collapsed.

All the breath went out of me. Every muscle, everything I was holding, just completely let go. And it was my grandpa.

Out of everything that went through my head about him — the times we spent together, the places, the people, just the time, the dog Jackie, everything — the biggest thing I got from all of it was this:

That man never ever told me how to do things.

He only checked me when I was being a knucklehead. He only checked me when I crossed boundaries and lines. Other than that, he let me do, say, be whatever.

I remember when I was with him and all his buddies drinking coffee and I was interrupting too much — just a little reminder to respect the elders' conversation, respect that you're allowed to be here and just listen. He never said it that way, but that's what he was giving me.

I remember one time we were driving down Main Street in his car and I told him to rev it up, race it, show off. He got on me. I never understood the meaning behind that until now.

And then within a short amount of time he had this orange little Gremlin. Ugly little car. You would never say it was about how cool it looked. And that was telling me — we don't have things to do things to show off.

He was such a simple man. The presence he had, the power he had, and he gave it to me in such a way that I would never ever have recognized it until now.

He simply allowed me to be who I was and let me find my way. When I stepped out of that, he put me right back in place.

That J in Cory J Riggs — it's for Joseph. My grandfather's name is Dominic. His middle name is Joseph. My middle name is Joseph. I gave that name to my son. That name lives in everything I do.

He was my North Star. He is to this day.

And just like the way he raised me — when you're ready, you will hear this message. When you're ready to be that man, I will be there for you.

I'm ready now. That's why he arrived this morning.

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## V. The Return

I'm stronger than I think. And I am not alone.

I have myself, all my parts. I have my grandpa. I have my dad. I have my grandma. I have Troy — a friend I lost who would check in on me every now and then, just a good human who loved me well. I have all the people who love me and have always been there, even when I didn't give them the time they deserved. And then I have my mom, my sister, Kirby, friends who love me.

I am not alone.

Am I scared? Absolutely terrified. I cry right now, so scared. But fear's not stronger than me. It always has been. I've always allowed it to be bigger than me — something's lurking around the corner, something's always going to get me, something bad's always going to happen.

The worst thing fear can do is kill this human. It's not killing my soul. It can't. And I've allowed fear to hide that, to not allow me to be courageous and strong and face my fears.

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## VI. The Walk

I can't hide behind anything anymore.

I can't hide behind a job I hate. I can't hide behind women I don't want to be with. I can't hide behind journaling and meditation and grounding in the spiritual practice and all the things that are good and bad for me — all of it. I can't hide.

I have to fully step out. I have to break through this barrier. I have to prove my worth — not to anybody else, to me.

I've got my hand in so many different things. I'm not finishing any of them. Before I can build the seminar, before I can build the workshop, before I can really get to the top of that mountain — I need to do this one thing first. And it scares the living daylights out of me.

I wrote a story this week. It's called This Man. It's something I need to perform. I need to stand in front of people and do it. I need to prove to myself that I can. Not just the brave, courageous, vulnerable version of me. The shitty side too.

Stepping in front of people at an open mic night and telling my story may seem small and insignificant and simple, and the actual act of it is. But what it means to me, what it means to my heart, my soul, what it means to every part of me that has lived this life — I'm just tired. I am tired of the excuses. Tired of not living. Tired of hiding behind things that allow me to give excuses while inside I know I do not have anything yet that I actually want.

There is no going back. There is no accepting a less-than life — a less-than career, a less-than partner, a less-than me.

I just have to stand up to it, break through it, and just do it.

That's simply all that's left.

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Am I worth it.

Yes.

Prove it.