Deep Reverence

…a reflection on finding courage and looking your greatest fear in the eyes by Stacey James McAdoo…

April is a month of high stakes and a perpetual state of “both/and’s”. It is National Poetry Month (a time of reaching for the perfect words to creatively describe things that often try their best to defy descriptions) existing right alongside a season of rigid standardized testing. 

Then, of course, there’s the weather. In the South, and in Arkansas specifically, April is a literal tug-of-war with the senses. It’s the bitter, lingering bite of tangy greens meeting the first, sweetness of local strawberries; one day is a sun-drenched porch afternoon, and the next is a heavy-humid tornado warning-sirens blasting, storm-darkened hallway. It is a reminder that life is rarely just one thing, but rather a constant series of “both/ands” … a complex recipe that requires both the bitter and the sweet in order to be complete.

For over twenty years, I have facilitated workshops and taught students about the power of words.  And I’ve almost always started each session’s introduction with a “Bio Poem.” There is a specific line in that template where you have to state your fears. For two decades, my answers were hypothetical. They were the “what-ifs” that keep a mother and an educator up at night.

Then, the script changed.

Outliving my son, Norel, meant that my greatest fear was no longer something I was trying to avoid; it was something I had already survived. There is a profound, deep shift that happens inside of you when you walk through the fire of your greatest “what-if.” The world starts to look different. When you have already stood face to face in the aftermath of a fear that actually came true, your appetite for risk changes. You realize that “safe” was always an illusion, so you might as well choose to be brave.

After Norel’s passing, I spent several months essentially homebound and withdrawn. The world felt too heavy to carry and I didn’t have the energy or desire to play with it. When I finally decided to step back out, I went to an Aqua Motion class at the local gym.

You should know that I wasn’t (and still am not) a “real” swimmer. I have a genuine fear of putting my face in the water. (Years ago, I actually taught myself to swim for a triathlon, but I didn’t practice the way the event was actually set up. When I got to the race, I realized the indoor pool required me to go lane by lane, dipping under the ropes to reach the next one, so I ended up completing the entire swim portion doing the backstroke!) But back to the Aqua Motion class…even though I’m not a swimmer, the peace of the water kept calling me. At the time it was the only place that felt as heavy as my heart, yet somehow made me feel lighter.

Because I’ve survived the unimaginable, the fear of showing up to the Aqua HIIT and Conditioning class I’ve now graduated to (whether that meant diving into a pool or even having my feet and ankles bound together like a mermaid) started to look small. In the song “Deep Reverence,” Big Sean and Nipsey Hussle speak about the internal battle, noting they “fought ghosts in my mind, had to look ’em in the eyes.” That is exactly what it feels like to stand on the edge of that pool and choose the water over the withdrawal.

I have always had a hard time quieting my mind. It is a constant hum of ideas, “to-dos,” and memories. However, I’ve discovered a secret in my “Never Have I Ever” adventures like floating a river, taking a watercolor painting or group HIIT class, pitching a camping tent, or playing in a community drum circle for the first time.

These experiences are some of the only times my mind actually goes quiet.

I think it’s the mechanical necessity of concentration. When you are doing something entirely new, you are forced to be 100% present. You can’t worry about the past or think about the future when you’re trying to find the rhythm of a frame drum or keep your form in a watercolor demo. The concentration creates a clearing. It’s a “U-turn” back to a version of myself that knows how to just be.

We often talk about “Still Standing” as if it’s a static pose…a quiet endurance. But I’m learning that standing still is an active practice. It’s holding faith in one hand and longing in the other. It’s acknowledging that you can be mourning a loss while simultaneously navigating a career shift or training for an Aquathon. (I’m still shaking my head in awe that I “done messed around” and signed up for an whole timed swimming competition!)

My “standard” answers for who I am and what I fear no longer fit the world I live in. I’m rewriting the poem of my life as I go.

Sometimes, the world expects you to stay in the wreckage of your fears. But the biggest flex isn’t just surviving the fire; it’s realizing that because you survived the “unsurvivable,” you now have the strength to choose how you want to live the rest of your story.

Whether I’m in the pool, at the writer’s desk, or in the community circle, I’m not just surviving. I’m still standing. And that is the greatest victory of all.

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Stacey McAdoo, the 2019 Arkansas Teacher of the Year, brings over twenty years of experience advocating for traditionally underrepresented students and educators. Her relationship-based approach to education is featured in the award-winning Arkansas PBS docuseries Closing the Opportunity Gap and the course Coaching Self Expression: Go-In Poet.

As the founder of the Writeous Poets (a spoken word and youth advocacy collective) and an expert professional development facilitator, Stacey designs sessions centered on arts integration, equity, and empowerment. Currently, she serves as a professor at Reach University and the Executive Director for Teach Plus Arkansas, where she leads a policy fellowship that empowers educators to advocate for systemic change. She is also the host of the A Mile In My Shoes: The Walk & Talk Podcast.