Jan 11, 2018
2 min read
Your irrational discomfort zone
A few years ago I took improv classes. There I was, my British restraint cast aside, and I’m yelling, laughing, and loving the troupe with whom I found myself. Free from judgment, and where the prime directive is to support your partner, it’s a place of safety. But despite that nurturing environment the instincts remain.
One Thursday evening I was happily reeling off my (admittedly poor) Scottish, Irish…
