When I was 15 years old, I did something unusual for someone my age. I took the est training. No, “est” is not a typo. It was spelled in lowercase letters with no periods. Little e, little s, little t. It stood for “Erhard Seminars Training” and was founded by Werner Erhard (aka Jack Rosenberg, Svengali-in-training). He came up with a formula, repackaged old wisdom, and gave it a new vocabulary. And, he knew how to sell. “Est” is also Latin for “it is.”
It was the height of the 1970s “Me” Decade and the grownups were signing up for fix-yourself workshops and encounter groups. They were buying––and sometimes even reading––self-help books by the stack. They played wife-swapping games and attended Esalen for naked retreats. They were searching––searching for a magic solution that might cure their restlessness, their bad marriages, and their overall “is that all there is?” dissatisfaction with life.
My parents did the training. Living with them while they basked in the afterglow of personal enlightenment was it’s own brand of teenage hell. My mother was head over heels in love with all of it, including the founder, whom she referred to as Uncle Werner, or Uncle Wernsie. My father was willing, though more reticent than mom. After their trainings they started speaking in code, using annoying est jargon in every interaction. I barely tolerated their newfound cultish euphoria. It was irritating to say the least.
They said things like “I got it! Thank you for sharing.” And then they’d look at me and say, “Did you get it?” “Are you clear?” I’d get agitated, and they’d say "what you resist, persists.”
“Did I get it? GET what??? What does that mean?”
“Oh, we can’t tell you. You have to do the training if you want to find out.”
I thought they were out of their minds, but at the same time, I was curious about this thing they were so excited about. So I said I’d do it, too. I can’t remember exactly why I chose to pay for it myself, but I went to the bank, took out $250 of my hard-earned and carefully saved money. I was left with a balance of $6.13, and a feeling of independence, pride, and the slight suspicion that I’d just been hoodwinked.
At the top of the application for the course, I read a question no one had ever asked me before. “Name you like to be called.” What? Really? YES! I like to be called Nan. No more Nancy, if you please.
It felt like the first tentative step toward freedom. Someone was asking how I wanted to be seen. They were asking, “who are you, really?”
The training took place in a hotel ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria over the course of two consecutive weekends. My parents paid for my hotel room; even in 1976, my remaining $6.13 wouldn’t have gotten me very far. I was determined to find out what all the excitement was about. I didn’t like feeling excluded. My parents seemed so happy. They seemed to be enjoying one another more than usual. They were playful together. I wanted to feel happy with them.
I was not a happy kid.
There’s a story about me when I was a very little girl; crib little. I would hear my parents laughing in another room, and I’d yell out, “stop that laughing!” I guess I felt left out. I wanted to laugh with them.
I was the youngest person in my training. There were rules of behavior, not guidelines; bathroom breaks when they said we could go; you were shit out of luck if you had to visit the loo before a break. If you wanted to speak, you had to raise your hand and wait to be called on. There was no access to food, water, or watches when we were sitting in the room. I enjoyed the spectacle of 249 irate adults flipping out because they were having their freedoms stripped away, if only for a very short time. Frustration intolerance was at its height. Panic and outrage ensued. The drama was riveting.
The “what-if-I-have-to-pee” hysteria was the most entertaining aspect of those early moments in the room.
What a bunch of babies. When I was 15, my bladder was made of steel, I could go hours and hours without a pee. I have a touch more compassion for the anxiety of my cross-legged elders because today I’m 50 years older, and my bladder has gone from steel to tissue paper in its capacity for retention. I found out many years later that the longest we’d go without a break was about 4 hours. Clearly it was not about peeing, it was about losing control, and the control had nothing to do with their bladders.
The training was mostly fascinating to me. It was clever, built on rules, structured tightly, and the logistics team conveyed a message of perfection in everything they did. Neat rows of chairs, pencils, and registration cards were lined up in rows like soldiers marching in formation. The registration cards were for the next seminar we’d have to sign up for so we’d keep the “it” that we’d gotten. Keep that money rolling in, Uncle Werner. There was an unwavering attention to detail, not a hair out of place. That appealed to me, it was familiar; a mirror of the expectations of the family I grew up in. Not a hair out of place, ever.
After I completed the training and learned the lingo, my little brother followed suit. He was 11 when he attended the children’s training; the est version for kids. After we’d all “done it,” we were roped into volunteering every Saturday as a family. We phone banked to sign up more people. Free labor for the cause. A world that works for everyone. That’s what est promised.
Not long after we’d earned our est diplomas, the pink cloud my parents were living on dissolved into vapor, and they announced they were divorcing. My father moved out, and in an instant, the world I occupied had disappeared. Losing his daily presence in my life crushed me.
My brother and I were left with our mom, and she went missing on a regular basis. She gave her time and energy to Werner and est. She started dating men she met in seminars and would stay out all night; she volunteered and learned how to lead guest events. We didn’t see a lot of her. Gone most nights, we fended for ourselves. Sometimes she’d remember to leave us a cold roast chicken. Sometimes, there’d be beef stew in a pressure cooker, waiting on the stove. We ate a lot of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
We despised Uncle Werner. He did this to us. And the truth? The truth is his work set my family free. He gave my mother the courage to end a marriage that was based on a lie, so she could live a full life. She was only 37 at the time.
My brother and I hated Werner Erhard for years.
This essay isn’t about how est ruined our lives (because it didn’t). It’s about something I took with me that’s been in my head for all these years. Amid the jargon, there was one phrase I latched onto.
I used to be different. Now, I’m the same.
When I heard the expression the first time, it tickled me, it was delightful. It felt contradictory and troublesome at first, like a Zen koan that was difficult to unlock; but on some primal level it made sense to me. I didn’t have the words to explain the heart tug I felt.
The phrase was filled with mystery; it made me long to return to my source. I didn’t know exactly what that meant. It was an inkling of an idea.
As the decades passed my life got harder. The blues became my theme song, but I never gave up my desire to heal. I pursued therapy––all kinds, yoga––all styles, meds––the whole damn pharmacopeia. I tried extreme but necessary treatments to alleviate my emotional suffering, my suicidality. Though all of them helped, nothing offered complete remission from my troubles.
When my therapist told me I’d only go so far without making some kind of spiritual connection, I listened, even though it was a subject I felt cynical about and resistant to for most of my life. She recommended I add a 12-step program to the work I was doing with her. I followed her advice and made my way to the rooms that looked nothing like the hotel ballroom of my past.
I was tired of losing sight of my potential every time I got the shit kicked out of me by life. I was tired of the negative self-talk that swirled in my head, ready to shut me down at the slightest infraction. But I had no clue how to free myself from its hold.
I discovered that a lot the ideas that Werner Erhard taught were also present in 12-step programs. Both shared a happy affinity for snappy one-liners.
Where did they differ? est put great emphasis on managing our lives by using our will, our thinking selves. 12-step was just the opposite. 12-step is about faith and surrender. It taught me how to access my heart. When I found myself willing to cede my ever-present need to control everything around me––which I can’t––that’s when I “got it.”
Getting it had to come from my center. The center that has nothing to with the thinking part of me. The thinking part was where things got messy.
Existing in my upside-down world, I had learned fear and self-doubt. I wasn’t confident, I didn’t trust most people. I lied to myself and others, and fought for every shred of control I thought I needed to feel safe. I evolved into one of those angry adults I laughed at in that 1976 ballroom.
When I surrendered to a higher power––I call mine Grace––is when the light broke through. Making that connection was the missing piece that would enable me to unearth the gifts I possessed from the start. The gifts I lost track of.
That’s when I understood the phrase.
I came into this world in possession of qualities that were my birthright. The joy, ebullience, creativity, self-confidence, and inner spark that were always part of me. I believe we all possess the potential to shine.
Maybe my family was dysfunctional. Have you ever heard of a functional family? If they exist, they must be very rare. My way was paved with obstacles I put there myself and by circumstances beyond my control. All the things that happened to me in my long life contributed to my evolution as a sensitive, curious, and kind human being. Those qualities were always there.
There’s a source that lives within me and without me. It’s not rooted in intellectual exercises and mind games, like the ones I experienced at est. I am part of something greater than myself and when I understood that, it released me from doubt and I became able return to the self I was always meant to be. I discovered that I’m not as alone as I believed. I’m not alone at all.
So, in the end? I got “it.” I got what I needed to get. And it took as long as it took to get it.
Probably a lot longer than Uncle Werner intended. Should I give him credit for planting those two very powerful sentences in my head? Sure. Why not. He did.
But Uncle Werner didn’t do it all. I needed more. I needed to be willing to put myself into the mix and I needed to welcome Auntie Grace to remind me every day that I’ve always had everything I’ve ever needed. I just didn’t know it until now.
I used to be different. Now, I’m the same.
And because my friend, , wins the best comment of the day prize, (so far), and then said the thing I wish I’d said, here’s what she’s talking about.
So much better than the Werner Erhard reel I shared.
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