Today I want to celebrate. And the truth is, I’m too exhausted. Too tired to celebrate or feel satisfied. I have crawled across some make-believe finish line of the past month, which has left me tattered and torn, strewn on the ground reaching for a cup of water.
 
In the fantasy of my mind I thought I’d be standing on a podium of my own achievement, medal in hand, adoring crowd. Everyone aware of what I’ve accomplished and done. Oh, doesn’t that feel good? I can feel the perfect beam of sunlight landing on my face now, lighting me up, and I’m able to take it all in. (In this scenario I think my skin is even sparkling a bit, like one of those vampires, and also I have a dress made out of fire, like in Hunger Games.) So magnificent. My glory moment of surviving the last month. It’s what I deserve, to be seen.
 
But unfortunately, there’s no podium, no medal, no crowd. I feel like I just pulled back the curtain to see that the wizard is actually just human. I’m just human. And no one seems to notice. In the scenario of what feels like reality I’m standing on 5th avenue in NYC asking for food, and everyone passes me by without looking, cold, grey, uncaring.
 
Let me make this clear- this is not the glory moment I wanted. I’ve been trained for awards and applause, sparkles and fire. And instead it feels like I’m getting a broken wizard and grey blah.
 
In truth, today, my glory moment is unexpectedly quiet. I’m being offered time alone to celebrate, quietly, with myself. I’m the only one who really knows what I’ve survived this past month. And I’m the only one who can truly see it. Sigh.
 
2 times in the hospital
Medical bills that make my head spin
One job I work, to have health insurance, that kills my soul a little each time I go there
A doctors appointment with great news!
And foreshadowing of more challenging procedures to come
3 presentations at major conferences, one at a university
Talking about things I hold so dearly to my heart…
Illness, burnout, self-care…
Feeling like a hypocrite… well, actually, I’m human and learning just like everyone else
More hours spent with my person than I could’ve hoped possible
Quality time with family and friends
A brave decision to give myself more space and time by lowering a commitment
Feeling broken, filled back up, broken, full, broken, full…
The brilliance of a fleeting moment being in the present
 
And yet, it’s not enough, not enough…not enough.
 
I want more, more, more… I want someone to see me! Don't you? I want the crowd! I want people to really know what I’ve gone through, as if they were somehow me. Who really get it. To tell me they’re proud of me. Oh, I feel how I crave it.
 
But the truth is, it does not matter who sees me, if I can’t see myself. And also, that I’m the only one who will really know what it’s like to be me. If I can’t breathe, take in the joy and the pain of surviving another month in this body, in this lifetime, no one else is going to be able to make me feel that. I get to do this for myself. 
 
So I accept what is right before me. A day of personal silence and quiet, to tell myself that I’ve done so well. To sleep in, meditate, write… do some movement, eat my favorite foods. To tuck in with a cup of tea, and say, dear one, I’m so proud of you.
 
And as I do this, I realize all the people that have actually told me this over the past month. But I couldn’t hear it yet, because I hadn’t told myself. I needed to believe it first. If I didn’t believe in myself first, no one else is going to be able to say it in a way that I could believe it.
 
We need to see ourselves first before we can take the good stuff in from anyone else.

​And, don't worry, I totally get it, seeing ourselves for our accomplishments can be the hardest thing.
 
So today, would you be willing to try to say: hey self, good job! To see yourself, just about one little thing. I know you did something worth being seen for… getting out of bed, organizing a closet… Maybe it feels funny, or fake, but I’ll try it with you. We can tell ourselves together, okay? Because when we see ourselves, then we can let it in more from everyone else too.

The snow falls down outside my window and blankets everything in white. It's mid-April in Colorado. 
 
Underneath, there’s a seed in the dirt, with lots of roots and a little shoot of a few new leaves reaching for the sky. It says: I’m afraid. I’m brave. I’m ready.
 
I’m afraid. I’m afraid that the snow will crush me. Of loving too much and getting hurt. Of not making the impact in this world that I know I was meant to. Of dying too young. Of hurting someone. Of not trusting myself. Of never starting. Of being sick, sicker, sickest. Even worse, I’m afraid of success. Of having to grow into my potential fully, and the energy it will take to become a real plant, not just a seed.
 
I’m brave. I’ve lived through a lot. This isn’t the first snow of the season. I’m no bullshit. My body and I are friends more now than ever... seed, roots, leaves.. I know what my needs are. I have a fire burning inside of me… correction, raging, to make a difference. To contribute. I know when it’s time the sun will come out, and I say, bring it!  
 
I’m ready. (My brain immediately says, are you sure?) This is a tough one. This brings up the question for me: when do I know I’m ready? When do I know enough to begin, to start, to change? I want to know it all first, and then start. I don’t want to be messy, look silly, or lead someone astray. Maybe I'm not ready...
 
Okay, let’s try this again… I’m ready. Why? Because I know I’m both afraid and brave. And that I can be both, and still begin. In the past I’ve been afraid, or I’ve been brave. Either hiding in a corner, or out in the in the spotlight. Maybe it’s okay to have the parts in the shadow supporting the parts in the light… and maybe they can even get a little of the light themselves. Maybe they should.
 
Honestly, we’ll never be fully ready. Waiting for that time is a great way to avoid it. So we need to be ready enough. And we need to admit that it’s scary and amazing. And maybe that’s when we know that it’s actually time to begin something.
 
And, lastly, we get to tell our community, to be seen, validated, and held accountable (that cozy hiding place is looking pretty appealing again all of a sudden). Go figure, nature thinks this sometimes too… here it’s been warm and sunny spring, those leaves and buds are starting to come out, and now we’re under a blanket of snow. The buds are afraid yet brave. They’ll perservere and be stronger for it. And so will mine. Timing is everything. When you know it’s time to start… start.
 
So, is there somewhere in your life that you are actually ready to begin something new? To step into change? Maybe you don’t have to wait any longer. Maybe you’re ready… enough. Sometimes not feeling fully ready means you actually are ready. Spring teaches us the seeds in ourselves that are ready to start growing. My suggestion is to write it and share it, or say it out loud. Somehow it gets more real. It freaks you out just enough to give you greater conviction.
 
So here's the idea: 
1. Pick one “seed” or area that seems ready enough to start to grow.
2. Write down what it is. Set yourself up for success and be concise, to the point, try for a pithy phrase. Make it your mantra, stick it to your mirror, somewhere you can see it.
3. Tell one trusted person. Let them help support you. 
This doesn't have to be big drama. But it does need to help you start the process. Now. 
 
This is what I’m doing today. Time to get some seeds sprouting folks! 
 
 

To share or not to share, that is the question.
 
Recently I’ve tried a little experiment with myself and my life. It’s called: being authentic, being genuine, being vulnerable, being raw. I’m committed to doing this in my closest relationships, professionally with ethical boundaries, and publically in service of normalizing other people’s experiences.
 
I have spent a lot of my life feeling up on some pedestal of projection that looks a lot like: She has her shit together. She achieves. She is healthy. She’s got a one-up in the world.
 
Why would I possibly want to mess with that? Why would I want to say pssst actually I’ve got some serious stuff going on over here. Especially when it’s about things that are invisible, and probably no one else would know unless I tell them?
 
Because this projection of shiny brightness is only partially true. There is truth to it, and that’s the other part I’m committed to: not minimizing my strength, empowerment, and potential in the world. I definitely have the intention of giving the middle finger to the cultural paradigm that we can’t fully expand into our greatness.
 
So here’s the paradox: How do I own where I’m messy, and also own where I shine brightly? And why does all of it feel so vulnerable to talk about?
 
Just recently I’ve been opening up about my physical illness, among other personal things. That’s all fine and good until I leave my house, and encounter real people, especially ones who may have read what I’ve written. Suddenly I feel, well, naked. Seen. And I wonder, am I strong enough for this? This quest of sharing my truth for my own and other’s healing. Isn’t it easier to just keep my mouth/laptop shut?
 
Because now there are conversations. Now I’m in relationship, and people feel invited in… and they are. It doesn’t stop in sharing a little tidbit, that just opens the door. But this is how we breakdown the massive perceived wall of our own and other’s isolation. Of thinking we don’t impact or affect of others. Of thinking that we’re not constantly in relationship.
 
It’s right to take it seriously. I have impact. We all do. And with impact comes responsibility. To be truthful, honest, and delicate with what we share. But also to not be afraid, when and if we’re ready, to share it. Because it matters. The conversations matter. Being extraordinary, and messy, matters. We owe it to each other to try being vulnerable and seen.
 
As Brene Brown (I feel super pop-psych culture quoting her, but frankly she’s fabulous), in her book Daring Greatly, talks about, we don’t want to vomit our unprocessed crap all over people and call it vulnerability, because it’s not (I may have paraphrased that a bit).  
 
So in an effort not to slime you, I check in with myself that sharing seems like the next step in our relationship. Because I want to start a conversation about our nakedness. I want to invite you in, cuddle you close, share s’mores around a campfire, and tell ghost stories about our own personal ghosts. Because chances are, our ghosts are actually dancing together, and maybe they’re not so scary afterall. But we don’t know, unless we share.
 
So here’s the deal:
When you get to a point of knowing there is something that seems like it must be shared with a friend, lover, partner, community, here's a couple questions you can ask yourself, like I do:

• What will be the potential harm and benefit of me sharing this right now, both to me, and to who is listening (ie. What is the impact)?
• Do I feel comfortable with this person/people knowing this about me, and that I will be seen/naked in this way?
• Do I want to have a conversation and be more intimate in relationship around this topic?

What struggles/triumphs have you had sharing something vulnerable? Is it worth it? Comment below:

Yesterday I wept. That’s a poetic way of saying I was a messy, snotty, sobbing, ugly crier. I lost all of my skills… you know, those tools I’ve creatively, consciously, willingly and willfully, through blood, sweat, and tears, cultivated over the past 12 years in an effort to relearn how to interact with myself and the world in a more healthy way.

And then in less than 24 hours I watched the sedatives from the hospital and my physical pain let them slip through my hands like water that flowed, swirled, and gurgled while laughing at me, down the drain. Which, of course, is totally normal.
 
But, I am sad to say that I said things that were hurtful to the person caretaking me with the most compassion, heart, and beautiful selfless, detail imaginable.
 
I said: Stop worrying about me, I’m fine. You don’t think you can leave me alone because I’ll fall down the stairs and kill myself? I’m not a baby. You’re freaking out and it’s stressing me out. I can’t be stressed out because I’ll be sicker, and now it hurts more. Don’t’ you trust me, Do you think I'm an idiot. You think I have to call the hospital now? Why, because who said, some pharmacist? I’m fine. FINE. STOP FREAKING OUT …
 
…only I… can’t… breath… tears, snot, sob sob sob.
 
It took me a minute to realize that even though that’s what I said, what I actually meant was:
Note to self- STOP FREAKING OUT!!!
I'm scared.
I’m attacking you about being worried, because I’m the one that's worried. 
This isn’t fair.
It sucks.
I’m in pain.
What did I do to deserve this?
I want to go off by myself, and suffer, and come back when I’m “better”

• So that I can protect you from feeling pain
• So that I can protect you from being scared, looking at yourself, and having to see your own mortality
• So I can protect you from thinking that you may lose me one day
• So that I can protect you from me

I’m so sorry.
You don’t’ deserve this.
No parent, partner, friend, lover, community, deserves this, deserves dealing with me.
 
So, let’s face it, the only skill left to me after my emotional deconstruction was that of repair. Of saying I’m sorry. Of trying to take responsibility … to de-vomit what I had spewed-out in a dramatic rewind, and let you know that I’m aware that this is actually mine.
 
Chemicals and pain aren’t an excuse to hurt those we love. But it happens anyway. So maybe what’s left is trying to repair it with, hopefully, the willingness, compassion, and heart of the other party. Sometimes it’s such a relief to be human and messy and unskillful, and sometimes it is so hard to do that without a sense of entitlement. Like I can hurt you because I’m being authentic right now. Some kind of contempt of being so fabulously “vulnerable.” How do we give ourselves the permission and relief to be an unskillful mess, while also not intentionally bulldozing over the people we love the most... and when we do, have self-compassion and repair it? I don’t know that I have an answer to that yet... maybe it's something about acceptance that it will happen, love for ourselves when it does, and hope that we can have a conversation about it.. I know I’m doing my best with deep gratitude to the people that love me enough to say, ya, you fucked up, you hurt me, but I love you anyway. I’m still here and I still want this relationship.
 
So take a breath and give yourself some love right now, because we’re all trying our best to figure this out, together through fear, snot, pain, and relationship. 

Thoughts? Comment below:

I sit down to meditate. Instantly I see myself in a pile of debris, of World War II post air raid fallout piled around me, and a big piece of concrete on my diaphragm, pressing so I can’t breathe. I touch my diaphragm, my abdomen, with my hands. I hold her: I soothe and rock myself. I tell myself I’m okay.

This current acute insult on my organs is bringing up residual memories of 3 years of pain and fear. My mind knows there is no more physiological invasive attacks planned, but my body doesn’t. My body is locking up to protect itself, to protect from further tragedy… it’s smart. And also the tension is hurting me, its literally painful. I tell myself, I’m safe-enough, okay-enough, and thank you.

The tension eases up almost imperceivably. I can see it looking at me like a four-year-old child that tilts her head and isn’t quite sure whether to trust the adult or not. Is this a trick?

I can’t lie, it could be, I’ve tricked myself before. For years. Telling myself I was okay when I actually wasn’t. Until my body screamed so loudly I couldn’t lie any more. So she has a point, which is currently living as tension in my abdomen.

Right now myself doesn’t trust my Self. Wow, that’s hard to write, hard to admit… breathe, stare into space, necessary dissociation. Myself doesn’t trust my Self. How do we gain this trust back with ourselves and our bodies, when we have a past record of lying to ourselves? When our bodies had to turn the volume up so loud that it was a scream, for us to finally listen? 

And now with one tiny painful invasive procedure it’s like we’re back at square one, with my body saying fuck you… you didn’t listen for 30 years, why should I trust you now? She says, I tried to tell you. I gave you inability to sleep, nightmares as a child, tingles of anxiety on the skin of your arms and face, shortness of breath, pounding heart, colds, injuries, stomach problems, a hard time relating with others…

While you were going: perfectionism, control, business, awards, beauty, party, perfect, spotlight…

So I was like, okay: fear, pain, jaundice, shutdown, hospital…

And then you were like, big insight: oh, maybe something’s wrong. Maybe I need to change?

And now you have a measly 5-ish years of attempted good behavior.

So now I’m scared. I don’t trust you. If I don’t scream, you may not listen or realize we’re hurting. I’m doing this for both of us.

Alright. I get it. But you need to trust me. Please. I know so much more now, because of you. I am trying to tell the truth, and I’m willing to keep changing. This is just a setback. Let’s get a little bit cheesy and work together on this one. We need each other for the collective wisdom. Thank you for the protection, sounding the airraid siren, building a concrete barrier when you were scared. You saved our lives.

Okay, well, thank you for trying to listen even though sometimes you’re a shitty listener. But, seriously, thank you for understanding that I’m only trying to help, and I won’t freak out so much if I know you’re paying attention and we keep communicating. I want a relationship, I don’t want to have to just take over all the time.

Diaphragm releases, deep full breath, a moment of relief.

It’s amazing what happens in relationship, when we listen to the parts of ourselves that in that moment know better. When we figure out it’s safe-enough. When ourselves can trust Ourselves. 

What do you think? Comment below: