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:

Let’s begin with the cast of characters:
A mom in the waiting room.
Watching the clock (tick, tick).
One hour is okay. They said one hour.
2 hours is not okay. 2.5 hours is definitely not okay.
Page the doctor again.
Anxiety. She’s in trouble.
Why can’t it be me instead, this is not the natural order of things.
I’m not okay.
 
A dad at work.
Looking normal on the outside.
Going through the motions with machines and metal and tools and oil.
Shoving down emotions.
This is life.
She’ll survive, she’s tough.
I’m not okay.
 
A Doctor in the surgery room.
I explained the procedure.
I told her she’d be fine. No problem.
This is beyond my expertise.
I think of what I would do if it were my mom, my sister on this table.
She’s had too much sedation, she’s been prodded too much.
And I call it.
This situation is not okay.
 
There’s an RN.
I get to hold this hand like it’s my job.
It is my job, to have compassion, to send love and care through this hand.
To comfort and soothe. To joke. But to know this is serious.
When I tell her she’s okay, I mean it.
I’m here, you’ll be okay.
But am I okay?
 
A group of friends spread throughout the world.
Connected by Facebook.
They don’t know, because it hasn’t been shared with them.
So they go about their day, wanting to send love but not yet asked to.
Tomorrow there will be infinite “likes” and words of encouragement.
Today they post selfies and motivational memes.
Some are okay, some are not, but their pictures smile.
 
And a man in a far off land.
That feels a lifetime away.
Normalized in a world of hospitals and needles.
But it’s different when they belong to her.
My heart aches that I am not there.
I want to wrap her up in my arms.
And make sure she knows I’m not a thousand miles away.
That she can lean on me even though I’m not okay.
 
Freeze.
Camera zooms in on me:
Lying on the hospital bed
It’s cold in my thin open nightgown
They put warm blankets all around me
The RN holds my hand
The Doctor moves into my jugular vein
My mom is in the waiting room with 20 strangers holding her breath
My dad is dissociated with a wrench at work
My friends create their day in the world
And he holds someone else’s hand in a different hospital
And I wonder, is everyone else okay?
 
Fentanyl
The world goes fuzzy black
I feel pressure on my neck
Time looses meaning
 
Who I was: Glitter toenail polish fading from a month ago in Vegas as I relived my showgirl days
Who I am: Humbled on a cold hospital bed
On the outside: Vitality and beauty
On the inside: Twisted uncooperative veins, weak blood damaged by disease
Outside potential: Relationship, speaking, MedX at Stanford
Inside potential: Internal bleeding, possibilities of eventual transplant
So much potential all around that doesn’t matter in this moment
A steady beep, beep, beep is what counts right now
External projection: She has her shit together, I want to be her
Internal projection: She’s a mess, I feel sorry for her
 
And…. Action!
The silent incongruence that lives between glitter toenail polish and a hospital bed
 
Stay tuned for next week, where we lather, rinse, and repeat… all the while hoping for a different outcome.

Any experiences resonate? Comment below! 

As I sit down to write this morning I am hyper-aware of my desire to write something that could possibly encapsulate and be in service of today. To this moment. This moment that feels heightened by the anticipation of a medical procedure tomorrow.
 
Yet, I feel torn because “this moment” actually feels like the moment of “before.” It is hard for me to stay present when I am filled with anticipation. The inhale. The calm before the storm. I am at the mercy of overwhelming imagination. I am creating a whole world that will come to fruition intensely in many layers in the near future, particularly tomorrow. I am guessing what may and may not be, for better or worse, for sickness and health. The actual procedure and the implications. I am here, but my focus is over there.

And I wonder, am I missing today? How do you hold present, future, and “before” all at once without exploding?
 
And of course there are layers, it’s not just about anticipating tomorrow. It’s about at least three huge areas of my life that are in destruction for the sake of creation. And the awareness of this is compounding it all.
 
Health: Feeling strong and vibrant, yet filling out advanced directives for the hospital.
Career: My career is in the pain of an acorn longing to be a tree.
Relationship: Everything I thought to be true has changed.
 
Each of these represent aspects of the known and unknown. Of identity, change, and fear. Of the potential of relief and joy.
 
Health: Am I sick; or am I healthy.
Career: Am I to be fulfilled in my capacity to move, inspire, and reignite people to their own awakening process through my life experience, and be a success (grow into an oak); or am I going to be lost in an inability to act and move forward into my own professional fears and finances, and by default fail (stay forever as an acorn).
Relationship: Am I responsible for creating a crisis; or am I in the messy birth of a relationship that is so beautiful it is too much to receive and take it all in.
 
These are questions of identity. Of slowing down and sitting in the unknown of the “before.” Of making meaning, and enriching the stories and labels.
 
Health: I am creating my version of health that includes me being sick.
Career: I am fulfilled in my successes and failures. They teach each other, and I’m nurturing my own soil.
Relationship: I am in a crisis of beauty.
Anticipation: I can be in the heightened state of the “before,” and already be complete and present right now.
 
One side is not at the expense of the other. I can say yes to it all. And that is what is true. Confusing, overwhelming, intense, uncomfortable, and true. I can say to myself, I know these things are coming, one as early as tomorrow morning, and yet here I am, taking this breath right now, and I don’t want to miss it because it is just as precious. I don’t want to just merely get through today, because I know tomorrow is coming.. I have plenty of space and time to be fully in those other breaths later., so I give myself permission to be fully in this breath now. 

​I can be present in my anticipation.
 
How is this for you to stay in today, when you can feel a big moment coming? 

Let’s face it, unless we’re in complete remission/recovery forever and not in a relationship at all, we’re probably going to be going through some sort of set-back/relapse/diagnosis process at some point while also being in a relationship. 
 
And it’s hard. 
 
In my experience my illness/diagnosis bonded us, but also took a toll on my relationship,. When I was diagnosed I had periods of feeling closer in my relationship: like we were a team, like we were beating this together, like if we can make it through this, we can make it through anything. It was the experience of bonding through trauma. 
 
And then came the moments where I felt anger, resentment, shame:
No, I’m not healthy yet (will I ever be healthy?). Stop expecting me to be on a different timeline than I am. I don’t know how long it’s going to take to be normal.
No, I still don’t want to have sex. I don’t know if I ever will.
You know what, you don’t even get me anymore. This relationship is broken.
 
I’m a different person now then when we met.  
 
We all do the best that we can.  Maybe we grow closer together, and maybe we grow farther apart, and there’s also a  whole realm of combo deals out there as well.  There are as many scenarios as there are facets to relationship. 
 
Main point: when things happen to us personally the person we’re in a relationship with takes the most direct hit. Diagnosis in not fair to anyone in the relationship.
 
We want to protect each other from the pain we’re in, from the fear of our own and each other’s mortality, from the reality of the truth. So we stay quiet. As much as this is a noble cause we also miss out on support, and being seen in our pain.   
 
So if you want to be in a real-ationship, my encouragement is to keep communicating.  The harder it gets to be honest about the pain you’re in: be brave and share it.  It’s only going to be worse if you’re holding it in and not sharing, and both people feel isolated and unseen in the relationship.  Hard things, are, well, they’re hard to share. Sometimes impossible. But we have to take each other along on the journey if we want to stay together and grow. If we want a real-ationship. 
 
So what would happen if the things that you think you can’t share about your medical experience, you actually chose to share? 
 
And what would happen if at the same time you could trust your partner to let you know when they need a break from talking about it, and that you’ll come back to it, but you don’t take it personally?
 
This gives everyone an opportunity to be with each other in a crisis when we need each other the most, with enough space to deal with their own issues.  That’s part of one definition of compassion: having all the love in the world, but with a little bit of space. 
 
Everyone gets to be responsible for their own experience, and also be deeply loved. We get both autonomy and support. We get to rock each other to sleep.
 
But, here’s the trick: it’s a practice, and it can feel hard, scary, and vulnerable… but at the end of the day do you want to be in a real-ationship or not? 
 
If so, get brave, and get sharing.   

Does this seem true for you? Comment below:

I look at my iCal calendar on my computer, all organized in bright vibrant color-coded blocks of time from 5:30a to 10p each day, to-dos at the top of each day at least 10 long and I choke on my inhale. Slow down. Breathe. Have patience.
 
But I should know better.
 
A few weeks ago I was doing better. I had days, whole days, that had nothing written on them… well actually, maybe one day. And, well, really that was in December. No, wait, in February I had 3 days off! Good job. Okay, well actually it was because I got the flu and couldn’t go to the 3 day training I was supposed to be at. I remember feeling so relieved I had a 102 degree fever so that I could take those days off to be at home. What’s wrong with this picture? 
 
I am exhausted. My liver aches. One thing gets added to my schedule unexpectedly and I feel overwhelmed, like I’m going to throw up, like I want to hide forever from the world and let go of all responsibilities. But I can’t, I’m committed,.  I did this to myself. 
 
My alarm clock goes off at 4:30am again.
 
I’m making myself sick by being busy. Being busy is my addiction.
 
And right now I’m relapsing. I’m consciously watching myself do my addiction, feeling powerless to stop it. Like I’m a victim of my calendar and all the things I have said “yes” to. Feeling like I need to do all these things in order to cope with what’s going on in my personal life, to cope with not wanting to feel. I’m too busy to have time to feel. How convenient.
 
And the world says: you’re amazing that you can do all of that, it’s inspiring. And I’m justified. Validated. Empowered. To keep doing my addiction. To "get shit done." To use my calendar to avoid living my life.
 
And then I’m fatigued. I’m exhausted. My abdomen aches.
 
You know better. This is how you got sick in the first place. Change your lifestyle. You have to.  And I judge myself. And my alarm goes off at 4:30a again.
 
STOP.  Just stop... Slow down sweet girl. You pace is dizzying, running around in a circle. Listen deep within. Grown up Zina has you now, and is rocking you. It’s okay. Just feel. Feel your precious heart and this moment of life that will not come back again. Who do you want to be when you grow up into this moment? Who do you want to be with? How does that time look, feel, and taste? Don’t miss your life.
 
Sometimes we relapse on our own toxic behavior. Even when we know our lives and health depend on us staying sober. And we suffer as we watch ourselves. And it’s okay… hand on heart, breath in belly. I caught myself sooner this time. I see my pain and frustration. I’m going to be okay, and I’m moving in the right direction.
 
I look at my calendar, start taking out blocks of color, make a few phone calls, sigh into the blank spaces. Alarm goes off at 7a.
 
I can choose to be busy, but less busy, and be aware and awake. I can have self-compassion. I can feel a little. I can be in community. I can do the counter-cultural thing. I can say yes, but also no. I can change. I can honor my health.
 
Does any of this feel true for you? Comment below:

Sometimes things seem too potent to try to share using narrative writing. At moments like these I watch myself turn towards my own bastardized form of poetry, to get to what’s vital. So here we go...
 
I wanted to share with you a little bit of what I learned from conversations in my relationships (with myself and others) this week:
 
​
Isn’t it sad how we come into the world in diapers and then go back to diapers. It’s pathetic.
No, it’s humbling.
 
What am I doing with my life?
I want to curl into a ball, in a cave, and never come out.
To give up. Because I’m overwhelmed.
But instead it’s time to create
These are growing pains.
 
They rock me like waves.
What lies beneath the waves?
What anchors me so I don’t float away from my potential?
 
You and your potential are fruit
The pain right now lies in how ripe you are, yet still on the stem
You will fall to the ground at some point regardless of ripeness, and be incorporated there.
So, how do you nurture yourself to feed your own fecund earth?
 
I know I need to nurture, I need to slow down… I’m overwhelmed, and I did it to myself again.
My business is how I cope.
I judge myself for not being able to internally motivate to change.
Right now it just feels like it needs to come from the outside.
But you don’t want it to come from your doctor.
(No, I want it to come from you.)
 
This is the hospital calling to schedule your next procedure.
 
Ego check.
Reality check.
Vulnerable. Scared. But of course I’ll be fine. I always am.
There’s my external motivation. It’s not the one I wanted. It never is.
But part of me is relieved. Now I have permission to come back to what matters.
Health. Relationship. Purpose.
 
And I’m reminded to:
Live your truth and share it,
You never know who you’re going to inspire.
 
 
Humbling growing pains
rock me like waves
The ripe fall.
 
Slow down.
Change is calling you.
 
Health. Relationship. Purpose. Inspiration.