Being with what is

My mom, Anelda, 1960s. 

I have come to a place of peace in my life, despite circumstances. Or maybe because of circumstances. While our current reality is hard in many ways, it's not the hardest thing I've ever done.

I come to this place honestly—this place of peace and mindfulness, of relative comfort with uncertainty. Today I feel like writing a bit about my journey because I'm sad today—knowing this is a place I occasionally visit but don't stay.

Today is Mother's Day. 

I write this today for anyone who's ever felt alone. For those whose mothers are gone, for those who didn't have a mother figure in their lives, or for those with no children of their own.  

My mother left this mortal plane 20 years ago next week on May 19. While she had been ill for several years, she was maintaining and doing OK. We were getting into a new groove, as she'd recently moved into assisted living. So when I returned home from a morning run and got the call, I felt like I'd run into a wall. Hard. Not yet, it's too soon. 

In hindsight, I am proud of my mother for living as long as she did, despite dying at 64. The youngest of four children, she was unplanned—an accident—and felt unwanted throughout her life. When her oldest sister died at 48, my grandmother was inconsolable. My mother was never the same; now, she was also the recipient of my grandmother's spite.  

Family matters...  

Still in my formative years, with my aunt and grandfather gone, we moved into the family home to care for my grandmother, who was paralyzed on her left side from a stroke. She graciously died three years later, and despite an end to the misery, I found myself unhappy and alone. With mom working every day, and no adults around, I went from a well-mannered, thoughtful kid, to a rebellious, self-destructive teenager.  

My mom was a single mom when it wasn't socially accepted; my dad died when I was two, and I didn't know his family. My dad was the love of my mom's life, and I'm not sure that sentiment was returned. (By the way, today would also have been his birthday.)

My grandfather, Ben.
(mid-1920/30?)

During those earliest years, there were many family gatherings—no siblings, but grandparents, aunts, uncles, great aunts and uncles, first cousins, cousins of cousins, and cousins once and twice removed. Holidays and harvests and many family funerals—funerals which resulted in fewer and fewer family gatherings. 

From abandonment to independence 

So my friends became my family, for better or worse. I attracted those on the same destructive path. We were a generation with absent parents, latch-key kids. Hindsight being a brilliant teacher, I see the impacts, from an abandonment mindset that impacted my early marriage, to later self-reliance and fierce independence. 

We are both always, and never, alone

So today I write for those who feel alone. I understand. I felt alone for much of my life. I was alone for much of my life. I even made sure I was alone, unconsciously pushing away anyone who cared—just in case they planned to leave.    

I rarely feel alone now because I have learned to be here for myself, above all else. Because in the end, I'm all I've got, and I'm here for me. I spent my single years building my resilience, learning to love and care for myself.   

Now, I'm fortunate to be with a man who chose to grow with me, even with a rocky (and long-distance) start. We, too, have an important date this month: 24 years together on May 18. This wasn't a given. A therapist once said our wounds recognized each other. The odds were against us—to come together in a healthy, interdependent relationship was not expected nor even anticipated. And yet, what we created will endure, because (with help) we learned to care for ourselves so we can care for each other. 

We learn from our mothers, intentionally or not

I still miss my mom. Always. We didn't have the easiest relationship, and yet, we grew to appreciate each other. She did what she was able to given the resources she had, which were few. Throughout it all, it was always just the two of us... me and mom. I know she loved me. 

Growing up, I wanted a mother I could be proud of, and I am. I'm proud because she found a way to survive despite it all. She offered words of wisdom that, while seeming less than adequate as a kid, now serve me well, like trusting my instincts and using my better judgment. From her, I also learned resilience and determination. A therapist once asked if I was angry at her. I'm not, although I am sometimes sad. But mostly, I feel gratitude and compassion.  

To honor her, today and any day, I take care of myself, including giving myself grace. Because I know she wanted me to have a good life.

I write this today because we are each on a journey, and we do this alone. Finding our place and being OK with "alone" is essential. No matter who we have, or don't have, in our lives, we have to show up for ourselves. 

Life is a continual journey to grow and learn. Pain is part of it. But through it all, we get better, stronger, and more fully human. The more we accept ourselves and our path, the easier it becomes to change our minds, our beliefs, our experience, and ultimately our lives. 

As my mother said so frequently, this too shall pass. 



If you like this post or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to subscribe (see right column), share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here. 

How to get out of your own way and achieve your dreams

Infinite possibilities

About ten years ago, I unearthed a belief I'd held all my life: I didn't belong here. I had no right to take up space.

You might wonder where that came from, or how I came to realize it. Or why it even matters. 

A little background

While I had reached a certain level of my definition of success, I never got where I wanted to go. I was undervalued at work, overlooked for better roles or promotions, didn't have the means to do the things that mattered most. I never sought the spotlight, and consequently got no rewards and limited recognition. I'd put myself out there just enough to improve my position, but every step was painful and hard. I gave everyone else more credit for being smarter, better, or more able to 'play the game'. 

This was behavior I arrived at to keep myself safe, and even though I'd do the "work" and spout affirmations, I continued to get in my own way. I felt it physically, in my chest and throat, like I was somehow stopped or trapped, and I didn't understand why. Because I was doing the work. 

What's underneath 

My dad died right after I was born and my parents weren't married—not acceptable at that point in our societal evolution. My father's mother and sister insisted I couldn't be his, and I didn't meet my dad's family until my early 20s after reaching out to them and asking if we were related (they said yes, thankfully). 

A 'goody-two-shoes' until I was 12, I did a 180 when I hit 13. I was the black sheep on my mom's side of my family before and after the 180 (each for different reasons). Throughout my childhood, my mom worked full-time, and many of my caretakers died during my formative years. My mom checked out emotionally and abdicated her role as a parent when my aunt died. I was 9. My grandfather died when I was 10, my grandmother at 12. 

I believed everyone who loved me left me. As an adult, my intellect told me they didn't leave because of me, but under the surface, my childhood internalization believed differently.  

I carried that belief beneath my awareness until 10 years ago. 

In high school, as mentioned in previous posts, while smart enough, I was the classic underachiever. Nobody cared. The ongoing message from teachers and other significant adults was that I'd never amount to anything. I was too much of a f*ck up. I was always in trouble, always looking for love, acceptance, and approval in all the wrong places, from all the wrong people. I had no appropriate role models. 

What I know now? I was ashamed. 

I carried the shame of being alive, of having no right to take up space, until 10 years ago.

There's no blame here

There's no blame here, nor do I regret my past or wish I could change it. I am who I am today because of my experiences and I am authentically grateful for all I've experienced, for where I am, and for what I have now.

And... you can bet I'm happy to say goodbye to those beliefs.

Ten years ago, my partner and I separated (a continuation of 'everyone that matters leaves me'). Thankfully, we both saw an amazing woman, separately, who guided us to understand how we got in our own way. 

I didn't know I carried that shame or had those beliefs. Beneath the surface, I felt unworthy and never good enough, even though I told myself this wasn't true. Whether I believed that or not, I can't say for sure. 

I knew these—and more—life events happened and were reason enough to have the not-good-enough not-worthy-enough beliefs. These are also common beliefs; most of us experience a version of them for part of our lives, if not all. 

But those weren't my core beliefs. There was more. That underlying, body-snatching, mind-numbing, deeply-buried but driving belief that I didn't belong here... that I had no right to take up space—these were new to me. And as soon as I saw them, I knew they were true. And they were cemented in shame.  

Why this matters

Unearthing these allowed me to see how I got in my own way, heal, and then change my circumstances for good. I still sometimes fight old patterns and behaviors; they were part of me for so long that they're deeply ingrained, and in many ways, they're still part of me. But now I can appreciate them; they're part of my shadow and give me perspective. I don't recall the last time I called myself stupid—a pattern I developed, likely learned, as a teen. Awareness is the critical first step to changing these. Now I take up space, ensure my voice is heard, and in turn, I make space for other unheard voices, too. 

Brené Brown, an expert on shame (I'm sure many of you have seen her TEDTalks on shame and vulnerability or read her books), gives this definition of shame in Dare to Lead:

Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love, belonging, and connection. Shame drives two tapes: 1) Not good enough, and 2) Who do you think you are? 

These beliefs keep us small. We stay in the background, don't reach for our dreams, get complacent, get comfortable with comfort. We don't take risks. We rarely achieve our potential or fully share our gifts with the world. As she notes, we put our armor on and ultimately, suffocate. 

We fear change. 
We fear risk. 
Instead, we do what we think 
keeps us safe and we 
die inside a little every day.

Shame is universal

Brown also notes that we all have shame. She gives examples: we feel ashamed when we're laid off (✔), get divorced (✔), are sexually harassed or abused (✔✔) (even though it's not our fault), or when we feel proud of something and then we're told it wasn't all that by someone whose opinion counts (✔✔✔✔...). Maybe it's just feeling disconnected, that we're unable to keep up with everything around us (✔). I'm sure you have your own examples. Sometimes, these embed themselves within us before we're even cognitively aware. 

Still not sure how or if shame shows up for you? Shame is often masked as perfectionism, blaming, and the isms (e.g., workaholism, alcoholism).

How to change your experience

First, be clear. Shame isn't guilt. Shame says we're bad; guilt says we did something bad. Brown writes, "the opposite of experiencing shame is experiencing empathy." 

The only way to release shame's hold on us is to recognize it and talk about it. To allow ourselves to be vulnerable, and look under the proverbial hood at what makes us tick. Love yourself enough to ask the hard questions and do the hard work because it's worth it: 

• Ask yourself what you believe about yourself at your core, and then ask what's underneath that. Keep asking. Be honest. 
• Look at your life events and ask what you made them mean about yourself.
• Ask whose opinion mattered more than your own, especially growing up, and whether you still believe those opinions.
• Look at your core values and make sure they're your own. 
• Think deeply about what matters most, and if you're not doing it, ask the questions again and again.

If you're not achieving what matters to you, however you define it, you may have an old belief still holding you back and getting in your way. It's worth getting a little dirty to see what might be lurking behind your awareness. You may want to work with a therapist or coach; that's what made the difference for me. 

Compassion is empathy's cousin. Be sure to be compassionate with yourself because this is hard work. And these beliefs aren't our fault. That said, we're now responsible. While I firmly believe we create our circumstances, these beliefs weren't in our conscious awareness and were adopted or learned based on the best information we had at the time. Now, with new awareness, we can let go and unlearn, and ultimately, we won't suffocate, we'll soar.  

If you like this post or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

Extra grace required...

While some may call these weeds,
some of us appreciate their presence.

Extra grace required... 

I heard this statement on Sunday at the spiritual center I often attend. The talk that day was a Father's Day tribute to all the men who love, nurture, and teach. 

My grandfather was my father figure; he left the mortal plane when I was 9. But love, nurture, and teach he did during those scant short years, and his lessons and love endured. I am forever grateful. That said... In the coming years, starting at about age 12, I needed a whole lot of extra grace.  

Thankless work 

Parenting is a lot of work at the best of times, and while there are countless books available about how to do it better, it's one of those things we only learn through experience. While I don't have children of my own, I dipped my toes into that icy water during a stint as a step-mom. To say I needed extra grace, as did my step-daughter, would have been an understatement at the time. 

We will all need extra grace at one time or another. And likely many times over; as humans, we're all just making it up as we go.  

Our deepest desire is to be loved

Extra grace came up while talking about love: Those who are easy to love need our love the least because they love themselves; those who are hard to love need our love the most. And they need extra grace, because they don't love themselves.  

Referencing the biblical verse from the book of Matthew, love your enemies, we were asked from the podium if we could all think of someone who was hard to love (including those holding high political offices). Um, yeah... I can think of a few. While the center isn't Christian- nor Bible-based, the Good Book occasionally comes up as a source of wisdom and lessons, filled with great stories and parables from which we can all learn, even if we question their validity as truth.  

Tough love, love tough...

We also heard a few examples. One in particular stood out: Blues musician Daryl Davis, a black man, armed himself with knowledge and then befriended Klansmen, which eventually led to at least 200 of them giving up their robes. Initially brought together through music, he took the time to listen, talk, and learn, and yes, extend grace.  

This reminded me of a story I read a while ago about Derek Black, a former white nationalist and son of Stormfront's founder, one of the most extreme hate groups in the country. Derek was being groomed by the Klan's grand wizard to be the next leader of the movement. But while attending college in Florida, Derek hooked up with a new set of friends who were gay, Jewish, and immigrants. Love, knowledge, and grace made him see the light and walk away from hate. You can read his words here in the Southern Poverty Law Center's Intelligence Report.  

While these are extreme examples, we all know people who need extra grace. With a little bit of grace, change is possible. And if the seemingly worst of the worst can be granted grace by those they've harmed, can't we all do that? 

And again, gratitude... 

I count my blessings every day for the grace I've been given over time: for losing my temper, doubting myself, doubting others, acting out, outright failing at life sometimes. I am as human as the rest of us, after all. And the only way we continue to grow and expand is to be, do, and say—for which there's no real blueprint. Mistakes are inevitable;  hence, grace. 

Love your enemies... bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you... 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

The art and practice of forgiveness

Roses are the flowers of love,
a true love stronger than thorns. 
Forgiveness is the ultimate
act of love. 

Forgiveness is one of the hardest things we do, along with self-compassion. Forgiveness isn't about forgetting, or letting someone off the proverbial hook. But it is about letting go, and creating space for peace of mind. 

Forgiveness also isn't about doing something for someone else; while it is a gift to them, it's an even bigger gift to yourself. 

Practicing forgiveness

I had an experience last weekend that took me by surprise, and triggered an emotional response that I in no way expected. 

So now, I'm trying to find space within myself to forgive: my friend, who's grieving a major loss and lashed out in anger, and myself, for not anticipating that something I said could be received in a way I hadn't intended, and for my teary and completely befuddled and reactive response. I believe fully that the few words I chose were said with no intent to minimize or take away from her in-the-moment experience. And, that's how they landed.     

...Holding space

Holding space for someone isn't easy. It's being present and allowing what is to just be. It's stillness, understanding, grace, and getting our egos out of the way. It's also forgiveness. 

As Amy Wright Glenn writes in Holding Space, On Loving, Dying and Letting Go, we fear holding space in part because we don't want to say the wrong thing. "We don't want to add to the pain and suffering." Of course we don't. I certainly didn't. And yet, even though my words came from love, and while in no way meant to add to or even ease suffering, they were heard in ways I didn't and couldn't predict.  

Under normal circumstances, my friend would assume positive intent... (the only kind of assumption we should ever make, by the way, and one we should make often), but grieving such a loss isn't a normal circumstance. 

Letting go...

Surrender. Forgive. Let go. Those are the words that keep coming up for me as I process my own experience this last weekend. We all do the best we can in any given circumstance with the knowledge and capability we have. I know this to be true, in this case for her and for me; I also know "one's best" may be different every day, every moment, and that not everyone will see one's best in the same same way.  

Relationships are truly the hardest things we do, and there are times when I want to throw up my hands and say, "I'm done!" and isolate like my mother did. But that's not the answer. 

Practicing presence

Show up. Listen. Witness. That's what we do for the grief-stricken. I did those things, as well as cried, held, and honestly said few words.  

I'm not a therapist, and I know better than to wear my coaching hat when not asked. I showed up as a caring friend and nothing more. And yet, my few words were interpreted as the wrong words, words that apparently felt invalidating and unsupportive of her feelings and her need to be present with them, pushing her along before she was ready. 

I know myself well enough to know I wouldn't invalidate or not support. We must go through our experience, and the more we can dive in, bathe in it, breathe it in, the more meaningful and powerful it will be for us. It's necessary—and yes, it's necessary for healing. 

Because we do heal from loss and grief. 

And while loss stays with us until we, too, say goodbye to the mortal plane, it won't always be our daily moment-by-moment experience—hard as that may be to hear when we're right there in it. We must stay in those depths for as long as it takes. There is no timeline for grief, and there are no shortcuts. The one caveat—if after a period of time (for many, it's typically one to two years), we're still overcome with sadness and can't find joy in any part of our lives, we may need to get help from a skilled outside source.  


The tension of opposites...

There is both beauty and anguish in grief. I know this from personal experience; I've had many losses throughout my life—most of my immediate family, many extended family members, and some of my closest friends have died too young, lost to disease, drugs, depression, and accidents. In my earlier days, I endured huge abandonment issues that still show up on my very worst days. 

What I know most of all is how grief shows up differently for all of us. We each have our own process, and it's even different each time. There is no pushing through. We must feel what we feel, because there are consequences if we don't. 

So... we must give ourselves and those we love a lot of grace, and the room to make mistakes—we must hold space for and forgive again, and again, and again. Because dammit, there is no great love without great loss. 

Onward. 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.