Today I discovered a new part of me. Well, actually, it’s a very old part, but I saw it in a new way.

This often happens when I’m journaling. I’m writing, then a thought pops into my head that I suddenly, DESPERATELY want to act on. Today, I have to pay rent. This part REALLY wanted me to get up and check if I had enough cash in my wallet, so we would know if I had to go to an ATM first. 

I am going to have to do this at some point. But, I remind this part, it doesn’t matter whether we check now or later, and actually, it would disrupt the journaling, which I’d already decided was the most important thing right now. 

I have been practicing for a while now, not getting up and immediately responding to whatever thought pops up during something I committed to focus on. 

How’s that going? …I use the verb “practice” for a reason. 

Anyway. Today, I stayed with this voice. I didn’t get up to check my wallet. I listened. I talked to it. I felt what was happening in my body. Here’s what I wrote:

As I sit with you, I feel you getting processed and my stomach starts to digest and I have to poop. There is a feeling of sadness or disappointment, like we’re giving up or failing somehow. I sit with that. Now it is more in my neck. Pulsing. A lump of tension in my throat. “What do you want?” I ask. I don’t get an answer. I place my hands gently on my neck and keep listening. 

It is very distant, and it is a young child, crying unconsolably.

I let go of trying to get an answer. Crying unconsolably doesn’t usually yield that. So I just keep my hands on it and breathe. My mind races for a solution. But when I’m crying, I just want to know someone is there. So I start repeating, “I’m right here.” 

I’m right here. I’m right here. 

I start to stroke my neck and chest, and notice how soft the skin is. I continue to remind it of my presence, while soothing myself from the outside. 

I’m right here. I’m right here. 

Eventually, we relax. My shoulders drop and my stomach settles. It starts to be able to talk to me. It is scared. It wants to do everything right. It wants to make sure we get everything done. It is panicked. 

“I understand. There is a lot to do. But there is time. And it’s not as important as being with you right now.” It shies away and doesn’t believe me. I assure it. “Being with you right now is the most important thing I can be doing.” 

I am firm about this. I know there’s s a lot to do, but I’ve lived too many days racing through my to-do list thinking that relief was around the corner to fall for this trap and let this part of me down. This part of me thinks it needs to take extreme responsibility for getting everything done and being perfect. 

I am absolutely positive that the best thing I can do is spend a few minutes soothing this tender, tired child. 

Once it knew that I really was there, and wasn’t going to leave to do something “more important,” I heard a tiny, clear voice: “I need you.” I start to cry at this vulnerable confession from a part of me that never felt entitled to say this before. It needed me. It would try to get my attention with anxious reminders, probably hoping to be rewarded for taking care of us, soothing the fear of missing something important. But the list is endless, because that’s not really what we need to be cared for or soothed.

We just need each other. A moment to breathe together. A moment to be the most important thing.

“I need you,” it said. Gently crying, I tell it, “I’m right here.” 

“How do I know who I am?”

“How do I know what I want?”

“How do I trust myself?”

People ask me these questions all the time. I ask me these questions all the time. And answers always come from getting to the bottom of how you feel. Sorting through the mess of voices to get to the truth.

Knowing doesn’t come from the anxious mind that’s asking. You have to feel it. So I wrote a poem because I genuinely think that’s the best way to arrive there. Poetry is the language of feeling. It uses words to knock on the door of the Soul. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t want to meet their Soul.

Look for the room where the candle is lit, 

where you see the flame

and there’s no mistaking the heat. 

Wander until your feet feel the Earth,

where there’s life underneath you

and there’s no mistaking your own.

Don’t get lost in thoughts and words,

growing taller and more out of reach.

Stay close to the spirit and learn how it likes to speak.

Listen for the voice that doesn’t talk down,

need proof or want someone to blame.

Listen for the voice that isn’t wearing anyone else’s skin.

Listen for the voice that’s naked, 

and always speaks up for your heart.

Don’t worry about seeing miles ahead.

Fire only illuminates the next step.

If you plan the rest now, 

you miss where inspiration wants to guide you,

where there’s no doubt your Soul is home. 

Last week, I wrote about my discovery from sex coaching that I’ve been putting off pleasure. All kinds of pleasure. I resist life’s sensory delights and don’t stay present for the good feeling parts. That was a big revelation.

This week, my coach said, “it sounds like you don’t trust it.”

(Imagine me dumbfounded…and a little sad.) She’s right.

The story under the hood was that I didn’t deserve it. I already have so many blessings, it would be UNFAIR for me to also ENJOY them. 

UMMMMYEAH, it’s absurd. It’s obvious when I write it down. Of course this is not my philosophy. I don’t believe this for myself. I don’t believe this for anyone.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s been living in my body. And I’ve made all kinds of excuses to keep it there.

Right now as I’m typing, I’m thinking, REALLY? I’m going to put these words on a page for people to read? 

Yes. Because if I don’t, I’m letting it stay in the shadows and in power. If I don’t, I’m putting a story about myself above my actual self. 

I’m done protecting an idea about who I’m supposed to be, over my living, breathing human body.

Where did this idea even come from? I’m sure working hard to uphold it. Is it mine? Or is it a parasite I let in to make myself small enough for someone else’s ego? (Guys, it’s the second one.)

It’s been there for a long time. It’s taken a long time to get myself to the point of declaring it openly. It’s taken a long time to start getting help about it. It’s scary to take the CHANCE I could trust pleasure.

And while I can’t dig out overnight, what I CAN do overnight (overday, overblog) is make this declaration to myself, loud and clear: 

I am no longer feeding the story that I don’t deserve my blessings.

I trust pleasure.

WHEW. It’s scary to say because it makes it real.

Writing is powerful. It helps me crystallize my thoughts and make them real.

I like writing as a poem or a prayer. Things I hope. Things I feel. Things I want to make real.

I hope this gets you closer to whatever you want to make real.

I deserve to be closer to Me.

Closer to the Heart that never stops beating in this chest. 

Closer to the Blood that never stops pumping, never stops feeding, never stops cleaning, never stops trying. 

Let me see the abundance of invisible thread holding us together, 

so I can remember, I am never alone. 

Someone touched everything around me.

Someone sewed, someone washed, someone dreamed, someone sweat. 

Someone cared, to create my world. 

It is here. And I belong.

Help me be humbled by all that is meant for me.

Help me receive with grace so I may share with generosity.

May I shine my light fearlessly, so others may see through the dark.

May I be fearless in asking others to show me through the dark.

May I clear the wounds that block reciprocation and connection.

May I be righteous in my pursuit of pleasure.

May I know my true gifts.

May I feel them so my cup may be full. 

May all of our cups be full. 

Full, 

full, 

full.

I woke up with a lot of anxiety this morning. It’s normal for me to feel weird first thing in the morning. I’ve written about it before. Our bodies are waking up, our minds are coming back online. It’s a pretty big transition between states of consciousness. It’s more than usual, but I also know from years of waking up with sickening, all-consuming dread, this is okay.

I remind myself of these things and breathe deeply as the thoughts and plans and worries start to come. I tell myself that it is okay to take a few minutes to just be. I can feel that my mind is not convinced, but I’m going to stick it out anyway.

I ask to be filled with all of the Love that exists out there and wants to be with me. I imagine that it is pouring into my body from above. That I’m breathing it into my lungs, filling my chest and my belly. I relax and surrender to this new energy I’ve asked to help me. 

I observe a slight shift in the balance of power. The anxiety feels like only part of what is going on rather than the whole story. I tell myself shakily that it is okay to focus on something other than the anxiety. Everything it wants to worry about will be okay. I will get all the things done. The answers will come. The anxiety is not part of the solution. All it is doing right now is making me feel bad. What I need now is patience and compassion.

Feeling more confident and connected to that compassion, I ask my body to show me the places it is holding the anxiety for it to surface and be cleared. I feel a tightness in my sternum and diaphragm, like it’s hard to breathe. It’s been there all along, but it seemed normal. I didn’t recognize it as holding anxiety that could be lessened. The path of tension reaches up my back, into the back of my neck, my throat and my tongue.

I continue breathing with compassion and let these parts soften into the Love. It’s uncomfortable. It feels a little like I’m suffocating and a little like I might throw up. I place one hand over my sternum and one under my neck, offering soothing energy and comfort. Breathing, I let them come. I feel the strength of the Love supporting me. I feel the gentle exchange between my hands and the places the anxiety is sitting. I feel movement and heat as that sick feeling starts to work its way to the surface. I allow my hands to hold it, then let it go. 

Lastly, I came to my computer and started writing. I just described exactly what was going on and what I was doing. At first, I didn’t intend it to be anything but a blank space for me to observe and then release the discomfort I was feeling. But maybe someone else could benefit from reading my process. So here it is. 

It isn’t perfect. It didn’t delete my anxiety forever. But little by little, I am getting comfortable with the discomfort, learning I can trust myself to be with anything that comes up, and ultimately, feeling better. 

May your discovery process bring you closer to peace, Love and comfort in the discomfort.

Yesterday, my partner left Mexico and went back to our home in LA. It triggered a big wave of grief.

I couldn’t get around it; I was just sad. 

All I wanted was someone to be there while I cried and just listen, without expectations. I’m a literal professional at doing this for other people. But…for myself? A much harder ask.

To be there at the most basic level. With gentle, loving presence, for as long as it took. To hold myself, to tell myself it was okay, to let myself cry, then know when it was time to pick myself up and get a glass of water.

I wanted mothering.

A lot of us don’t have great models of this. So how do we give it to ourselves, let alone even know we need it?

We don’t always know when we’re sad, or mad, or hungry, or need a break. We go into our brains and try to think our way into meeting a physical need. 

We may know we’re feeling off, out of sync, rushing, busying ourselves, resisting things we know are good for us, or judging others. These are all good signs that we’re missing something. We just don’t necessarily know what.

But Mom does. And she swoops in and takes over. “You’re hungry.” “It’s time for a bath.” “Let’s go for a walk.”

The first thing I needed yesterday was just a place that it was okay to cry, or not cry, or do whatever. 

A big part of mothering ourselves is BEING that safe, open environment. 

Maybe we learned that we weren’t supposed to have certain feelings. They weren’t appropriate or necessary; they didn’t belong or were too much. Maybe we were punished or rejected or distracted when we cried.

Whatever it is, we tend to repeat this with ourselves. We can only love ourselves the best we know how. But there’s a workaround hidden in our imagination. We can ask ourselves, “what would the most loving person do?” (the agnostic’s What Would Jesus Do)

Would the most loving person criticize me for being sad or critique the way I’m showing it? Would they rush me or roll their eyes? No. They’d be patient. They’d be understanding. They’d be protective.

Each time I was able to find that energy and apply it toward myself, I would soften, let out a few more tears, and breathe a little easier. 

After each wave, I’d say, “okay, what do we need now?” and then wait, or make gentle suggestions and listen for the tiniest signal of what might feel good. 

Learning to mother ourselves isn’t easy. It’s extremely humbling. And we’re not going to be perfect at it. But the tender little being inside that needs our love really appreciates when we try.

Last week, I wrote about slowing down and hibernating during the winter. Allowing life to be more…less. 

This week, I’m sick and work is slow. AKA I’m being forced to practice what I preach.

I feel like shit, I’m bored, and I’m asking myself, “why is it so hard to just BE?”

And guys, trust me, I’m doing all the things. I meditate. I journal. I spend time outside. I stretch. I exercise. I am in touch with myself. (Like, REALLY in touch with myself.) I’m super comfortable being alone. And I have great friends and a loving relationship. I love what I do and it feels important.

And yet, I can’t escape the tedium of existence. 

So this week, I’m going to write as raw as possible. Because life isn’t a tidy blog post about how I’ve figured everything out and here are 10 ways to everlasting peace.

I always get to the bottom of posts like that and feel…well, nothing. I want to feel closer to the person that wrote it. I want to experience their mushy center. I want to know there’s another vulnerable human out there, trying. Being real, not perfect.

It’s soooo tempting though. I catch myself ALL THE TIME. Thinking I have to have it all figured out, presenting a shiny shell and thinking that’s what makes me “good.” 

But that’s how we miss what’s really there. I think what makes me good is my humanness, my energy, my presence. Being and listening with my whole heart.

When I listen like that, the path reveals itself. 

Listening to myself right now, I’m tired. My face hurts from holding in the contents of my brain. My throat feels dry and scorched. I want to feel “complete,” but there is no complete. Life just keeps going. Maybe I wrote something that will touch someone. Maybe I didn’t. But my body says, “I’m done and I’m thirsty.” So I’m going to post what I’ve got, put my laptop away and drink a glass of water. See you next week!

I woke up today with a plan for what I was going to write. I made myself breakfast and sat down at the table. Looking at the computer, my stomach dropped. My plan didn’t match what I felt.

When I came up with it, I was excited. But now, it feels like a chore. And forcing myself into a cage is not why I write poetry. I write poetry to find magic in the truth.

I write poetry to guide me toward flow, even when it isn’t what I expected when I turned on the tap.

This morning, turning on the tap, I am in an apartment I’m moving out of, surrounded by objects I have to get rid of in the next ten days. I am overwhelmed by the life my past self created. I’m ready for what’s next. Pero bueno…

I had a whole plan

for what I would write.

But now I feel, “fuck it.”

I’m less than alright.

I don’t want to make something

that misses my pain.

I don’t want to ignore

my stress and my strain.

My stomach feels icky,

my head is a mess.

I’m doubting myself.

I’m afraid and depressed.

I want to write freely,

from the nowest of nows.

And in this very moment,

it just feels like “ow.”

I could push it aside.

I could press on instead.

But that’s what I used to do.

I ended up dead.

I started writing about some anxiety I was feeling - I call it “Ambient Anxiety.” Sometimes, it feels like it’s about something specific on the horizon, in my case, a call I have in an hour or so, then I have to get to the airport for a flight later. But there’s also an accumulation of smaller things, lingering from the past. I lost a crystal someone gave me last night. I tried to go to a different cafe for breakfast, but found out they don’t serve food on Mondays, blah blah blah. It doesn’t amount to much, but it’s hanging out there. (Update, as I’m editing this a couple days later, none of these things still carry an emotional charge.)

And yet, that little amount of “aliveness” never really goes away. I can usually find it when I look for it. And if I look for reasons, they’re there, too. Sometimes identifying reasons brings it on stronger. Thinking about that call sends a teeny spurt of “oh god!” energy through my stomach and chest.

I can try to think my way out of the feelings. I can try to convince myself there’s no real reason to be anxious. “It’s going to go how it’s going to go. I’m prepared. I’ve done these before. I trust myself to be in the moment and know what to say.” And yet, the feeling sits there in spite of my reasoning.

I can also remind myself that there’s an energy that comes with just caring about something. I want this call to go well. I am invested in what I’m doing. I care about the person on the other end. I can more easily accept this feeling as a natural byproduct of my attachment to what I’m doing. And I can have compassion for the version of myself that has these attachments, even though there may be a more advanced, more Buddhist version of myself that wouldn’t. But I’m just not there yet.

Here’s what else I know:

1) The Ambient Anxiety does seem to come and go. It’s unclear to me if it’s always there, waiting to surface when something triggers it, or if it’s triggered anew each time by an event.

2) I can close my eyes, focus on it and breathe. This helps me feel more “in control,” so to speak. It feels better in my body when I slow down, let myself sense it and accept it.

3) I am the one deciding that it is a “bad” thing (because it’s uncomfortable) and deciding what it means - that it’s about the call or the airport. That usually feels true to me in the moment, but looking back, those individual events no longer trigger it.

4) It helps to set aside whatever stories and associations I have, and be with the sensation itself.

“Okay, I’m noticing a tightness in my chest. It feels like my breathing is constricted. There is a warm pulsing around my heart. There is a concentrated tension in my forehead. When I bring my focus to it, the pulsing in my chest seems to intensify. My head feels heavy. Numerous thoughts compete for my attention. My stomach feels full, there is a churning energy that rises and sinks. My shoulders feel heavy. There is a wide, achy expanse across the middle of my back.”

5) When I take the time to patiently and non-judgmentally inventory the sensations I’m experiencing, one by one, as they come to my attention, they seem more manageable. I can be aware of them without fearing their impact.

6) There are things I can do to shift how I’m feeling (like writing about it, talking to someone about it, or channeling it into a physical activity).

Here’s what helps me most with Ambient Anxiety: naming it, observing the sensations it produces, and reminding myself it’s a sign that I care and am alive, even when I can identify other stories and explanations.

It can be helpful to list the stories, but it’s more helpful to set them aside and focus on the feeling itself. The stories always change. One day, I link my Ambient Anxiety to a phone call, the next, it’s needing to do the dishes. In a year, you’ll have 365 different stories, most of which will be behind you and won’t trigger the feeling anymore.

Working with your relationship to the feeling is where the magic is. I’m personally not expecting to wake up tomorrow without any attachment to life or feelings or events or people, so it’s unrealistic to think I won’t experience it.  Any time I can be that honest with myself and that connected to reality as it is, I feel more grounded, more self-trusting and just, better. I hope anyone reading this also feels better about their Ambient Anxiety. Bye for now…

Shame is corrosive,

It burns to the touch.

Agent of anguish, 

turns my insides to dust.

Quietly raging

it poisons the pipes

Feeding on hatred

And starving out life

Each hand built pyramid

Cut down to sand

Nothing left solid

Nowhere to stand

A tool for control

Now an unchecked power

A tortured seed 

Blooms a tortured flower

My fragile spark 

Craves somewhere safe

To light my way

And grow in faith

A different voice

That stands in power

A golden shield

Shame can’t devour

What is it about shame? It tears us down, but it also hides. It’s so intensely uncomfortable that the mere mention of it makes me want to crawl into a cave and never come out. But that’s how it stays alive, stays active. We don’t recognize it or call it out. Most often, we accept its claims that we are not good enough, and keep moving. It knows exactly where our sore spots are, after all, it created them. So we let it tell us exactly how intolerable we are in all these uniquely specific ways and let it steer our behavior. We avoid the things it programmed us to avoid. At some point, someone told us not to do something, yelled at us, hit us, embarrassed us, withdrew from us or left. Whether we know it or not, those reactions get imprinted in us. DON’T DO THIS THING OR ELSE THIS OTHER THING WILL HAPPEN TO US AGAIN. And we spend our lives tiptoeing around these landmines praying they don’t explode in our faces.

Even more problematic than the behaviors shame wants us to avoid, is the way this mechanism embeds itself into our consciousness and erodes our sense of self. Take a moment to consider a time shame spoke to you. How does its voice sound in your head? I’m guessing it wasn’t super polite. It’s usually pretty aggressive. It wants us to avoid whatever it thinks will be so intolerable AT ALL COSTS (even if it means agreeing that WE are intolerable). It may be telling us we ABSOLUTELY CANNOT pee our pants at the dinner table. In that case, we’d probably agree. Okay, shame, I hear you, I also don’t want to do that, so I will ask to go to the bathroom. But sometimes, it tells us we ABSOLUTELY SHOULD NOT make a total ass of ourselves by singing karaoke because only attention-seeking ego maniacs would get in front of an audience and think their voice deserves to be heard. Okay, shame, first of all, WHOA. You didn’t need to take that tone with me. Clearly you don’t want me to get up and sing in public.

But what do I want? Maybe I’m afraid that I will look dumb or I won’t sound good. Maybe I’ve seen people sing at karaoke and it felt cringey and that’s not how I want to come off. But…do I really want to live in fear of this bully? Do I want to smack down every thing I’m curious about or challenged by like a whack-a-mole? That’s kind of what it feels like to be yelled at like that - whether it seems like someone else’s voice or my own. Shame is not afraid to take the floor out from under us or cut us down so low, we wouldn’t dare sing karaoke, let alone, think we deserve to have a voice. It’s a slippery, slippery slope.

So, how do I stop shaming myself? A few things have to happen. STEP ONE (and this is the easiest, the hardest and the most important step) commit to not shaming yourself. It’s the easiest because it can be done simply and quickly. It’s the hardest because we have to mean it and take it seriously. If we’ve chronically self-shamed, it’s hard to take ourselves seriously. So, don’t take this step lightly. Take a moment. Place your hand on your heart. Take a breath. Tell yourself in these words or your own: Self, I commit to not shaming you. I commit to listening to you and creating an environment where it is safe to say what you want and need.

Great! Now, STEP TWO is enforcement. I’m going to level set with you. You are not going to overnight stop hearing shame’s voice. Although if you do, congratulations. I can’t wait to read your blog post. The key is how you receive it. When you hear it, you will interrupt the pattern of piling on MORE SHAME. As soon as you catch yourself in this cycle (it may take a few tries), place your hand on your heart, take a breath, and remind yourself of the commitment you made. Feel the energy of that commitment - grounded, aligned with your higher self. Remind yourself why you made it. 

STEP THREE: let yourself feel the physical sensations shame brings with it, while staying grounded in your higher self. Remember that intensely uncomfortable feeling we will do anything to avoid? Well, the more we avoid it, the more power it has over us. When we turn away from it, we reinforce the message that the feeling itself is intolerable, will overpower us, or could kill us. As gross as it is, this is simply not true. So, when that feeling bubbles up, keep your mind focused on your commitment to yourself and use it to observe the physical sensations that come with the shameful thought. Maybe there’s a tightness in your chest. Breathe and watch it. Maybe there’s a churning in your stomach. Breathe and watch it. Maybe you feel disgust in your groin. Breathe and watch it. There’s — No — Rush. Notice if the feelings get more or less tolerable. If they are getting less tolerable and you feel yourself being consumed, let yourself drop it for now, take a few breaths to reset, and go do something else that brings you back to Earth. If it feels more tolerable, congratulations! You’ve processed some of your shame and taught your body that it is okay to feel. Now you have more agency to do whatever it is that you actually want to do. You are more free to not act from reaction or avoidance. Good job!