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.” 

As I settle into my new life, the challenges of getting here feel further away. Of course, there are new challenges, but my rabbit Gnocchi and I are stabilizing. From that budding stability, creativity is starting to flow again. Well, drip. Then trickle. THEN flow. 

I’ve always been a creative person. Making art, singing, dancing, painting, writing, whatever I could get my hands on. 

But even though artistic expression is my native language, I still go through periods where my tongue is tied. My pipes are clogged. I’m wrapped up in fear and doubt and other things are higher on the priority list.

Each time I come back and start flowing again, it feels like coming home. I’m sitting on the floor like I did as a kid, with my smelly markers, humming and doodling and wiggling my toes. 

Sometimes, I lose sight of this girl. But when I remember, she reminds me that she isn’t just a child I have to appease from time to time. 

Play is a way of being. It’s what makes life…alive. Like surfing a wave of inspiration, I’m moving  and grooving and things and people are just coming to me. I’m laughing. I’m having fun. And I’m at peace.

You can’t surf the wave forever, all waves crash. But you can develop your ability to access it, especially if you’ve forgotten your inner artist for a long time and life is feeling like a drag. This is for you if you’re overwhelmed, heavy and depleted. 

This is when it’s time to remember. It is essential to reconnect. Now. Not once you get to the bottom of your to-do list. Because the list never ends. 

So right now, wherever you’re reading this, imagine yourself putting on your FUN GOGGLES. Make them as outrageously silly and vibrantly colorful as you wish. And let yourself see the world through them. 

Ask them to help you see the fun, the absurd, the silly. Don’t make it another task for you to manage. Ask them for help, ask to RECEIVE inspiration. 

All you have to do is be willing to see it. Don’t let your naggy, critical mind talk you out of nurturing the little seeds. Maybe you notice a flower petal on the ground. Pick it up. Maybe you catch yourself in the mirror. Stick your tongue out. Do something dumb like it’s the most important thing in the world. 

Give every seed room to grow. Because every plant, every tree, every human being, starts as a seed. It just needs protection, care, and time.

This week has been all about my inner child.

Because last week, I hired a sex coach. (“Wait, what is a sex coach and what does that have to do with her inner child?” I didn’t know either, stay with me.)

For years, I’ve known that I have blocks around sex. I’m nervous just talking about it here. What will they think of me? Well, I hope by the end of this post, you will think, “wow, I hadn’t thought of it that way. I didn’t realize I was cutting myself off from life.”

Growing up, I got the message loud and clear that sex was dirty and gross. Even as adults, sex is something we keep “in the bedroom” and struggle to talk about. But if we keep it locked away, try to pretend it doesn’t exist, and try to pretend the parts of our lives and our bodies it’s connected to aren’t important, we’re not whole. 

Maybe you’re not like me. Maybe there’s no hint of stigma or dirtiness about sex for you. Maybe you can comfortably talk about dicks and pussies all day long and you live in a world of infinite sensual pleasure. I know people like that. They trigger and challenge me and I am so grateful for them. I am not one of them.

What I discovered on the consultation call with my sex coach, is that my issue, at its core, is that I cut myself off from pleasure. Sexual and non-sexual pleasure. Whether it’s telling myself I don’t need to eat something sweet, ignoring masturbation as an option entirely, or immediately upon feeling delight or satisfaction in the session with my coach, my brain intruding with the thought that I should stop and make sure she’s okay.

After telling her what I was experiencing, she observed, “it seems like you can easily access the negative, uncomfortable feelings in your body, but you’re less practiced at experiencing the pleasurable ones.”

This hit me right in the heart. Right in the soul. I had never thought of it that way. I’m a sadness ninja. Give me all the sadness, I know exactly how to feel that. So much of what I do is helping others feel their emotions, especially the hard ones, so they can get to the bottom of what their souls are really telling them.

Well, my soul is like, ENOUGH ALREADY! We know you can feel the hard stuff. WHEN DO WE GET TO HAVE FUN!? 

This is where my inner child comes in. At some point, prettttty early in life, she learned that it’s more important to take care of the people around us and manage their emotions than notice our own.

This shows up in just about every relationship in my life, including my relationship with myself. There’s a very small, very young part of me that is holding so tight to what she thinks is her job. To be vigilant and responsive to others and aggressively suppress her own emotions. To perform happiness and gratitude on top of disappointment, rage and hopelessness. My desires, my pleasure, my SELF, did not matter. I did not exist. 

So now, my work is to unearth that precious, stunted being. To lift her up and make it safe for her to express desires. To recognize them. To say no to the parts that want to keep them unmet, and to be present with her while she enjoys them.

Lucky for me, this does require my hard emotion ninja-ry. There’s a lot of anger to express and there are a lot of tears to cry to get to the wanting underneath. But we’re already starting to look at life differently. Little Muunie is sitting next to me, getting excited about things and feeling confident that Big Muunie won’t shut her down. Big Muunie is here, to cry AND play with. Her anger is important. Her sadness is felt. Her joy is celebrated. Her pleasure is essential.

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.

In fourth grade, we took our first overnight class trip to Colonial Williamsburg Virginia. When I look back on that year, it feels like the last sunlit spot of my childhood. 

I was still a candidate for popularity and I loved my teacher, Mr Carollan. He was fun and engaging and made it seem cool to care about school. 

And I cared about school. A LOT. It was my whole identity.

Everything was about getting an A and being the best. Because if I wasn’t, who was I? How would I earn love and attention?

I won the class spelling bee twice that year, which I’m still proud to report. But I came in second place to Aaron Chennault in memorizing the state capitals. A devastating blow.

I was sensitive and intensely perfectionistic.

I was also lonely and not well socialized, an only child to older, emotionally unavailable parents.

When I look back on that trip to Williamsburg, I see flashes of funny moments with the kids in my class and remember feeling excited to be in the mix. But I also remember something sad. Something I was ashamed and embarrassed by, and kept tucked away until a few months ago, when I told my partner Ike.

I remember it vividly. 1999. A hot day in Colonial Williamsburg. We were given a couple hours to wander freely. Alone, I stumbled into a highly sought after attraction. I went to the back of a long line of people waiting to have their photo taken in the old-timey stockade. (I did not know what a stockade was. I stuck my neck out, held up limp wrists on either side, and said, “the thing they put you in when you’re in jail.” “Stockade,” Ike said.)

That day in 1999, we could hardly wait to wriggle our body parts between those slabs of wood and pretend we’d been captured for our heinous crimes.

In the beating sun, I sweat and waited patiently for what seemed like an eternity, trading my precious free time for a turn to have this sensational experience. I inched forward, clutching my disposable camera, watching person after person wedge their arms and head in, smile for a photo, then bounce off contentedly.

I was finally next. I looked down at my disposable camera, and after all that waiting, realized there were no pictures left. And no one I knew was around to take it. I looked around, helpless and ashamed. I wondered if it was still worth wedging my arms and head in. That was the part I was excited about anyway. But I was too embarrassed. So I just walked away. 

That memory sat frozen in my mind for over 20 years, coated in the sinking loneliness I felt that day. A feeling I knew well.

If you’ve been following along, you know that we’re currently traveling the East coast. Last Saturday, Ike and I had some time to kill before we had to be in Maryland.

“…We could go to Colonial Williamsburg and get that photo of you in the stockade.” We erupted into laughter. 

To drive all the way to there to redo that moment from 1999 was absurd. But it also meant the world. To reach our arms back in time and hug that lonely 9 year old I’d given up on all those years ago. Laughing and crying, I agreed.

2023. A crisp day in Colonial Williamsburg. There was no line outside the courthouse, no swarm of sweaty kids waiting to be publicly arrested. Just me. A 33-year-old woman, standing exactly where I stood 24 years ago, looking at those same pieces of wood. Everything around me snapped into place. I was there, in the past and the present. Standing with my child self. Waiting. Not for one click of a disposable camera, but for 24 years to pass, so I could show her how worthy she was. Show her the person we’d become. 

When I got in the stockade, I told Ike to hold his phone up like he was taking a picture, but never tell me whether he took it or not. The mystery seemed more fun. Because it isn’t about a picture, or a spelling bee, or an A. It’s about going on absurd adventures, revealing your vulnerablest parts, and walking yourself through becoming cooler than you could have ever imagined in your wildest, 9-year-old dreams.