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.

I think this is my third post now about receiving. I keep learning how important it is.

This time last week, a very special rabbit named Cosmo died. He was 9 years old. He’d been sick multiple times, and this time, he didn’t come out the other side. 

At 6 months old, he was a feisty and fearful little escape artist. He was found abandoned in a New York City apartment building cowering in the corner (his favorite place to cower).

I took one look at this terrified little creature, hiding at the back of the cage in the shelter, having clumsily bolted behind his box of hay, and said, yes, that one.

He was with me for 8 and a half years. All this time, I thought I was taking care of him.

2 weeks ago, he started sneezing.

I was leaving for Mexico in a couple days and the boarder was going to bring him to the vet that same day. But he was getting worse leading up to my departure.

The night before he died, I watched him eat and struggle and sneeze. I sobbed, and occasionally laughed at how weird and gross his mouth sounds were.

I hoped it wasn’t the end, but I knew I needed to be with him and express what I needed to in case it was.

I sat on the floor next to him and thanked him for the time we had spent together. 

I thanked him for his presence in my life. I thanked him for moving across the country with me. I thanked him for getting me all the way to Oaxaca and back. I hadn’t planned to take him on that trip, but he needed intense care to remove an abscess. I had to do warm compresses twice a day and squeeze puss out of a tube coming out of his cheek. Then after several weeks, remove the tube myself. It was disgusting.

But those moments, where I got to care for him so intimately, were some of the most meaningful. They were an initiation into a deeper mothering than I had ever experienced.

I noticed myself wanting confirmation that I had done a good enough job. Feeling guilt and self-doubt over the times I wasn’t there or didn’t know what was best. Recognizing that, I emailed my own mother, letting her know she had done her job well, that I was a complete person, thriving and standing on my own two feet. I forgave her, I apologized, and I offered permission for her to release any fear or doubt she may have been holding.

I turned back to Cosmo, having released what I’d been carrying in both directions, as the mother, and the child. I looked in his eyes, my heart open and free, and just listened. 

The air between our eyes warped, like how the air warbles over a flame. Two distinct pulses. I recognize this as energy moving between us. He shifted into a different posture. 

I knew intuitively that he had received what I expressed, and he was now giving something to me. 

Because his nose was stuffy, I could hear each exhale. The rhythm was consistent and specific. He was using his breathing to soothe me. 

From his sweet little furry body, he was beaming his breath and attention, creating a frequency of love, assurance and nurturing. FOR ME. 

I was stunned.

Trying not to assume I knew better than the wisdom of nature, I laid down, closed my eyes and accepted it.

His breathing maintained its rhythm, steady and uninterrupted, as if to say, yes, it is still okay for you to receive. I am here.

I let his energy flow into my body. It felt like magic. It felt like mothering. It felt like love. 

I felt my body progressively relax. Starting with my heart, softening and washing over me in waves. Relaxing my own breathing and my chest, then my throat, my neck, my mouth, my jaw, and releasing tension I’d been holding for as long as I can remember. 

I felt cold air in parts of my nose that had never been open. I cried, humbled by the power of this deep, instinctual wisdom. And his generosity in offering it to me. 

When I got caught thinking “How did I not realize this the whole time” or “I don’t deserve this,” it disrupted the connection. And he simply kept giving, so I let it go, in honor of what was unfolding beyond my understanding.

Putting down my doubts, my stories and my fears unlocked a deeper connection to this being and the insane magic of this weird, wild world. 

Cosmo, I love you. Thank you. I will continue to receive. And I will share your magic rabbit medicine.