I am a recovering independence addict and know-it-all. 

I want to have all the answers, do everything on my own and never have to ask for help.

I grew up as an only child, and my parents were pretty controlling. 

So I either struggled until I figured things out myself, or someone swooped in with their agenda and took over.

There was no differentiation between being helped and being controlled. I couldn’t ask for help, and keep my selfhood.

So if I couldn’t get help and maintain my dignity and agency…I’ll keep my dignity and agency, thank you. 

And I thought I had to know everything. Love and approval from the adults in my life depended on me proving my intellect. I still feel the scars of this every day. 

So here I was, thinking I have to do it all on my own, know everything, and not let on that I can’t and I don’t, because it was too threatening. 

I was fighting upstream and burning out, carrying this heavy burden alone. 

We have an individualistic culture that reinforces this conditioning and keeps us lonely and depressed. In 2022, after a powerfully healing group retreat, my blinders came off. I could suddenly see how lonely my life was. I lived alone and I worked alone. And I live in a country that rewards those things as status symbols.

Feeling interconnected is THE NUMBER ONE THING that’s healed my depression and anxiety.

If deep down, you don’t want to receive (it’s too disempowering or scary or you feel undeserving) it blocks the flow of energy. I’m guessing you know how good it feels to give. What if you couldn’t because no one ever received?

It makes me cry to think about how much goodness and love I was blocking.

This was also the way I approached helping others. 

I was still carrying the conditioning that it was too shameful to be helped or to learn. That it somehow invalidated my ability to be a helper. I wasn’t strong or smart enough if I needed support. 

But, I also believed in the help I was giving, it felt incredible to be trusted to offer it and I was seeing the results.

This was the deep, invisible paradox of how I was living. And why I kept burning out. And why I was exhausted. And why I was unhappy.

And if I think my job as a coach is to give so hard I deplete myself, run my clients’ lives or give them all the answers, what am I really doing? Disempowering them. Trying to prove something to myself. Replicating the harm that was done to me.

It’s my job to show them their dignity. Empower them to ask for help. Uncover the wisdom their own bodies hold.

Life is so much more beautiful and easier and funner when we surrender, put down whatever baggage we think we have to hold, and receive the mysteries of life that we are a part of.

Thank you for choosing to receive this.

The more open we are to receive, the more we receive.

It’s pretty simple. So leave some room and ask for help. You deserve it.

The other day at ecstatic dance (a sober dance event with a DJ that’s about moving how you feel) I overheard someone telling his friend that he loves it, but stopped coming for a while. He said, “sometimes I deny myself the things that bring me the most joy.”

YES! WHY DO WE DO THAT?! Why do we resist things that feel good?

There’s the classic, “I always feel better after a workout, but I struggle to get to the gym.” This makes sense. Exercise is hard. But what about things with a lower barrier to entry that JUST FEEL GOOD?

Newton’s Law of Inertia says that an object at rest tends to stay at rest. (And an object in motion tends to stay in motion.) I think this explains why in the gym scenario, it helps to get up and put your shoes on. Now we’re in motion. 

The exact wording on Wikipedia is: “Every body continues in its state of rest…unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed upon it.” 

There has to be a significant enough force to change states. 

Okay. We want joy. Why isn’t that enough? Psychological inertia? If we’re sad, or bored, or numb, or angry, it takes a significant force to shift into something else. An object that’s sad tends to…stay sad?

Maybe there’s also fear - “what if it doesn’t work?” From inside an emotion, it seems like whatever’s happening will continue. 

Okay. Let’s introduce a force.

Maybe we go for something quick and dirty. Low barrier to entry, a guaranteed fix. Like the raw cookie dough my partner keeps buying even though I tell him not to because I don’t have the force to resist eating it. It doesn’t make me feel good long-term (or even medium-term), but it’s definitely going to taste good right now.

Sometimes cheap joy get us in motion and reminds us that the other kind of joy is possible. But usually, I just eat the cookie dough and feel gross.

I know that. You know that. So let’s address an opposing force at play here: self-sabotage. We all have an inner “fuck you.” A shadow. A little devil on our shoulder that wants to fuck shit up.

We want to feel good; our brain knows that cookie dough (or your cheap joy of choice) requires minimum force.

Then in comes the little devil saying, “you already feel like trash, eat the cookie dough.” An object that feels like trash tends to stay feeling like trash. 

Underneath the desire to feel good, we also have a trash feeling. The part of us holding onto guilt and shame. The part of us harboring a secret feeling that we don’t deserve happiness. That we’re the one person joy won’t work on. That we’re insignificant and bad and it doesn’t matter anyway. 

Mr. “fuck you” can use this internal inertia to strengthen his case. Then it takes even more force to overcome.

But the good news is, if we stay and dig deeper, underneath the trash feeling, there is an even deeper desire for everyone, including us, to be happy and at peace. Like an emotion sandwich: desire to be happy, desire to be sad, desire to be happy.

If we can tap into that, knowing we’re up against inertia, we have a better chance of mustering the required force to get back in motion.

An object dancing tends to stay dancing.

OH boy. The Vulnerability Hangover. That mixture of regret, uncertainty, overthinking and shame after we open up to someone. AAAGGHHHHewwww.

Why does it feel so cringey?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I feel it just about every week when I post this blog. Some weeks, I feel confident and I just move on. Other weeks, the fear that no one will connect with what I’m saying, that I shared too much or didn’t say the right thing haunts me for hours, even days. I still feel a little haunted by the photo from last week, if I’m being honest. (If I’m not being honest…what’s the point?)

When I feel residual ick after posting, I remind myself why I do it. I made a commitment. To write every week. To put myself out there. To model the vulnerability and authenticity I want to see in the world. I remember that embodying those values is more important than avoiding discomfort.

BUT IT STILL FEELS GROSS!

Last night, I told a friend I was attracted to her and wanted to explore that. She did not. ohHHHboyyyy. I was proud of myself for being direct. But I also felt sad, rejected and ashamed afterward. Opening up opens a portal. Your biggest insecurities are just waiting to jump in. And you can’t hide behind not caring or not being clear. You have to just sit in the mud. Bare assed. Trying to convince yourself you did the right thing even though it feels bad.

At least it’s the good kind of bad. It sucks. It’s unavoidable. You can’t control the outcome. But you honored your insides. And stood bravely next to your wet, shiny pile of guts and said, “Yep. That’s me.”

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.

imagine a fire,

a bright, dancing glow. 

its beautiful petals

delight to unfold.

their lips clear a path

with soft, molten kisses.

the power to transform,

igniting forgiveness.

imagine your chest,

pulsing with flames.

alive with love 

as your heart melts its chains.

allow what isn’t yours

to billow away.

ash joins the universe

to become a new day.

watch the fire lick and lap 

at every sore place.

wrap its arms around sadness, 

soothe fear, soften shame.

let its heat meet the edges 

of anger and hate.

sparks fly, as it bleeds 

with their fiery pain.

breathe in fresh air. 

let your lungs fan the flame.

watch it light up each cell, 

free each vessel and vein.

warmth tickles each crevice,

watch how they play.

feel what it feels like

to forge a new way.

I’ve been reflecting on how I dampen my own creative spark - how I inflict the same wounds that were inflicted on me when I expressed myself growing up. Whether through criticism, perfectionism, shame, or invalidation, I’m blocking my life force and hurting my spirit. It adds up. It sits in my heart and strangles my joy. Even when I’m telling others how important it is to support their creativity, and KNOWING IT, later, I still turn around and disrespect my own. WHAT THE FUCK?! This poem is an exploration of that heartbreak, and more importantly, a vow to meet myself differently.

Tender seed 

bursting forth.

My heart 

asking timidly

for permission to fly.

So many times

I’ve taken a hammer

and smashed you to pieces

before someone else could.

Bravely, you healed,

and waited,

beating quietly 

behind the door.

Taking orders

to swallow and ignore 

impulses

pulsing through you.

I can feel the bruised places

where you hid

under my skin

while I shouted,

No. 

Not here, 

not now, 

not like that.

You don’t belong.

But that’s my shame, not yours.

Acting on ancient orders

willed down through DNA.

Be small.

Shut up.

Obey.

I don’t want that anymore.

I want your raging river.

I want you spilling out over the banks,

slamming against rocks,

splashing and playing

with every creature that calls you home.

I love you deep.

I love you shallow.

I love you still, sorrowful, quiet.

I love you strong, willful, thundering.

Whatever

is the truth.

Thank you

for staying alive.

Now is your time.

I will be your biggest fan,

instead of head of the committee

of reasons why not.

I will put you on my shoulders 

instead of standing on your grave.

I will use my legs and hands

to bring us closer.

I will use my tongue and skin

to taste warmth.

I serve your army of love. 

A soldier of delight, 

marching toward wholeness,

jumping with joy,

dancing like a dolphin in your veins,

smiling at you, belly up,

from the inside.

You’re the leader now,

not a pet I let out

once a day to take a shit.

Take your place as Lion,

King of the Wild.

Fiery.

Unchained.

Loud.

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!