Mother

I guess Mother’s Day is an appropriate time to say I’m pregnant.  It is also a time I want to honor the story of every woman in my life personally and professionally.  I have a privilege of hearing very personal stories in my office every week.  These stories are private, sorrowful, painful, and also joyful. I do not take lightly that these women can cry with me while I hold their pain with them, and we leave it right there in my office. I can’t tell you who these women are, but I can tell you there are miscarriages, stillbirths, infertility, loss of mothers, stories of abusive mothers, women who have been through abortion or releasing their children for adoption, adoptive mothers, women with surprise pregnancies, and on and on it goes.  My clients now sit across from an obviously pregnant counselor while they share their hard stories around motherhood.  And while I celebrate my little one, I hurt for every woman who is now literally faced with my unavoidable belly as she grieves.  My loving request to all of you on this Mother’s Day is that we respect every woman’s story and love her the best we can.  Every story has its own unique pains, struggles, AND joys.

I was recently asked by a very innocent and well-meaning young woman in front of my oldest son, “What made you want to have your OWN child?” I used to get mad when people would ask these things, but I now get there truly is a lack of understanding for many people if their story is different or it’s not a “normal” thing to them.  Having your “own babies” is what our culture is used to.  So I wanted to write this in an effort to educate, not shame.  We can support each other’s stories as we share them with love.

Most of my motherhood story is mine and private, and I want to keep it that way.  The parts I would like to share are for the sake of connecting and helping others understand. Many people think our baby is a “miracle” because we “couldn’t get pregnant before” – an assumption made since we adopted our boys. The truth is that we adopted them because we met our boys and knew they were ours to love and raise – no other reason.  Adoption is absolutely a choice made by many parents when fertility is a challenge, and it is also not the only reason people adopt.  The point is that every story is different, and it is important to me to honor every parent in their unique choices.  And it is important to me that my boys know they are just as much a gift as their sister on the way.  I answered that young woman with, “All my children came to me unexpectedly. All my children are a gift. And all my children are my own.”

I grieve with my mom who lost her daughter the day she was born.  I grieve with my clients and friends who have painfully endured multiple miscarriages. I grieve with my clients who go through one IVF after another with no plus sign.  I grieve with friends and clients who have gone through every single step of their adoption process and still did not get to bring their child home or had some kind of adoption interruption.  I grieve with my friend who has already lost one child to a genetic disorder and watches another struggle with the same one.  I GRIEVE HARD for my son’s birth mothers. So hard.  Because now as I am growing a child inside me, I cannot imagine the pain and sacrifice it was for them to lovingly release them into my care and partner with me in mothering them.  I will never take that lightly.  I don’t take any of these stories lightly.

And dads, you are seen too.  My mom told me the only time she saw my Daddy cry was when he lost his baby girl and when his dad passed away.  Dads have their stories around fatherhood too.  The burdens carried around having and being a parent (or not) are so real.

And I don’t want to miss the JOY.  I am so much more a believer that we have to hold both the joy and pain of our stories.  Even in our hurts, we can embrace the gifts we still somehow receive – and they may not always come in the forms or ways we expect, but they do come.  They are the small reminders we are okay. I am a stronger and more beautiful version of myself after the hurts I have healed and still healing through.  I take more time to talk to strangers, hear their stories, watch the animals in my wooded backyard, clear my calendar to rest, clear my calendar for my people in crisis, lean into the uncertainty of life and trust I CAN STILL BE OKAY ANYWAY while I simultaneously have my grief.

I remember seeing pregnant women not long after my pregnant friend passed away and being SO angry at them. But I was not angry at them. I was angry my friend wasn’t getting to walk around like them in this life with her pregnancy too.  And I bet those women would have felt the same if they knew my story of loss.

So when you see me and my obviously pregnant belly, please know I am in this with you in some way. I honor your story and do not take for granted what any of us have been through.  Even my seemingly “easy” pregnancy has its own version of pain and joy that I carry with me.  I carry yours with you too.  I see you on this Mother’s Day – whatever your story.

This I Know

Have you ever experienced the feeling of shock?  Do you remember what you felt, how your body reacted, what you did next?  We enter fight, flight, or freeze mode, and in all 3 we are still unconsciously responding to the unexpected.  We don’t really feel like we know or understand anything. It can happen after a crisis, loss of a loved one, betrayal, or any painful situation.  Many people experience Post Traumatic Stress after the shock, and the lasting effects of this vary depending on the person and the event.  On this Holy Saturday before Easter, I am reminded that we all have our own personal Saturday – those grieving pains that come between the death of what we held true on Good Friday and the hope of what is to come on Easter Sunday.  Saturday is for grieving, burial, and resting. More on this to come, but it really isn’t wrapped up so simply in just 3 days in the reality our earthly lives. Our Saturday grief can feel like Sunday may never come.  This I know.

One of these kinds of moments happened for me ironically on Easter Sunday morning two years ago. I was riding in a truck, sun shining, thinking about my great weekend in one of Tennessee’s beautiful state parks, and I was eager to get home to my boys to attend Easter service as a family.  Something made me check my email.  My heart races even now with the memory.  Spilled out line by line was one shocking disclosure after another from a stranger.  I wanted to jump out of that moving truck, scream, throw up, and cry.  Instead I somehow calmly asked behind my shaking voice for the truck to be pulled over.  I can’t remember much of what I said or did after that, but I remember my body felt numb and my heart was the only thing I could feel, and it hurt like hell.  And I distinctly remember feeling like everything and everyone was false. I didn’t feel like I knew anything anymore.

I put on a smile as I walked in my front door to greet the boys and then ran upstairs to curl my hair and put on a dress so they could have a “normal” Easter Sunday morning.  I stuffed the tears and the email way down.  I looked around in church and wondered who else might be hurting and pretending to be okay.  I don’t remember anything the pastor said, but I knew the Easter story, and I just remember wondering how I would ever feel the peace and hope of resurrection.  It felt like I was stuck in the crucifixion of Good Friday. I had no idea what to do next.

These last 2 years have been my long Saturday - a lot of continued grief and unknowing. And that’s not me.  I always have an answer, know what to do, have a plan, and can spring into action. But I’ve waited, yelled, grieved, rested, prayed, cried, sought help, and just stayed in the unknown.  When I researched Holy Saturday I found, “The day is traditionally a time of reflection and waiting.” Luke 23:56 says about this day after loss “And on the Sabbath day they rested, as the Law required.” Some of  Jesus’ disciples retreated in their shame and sadness. The women who loved him rested, prepared oils for burial, and recounted the events of the past days through their anguish and grief. Saturday has its purpose.

I looked back on these 2 years and realized what a strong woman I am and what can be learned and experienced when you lean into the loss and let it grow you.  I have started leaning into what I DO know in the midst of the unknown. And song lyrics came to me.

“Jesus loves me, this I know.”

“This I know with all my heart – His wounds have paid my ransom.”

Jesus loves us so much that what he did on Friday allows him to comfort us in the grief of Saturday and promises the healing of Sunday. I spend a lot of time in my office trying to help people make sense of the bad things that happened to them.  And here I have been in my own hell trying to make sense of it too.  And what I’ve always said to them I have needed to say to myself: “We were never promised nothing bad will happen, but we were promised over and over that Jesus loves us and would be with us in it.”

I am still sitting in a lot of unknown. But this I know: Jesus love me. He knows this pain. He is with me in it. He is with all of us in our messes. Easter is more than a story of happiness.  It is a reminder that we have a very real comforter who gets our pain during the Saturday between death and resurrection. When we are looking for the answers, wondering what is real, desperate in our grief – we are reminded Sunday is on the way.  This I know.

If you or a loved one feels stuck in a Saturday season…

DO:

~Offer self compassion and grace when you can’t function as you normally would.

~Let yourself be sad and grieve – cry, pray, write it down, however you need to get it out.  Better out than in.

~Find activities that remind you of your value and that your life continues to move forward even if you feel stuck – hobbies, quality time with your people, spontaneous trips to your favorite places.

~Reach out to a professional counselor for help with PTSD symptoms like flashbacks, nightmares, inability to carry out daily functions, consistent irritability, panic attacks, intense anxiety or depression.  And again, HAVE COMPASSION for yourself with these symptoms. It’s your body’s way of processing what happened and/or trying to keep you from being “caught off guard” again, and sometimes we need the help of a trained professional to get in the present moment and release that pain from the past that feels stuck.

DO NOT:

~Give yourself or anyone else a timeline for the healing.  Every person and situation is different and is to be given patience and grace in their unique process.

~Force yourself or someone to “get happy, be fine, or get over it.” There will certainly be times for distraction and the need to function in daily life without constant grief reminders, but don’t be surprised if something that “should” be fun doesn’t feel like fun or you find yourself not being able to “snap out” of your grief. These past couple years I have found myself feeling very confused why I couldn’t just roll with the flow at a birthday party or something else that would typically be fun, but finding joy is a much harder task when your heart is broken and you’re walking through a confusing season. Everything can feel false, so again, HAVE COMPASSION for where you are and recognize your efforts to heal.

~Expect yourself to “be fine” like everyone else.  Same as above.  It will seem like everyone else is okay and moving on. They have possibly made it to their Sunday.  And that can cause you to feel shame or confusion as to why you can’t do the same.  And if you already are in your Sunday, and you are with someone who feels stuck in Saturday, please don’t expect them to feel the same as you.  Offer your love, support, and grace. Trying to fix it for them or “getting them happy” can sometimes layer on the shame they already feel for not being where you are.   Click here for an awesome video by Brené Brown about empathy that outlines ways to respond.

The Other Woman

Her skin is darker than mine, and her smile takes up all the space in the room.  She laughs even though she is burdened, and she plays even though she is tired.  I compare myself to her as if we should somehow be carried with the same amount of love and admiration in our boys’ hearts.  But when I let the comparison go I just see 2 strong and courageous women – imperfect, broken, and beautiful.  And we have touched the men in our lives with a love that has no score.

Have you ever found yourself in a situation of being or having “the other woman” – birth mother, adoptive mother, step mother, betrayed wife, affair partner, the new best friend in the new town, the old best fried in the hometown, co-heads of a department or company, supporting actress to the lead? There are so many scenarios in which we hold ourselves up like 2 mirrors side by side and try to either see the same thing or break the other mirror.  There is so much emotion around not being the “one” that holds all the space in the heart of your shared audience or loved one – shame, guilt, anger, sadness. And in our struggle to win, gain more attention, push the other out, stay in the background, or be the same, we lose the beauty of our unique selves that draws us into authentic relationships.  Regardless of any scenario you are in as the other woman, YOU are the woman that needs YOUR attention.  And when you offer yourself that connection and love, you can either: 1)For a continued healthy relationship - accept the other into a shared role in which you both uniquely contribute, or 2) For someone you need to break ties with - you can release any need to figure her out or compare her since you can’t both hold the same space anymore.

I have been in both of these scenarios – one that needed to bond and one that needed to break.  And both have required me to show up with a genuine love and discovery of who I am separate from the other woman. It is an ongoing journey.  I have always held a genuine love and care for my boys’ birth mother, yet I have worried I can never be the same kind of mother to them as she was. And the reality is I cannot.  As I laughed, danced, and shared photos of our children with her, I am reminded of how love can just be there without any need to measure it.  I can accept the time of our boys’ lives she witnessed and accept mine now. I asked her about their births, and she asked me about their soccer games.  And she glowed as she told me how happy she is for them now.  I can’t imagine the grief she must hold as their birth mother all while entrusting me joyfully as their mother too.

And when releasing the other woman who needs no more space in your life, the same can be true even if there’s not a happy acceptance of each other.  Notice both of you as broken people who hurt, grieve, and fall apart.  I am learning forgiveness is not a task to check off as “done” – it is a journey to keep living out.  And that journey requires more focus on the total living, breathing, feeling soul inside your own body – not hers.  Let her go knowing she is a part of a story that may have pointed you toward your own growth somehow. And she doesn’t have to stay a character in the story anymore.  You are always the First Lady of your own House.

39

A month before my 38^th birthday last year, I laid in bed staring out the window into the dark night.  My mind wandered in sleeplessness, and my heart ached in confusion.  My life had ended up far south of WhereIAlwaysHopedVille. I had a couple decisions in front of me – give up or fight.  I was in a little Airbnb in Portland, ME with a beautiful bay of water out the back door.  Giving up meant I could walk right out into it and float away.  Fighting meant I could lay right here until the sun rises – until there is light again, and I see a way to do this.  At that point in life, I had thankfully learned to look for light no matter how dark. So as I gazed out the window, I locked my eyes on a streetlamp.  I imagined Jesus himself had just erected it there for me to remind me He was there. I watched that pale glimmer until I finally let myself fall asleep.  The next morning I made a pot of coffee and drank all of it and made the decision to fight – mostly for the love of the woman inside me. 

I just looked back at my social media post on my 38^th birthday last year – the month after I made that declaration to fight for her – I was bare faced, messed up hair, and embracing the vulnerability and bravery of the woman I was becoming.  Today at year 39 I’m still celebrating that 38 year old. At the darkest time, she made a choice to hope. At a time when I felt like I could lose so much, I decided it was the best time to gain ME.  So I prayed more than ever – (but don’t lose me here, folks – this isn’t the “pray your way to getting good news and happy things” kind of cookie cutter spirituality).  This was my desperate plea for God to remind me who He was, who I was, and what we were together.  I knew I could pray about all those dark things, and they may stay dark, but I needed to know what the Light could do in the midst of it.  For instance, when people thank God for answering their prayers of removing their cancer while another Jesus-loving person with praying friends dies from it, how do we reconcile this? I can’t, and I don’t even try to anymore.  What I know for absolutely sure is that Jesus shows up to bring comfort in the dark. He brings the Light even if the dark stuff still comes. And that’s how we can make it when things aren’t going our way.  That year I looked for streetlamps, car headlights, and flashlights. I lit candles, plugged in nightlights, built fires, and lit matches and just stared at them – and then prayed a prayer heard from one of my favorite writers, Ann Lamott – “Help me.  Help me. Help me.”  I knew it may quite possibly stay dark, but I knew I would find Light every time.  This process woke me up.  I came to know Jesus and the Holy Spirit – not just a “Heavenly Father” who I thought needed me to perform and do things right. I sat in my favorite chair a lot and practiced nothing but being there and letting Jesus be there too.  And I always lit something – a candle or maybe a fire under my own ass.  I was learning to love myself and others from the place Jesus already loved me - in a complete mess.  It was crazy. 

I was delivered blow after blow last year, and I just kept looking for Light and finding love and comfort every time. I kept loving harder from a bigger place and presence outside my humanity.  At some point I may share more specifically about those hard times (it’s all simmering appropriately), but my most important lesson on this 39^th birthday is that it is always worth seeking Light and fighting for mySELF – it spills out into my other relationships in a way I could never have done out of my own human strength.  I love myself and my people more every day. I forgive myself and my people more every day.  Happy year 39 to ME.

Expectations

I eyed each pumpkin in the patch trying to determine which ones would perfectly stack on each other to make that pristine gourd tower.  You know – the one on every southern home porch that shouts “It’s fall, y’all.” Even though that phrase makes me cringe for a variety of reasons, I somehow still “fall” into the expectation that my home in Tennessee should follow suit and don this autumn awesomeness.  Eventually they started growing some kind of fungus on them, the top pumpkin fell off and broke its stem, and one of my kids just snuck in a blue one he painted in the mix.  Not what I expected.  But somehow it’s more honest and representative of me now.  And it made me laugh at how “perfectly” it goes along with what I had just been writing on a recent trip to NYC.

We grow up with a list of expectations.  There are developmental stages we are expected to meet – first steps, first word, first day of school.  There are expectations about being a spouse and parent – stay present, keep dating, show up to soccer games.  There are unspoken expectations about being male or female – wear this/not that, stay strong/stay silent, do this type of job.  There are the unrealistic expectations we place on ourselves and others.  And what happens when we miss these marks?  At almost 39, I’m learning the important difference between expectations and dreams.  Dreams bring hope and can guide us to our heart’s deepest desires.  Even if they don’t “come true,” they leave room for more exploration and creativity. But expectations, when not met, foster resentment and rob us of our truest selves. I have been living most of my life with a list of unmet expectations.  And it’s exhausting.

I was going to be a famous singer.  I was going to get married and have a baby or 2 or 3.  Instead, I am a therapist.  I am married with 3 adopted boys.  And even those roles are riddled with expectations.  For example, because I am a therapist, I’m “expected” to be a good wife and a good mom because I have a degree that says I know about relationships.  I am sitting here in a courtyard hotel in New York City grieving all the ways I have missed those marks.  I even have an expectation of myself right now that I should be out walking around the city taking in all the sights.  Internal dialogue is “Why are you sitting here writing? You can do this at home. You don’t have the Statue of Liberty at home!”  And this is the internal dialogue that keeps me trapped.  I start obeying it, and I move away from my heart and soul that is whispering softly what it really wants. But today I did not.  I sit here wrapped up in my new cozy scarf doing what I NEED to do to honor a voice inside me that gets muted too often. Life is too short and too hard to keep operating in the expectations.  I want the dreams. I want to sit right here and write.  It takes courage to move toward dreams and away from the expectations.

As both a child and adult, I like resolving conflict.  I became a therapist, because I love the role of helping people find emotional health.  Early in my career I had an expectation this would also mean a guaranteed life of health and happiness because I would have all the “how to’s” as a spouse and parent.  No way I can mess this up if I’ve got the rule books. I’ve grown to love this “Performer Part” of me that so innocently studies and achieves.  She is determined and beautiful.  Her heart craves balance, love, connection, and validation. Yet where she was sadly unaware is that this could not be all up to her.  No amount of reading, no diploma or license, no LMFT credentials behind her name on a website or office door could keep her from the pain of living.  And when things started going completely awry, she mistakenly believed she had failed.  This part of me took on the shame of where my life had landed – that somewhere I didn’t “cross the t or dot the i” and now it’s all my fault.  Then the shame spiral spins out of control:

Who will come see ME for therapy?

What if I had only done a, b, c…?

What will people think of me?

How did I mess this up?

How can I make life “right” again?

All these shame thoughts come because my lovely ambitious Performer Part thinks she failed.  She had expectations to meet, and she didn’t.  She thinks all those expectations were squarely and primarily on HER shoulders. 

You know how a football player gets injured and can’t play anymore, or a writer breaks her wrist and can’t type, or a singer loses her voice?  Do you think those people failed?  Author Jen Hatmaker spoke straight to my Performer Part in her most recent book “Of Mess and Moxie.” She writes: “The main thing is attacked, and no amount of devotion could stop it. It is a watershed moment when we start bargaining with God. Anything but this, Lord. I did everything right! I invested wholeheartedly. I sacrificed greatly. I nurtured this specifically. I need this particularly. I love this especially. How could this go down despite my dedication?...The problem is life.”

We can know everything there is to know about our field or given profession. We can study it, do it, and nail it.  And life still freaking happens to us.  So today I am telling my Performer Part what a brave and beautiful woman she is. I want her to know how hard she has worked and what good things have come from her determined and well-intentioned efforts. She read all the books, got the 4.0, won competitions, ran the marathons, kayaked 12 miles alone, got her Master’s degree, worked tirelessly to bring her 3 kids home from Haiti, walked through painful events with her clients, and now she is courageously fighting for the hurt parts of herself.  And today she must know – there are no more expectations of her except to honestly show up with her heart. I want her to lift all that shit off her shoulders. You did a good job.  Don’t do this by yourself anymore.  It was never all up to you, and it still isn’t. You do your part, and let others do theirs. You can’t be held responsible for the choices of others or the storms of life.  Serenity prayer yourself through this. 

As I move from expectations to dreams, an important shift happens. I remember I have help.  Expectations say it’s all up to me and that any mistakes or hardships mean I’ve failed. Dreaming means I have good ideas and gifts to offer the world, and I can do my part to be the person I want to be. I can trust the pain of life will be used to keep growing me. I have a compassionate Jesus who strengthens me. I used to believe He was up there waving a wand and making good things happen for people who were doing all the “right” things.  But now more than ever I realize we were never promised easy, good, happy, perfect lives free from pain - no matter the level of performance. But we were absolutely promised He would love and comfort us in it. From this perspective, here’s how that shame spiral mentioned above levels back out:

People will want to see ME for therapy because I am an imperfect person who gets life with them. I have done (and still doing) my healing work too.  I have some great tools and resources to share, and yet my compassionate heart outweighs the books I’ve read and skills I’ve learned.

I could have done a, b, or c….and other life things could’ve still happened.  There is actually freedom in knowing I am ultimately not in control, yet always loved through it.

Some people will still absolutely question or judge me. That’s just life.  But there will also be people who think I’m brave and are thankful I’ve walked in their shoes and can sit in the pain with them. 

I didn’t mess this up.  Another of my favorite authors, Glennon Doyle, says “I am a feeling person in a messy world.”

There’s no making life “right” again. Because it never was.  I just keep dreaming and rearranging the pumpkins.

~What expectations did you have of yourself or something in your life that did not get met?

~Can you grieve those losses and accept human imperfection and the hardship of life?

~Are you carrying a burden of responsibility that isn’t really yours? How can you release it?

~How can these “failed” expectations be turned into dreams now?

~ What rearranging needs to be done in order to be who you truly want to be?

Wonder Woman

I had a conversation with a friend recently who also likes to write.  We both desire to be transparent about our stories, but sometimes there is a risk of that story exposing too much and potentially being harmful.  It’s a fine line we walk to stay honest and vulnerable, yet protective and respectful.  The telling of our stories is for healing, not harming. It’s not healthy for me to lay all my dirty laundry out for everyone – at least not before the rinse cycle.  What is healthy is being honest about painful experiences yet seeking resources to heal and grow.

So when I sit down to write I ask, “What will help someone? How can I be vulnerable, yet careful?  Honest about the hardship of life, but also inspirational and hopeful?” It is crucial to me to connect with others in the hard of life, because that’s also where the good stuff grows from later.  So in probably one of the hardest places of my life right now, I’m summoning courage to start telling the story – honestly, safely, respectfully, and with hopefully appropriate timing and grace.  I’ll be writing about it in pieces as I trust each part to show itself ready.  I am starting with a super hero story. Because I need her in order to do this. Because I am her. 

My son Woody had been asking me to go see Wonder Woman for weeks now. While I loved everything about this, I was having a hard time finding a good day to make it happen. I trusted it would work out at just the right time – as most things do.  One day it felt like something that had to happen.  It wasn’t just a request from my son but a plea from my insides to have inspiration from a woman in a cape. It was one of those days where I felt like I might not be able to “fight” another thing. I was exhausted, helpless, and hopeless.  I was waving the white flag. 

I found myself weeping in the middle of a scene where Wonder Woman goes into “No Man’s Land” to fight for love against the enemy. Click here to see the clip on youtube.  She is crouched down holding her shield in front of her being pummeled by arrows and bullets.  She is leaning in, bracing herself, gritting her teeth, and standing her ground.  I was in awe of her strength in defense of herself and everything she was fighting for. Guarding yourself is a necessary part of the battle. Eventually she is joined by her fellow soldiers.  When I was in my own counseling session recently (because, YES, counselors needs counselors too – this is how we help you. Circle of life.), I shared how this scene moved me and that I felt like Wonder Woman in that moment – trying to stand strong and not be hurt.  So then my therapist asked me to picture who would be joining me on the battlefield.  My powerhouse team of women came rushing out on the front lines with me. They weren’t there to fight the battle FOR me, but alongside me in support.  We all have our own battles to fight, so we show up together to fight them.

If you don’t know Wonder Woman’s story, she was fighting for love – true love, love for the marginalized, love for self. That is an exhausting battle.  And sometimes all you can do is put up your shield and lean into the enemy fire. Although Wonder Woman could have fought alone and still won, even this super hero had her people by her side. 

I put my shield down just for a minute to rest.   I pictured my platoon standing guard with their shields while I took a nap with my cape around me and let Jesus comfort me. I wrote this part of the story. I ate my favorite coconut milk ice cream. I called one of those soldiers to get a glass of wine with me. I cried and prayed a lot.  I’ll join the battle again when it’s time to fight, and the fight will continue to be for love – the truest love for mySELF and my people.  Right now I am loving and honoring myself for the fierce protection of my shield and the ground I have stood.  There is a time for everything.

What I continue to learn is that all growth does NOT happen in my time or way.  Just when I thought I was at my "best," along came another season - another layer ready for peeling. Growth always involves pain, courage, strength, rest, fighting, and eventually joy.  It always involves a team of people who love you.  In the past I have hurried toward the joy – to get to the end of the battle the quickest and easiest way possible – no time for pain or rest.  But pain and rest are great teachers.  We must honor their timing, lessons, and gifts.  I want to believe true joy and strength awaits after true grief and loss - that "face down in the arena" moment that author Brene Brown talks about. 

One of my fellow soldiers gave me my own version of Wonder Woman bracelets that say “Braver than you believe. Smarter than you think.” Yes I am. So are you.  Trust your trial to grow and teach you, and don’t go into battle alone.    

Just Keep Swimming

“Attention, you have 15 great white sharks near you.  Please calmly exit the water.”   This was the alert from the Officials in Orange County, CA to a group of beachgoers – see full article here.  Thanks for the heads up, but CALMLY exit the water?  But the reality is that when in crisis, in the middle of trauma, in the midst of danger, we are advised to “stay calm.” Why? And what does that even mean?  Our hearts are pounding. We are scared. We are possibly hurting. We feel crazy.  We think we might die.  How are we supposed to stay calm? But somehow we do. 

This specific kind of thing may not have ever happened to you. But we have all been surrounded by “sharks” at some point – in the middle of danger, fear, crisis, hurt, pain, and uncertainty. And we panic – naturally.  How do I get out of this? Where do I go?  How will I survive this?

Last Saturday night my husband and I drove past a truck in a ditch – horn honking and lights flashing.  It was obvious the accident had just happened.  I yelled to Todd to pull over.  And I ran to meet a young boy stumbling out of the truck.  I asked if he was okay, and he was crying and obviously drunk.  He begged me to stay with him until more help came.  I did.  Through his beer breath he told me how mad his mom would be, how much trouble he would be in, how sorry he was. He was surrounded by his “sharks.”  I asked him to take deep breaths, tell the truth, and keep taking the right next step.  I said, “We’ve got to get you to safety first, and the rest will be figured out later.” Police showed up, but I held his hand until his mom came.  When we are in trauma, we need the nearness of others.  And when his mom arrived, after holding her son, she buried her tearful face on my chest.  Her sharks were circling too.  I told her she was a good mom, doing a great job, and she would get through this – that more would be revealed.  And then I cried too. 

Many of my favorite writers and bloggers advise not to write about things you are still processing.  We take huge risks to put our mess out there in public when there’s so much debris still flying around from our shit storm. Until the debris has landed and we sift through what is trash to dispose and what is a treasure to repair, we keep the work of the trauma and its aftermath safely close to us and with the people we love.  We stay “calm.” We calmly exit the water and turn to our safe people and ask "What the F just happened?” And then we get still and rest for a minute…or the next year or 2.    I recently experienced my own shark story.  It feels like they are still circling. But I am calmly getting out of the water. That’s the piece I can write about right now.

I started writing a step by step process for “calmly exiting the water.” I am now laughing my butt off, because that’s impossible.  We are not going through a checklist as we get out of shark-infested waters. We are just getting the heck out of there.  The beauty of our human nature is that we do inherently know what to do in crisis.  Even though we go through fight, flight, or freeze, we instinctively do what feels natural to survive. “Getting calmly and safely to shore” for me has been breathing, asking for help, and to keep swimming. Remember good old Dori from Finding Nemo?  “Just keep swimming” means I breathe, go to bed, breathe, wake up, breathe, drink coffee, breathe, drink water, breathe, eat, breathe, pray, breathe, connect with a safe friend, and breathe.  I keep my vision on the shore as I swim – the place where I feel safe from the sharks – and trust its provision for me there.  Decisions do not have to be made right now.  I’m not swimming to shore thinking about all the next steps once I reach safety. I’m just getting to shore. And after all that swimming, I need rest. 

People who have been through trauma are often asked, “How did you know when you were going to be okay?” The answer to this question is most likely their place of hope and resilience.  It’s their “shore.” They have landed safely away from the sharks. And as they reflect on the pain and fear, they can also remember what it was like to land safely – their bodies and hearts lying tired and broken on comforting ground.  At some of my hardest places during crisis when I was crying and “swimming,” I remember seeing a beautiful Iris that had just bloomed open in the middle of weeds. I saw a female Cardinal gathering twigs.  I opened my puffy eyes to the sunshine outside my window now warming my tears. I got a million messages from people I love offering comfort, love and encouragement.  All these places are my shore. So now I lay here and just rest in their comfort until next steps are clearer.  That is enough right now.  Just keep swimming with your eyes on the shore, and then rest your weary souls there.