What I Would Tell Her

I would assume most of you don’t think much about sitting in a chair. You might notice if the chair is particularly creaky. Or wobbly. In general, I think it’s safe to say, most of us just sit in a chair without conscious thought. I would assume the same thing about walking to class. Or walking to and from your car.

I used to be like that too.

I remember distinctly when the feeling of sitting in a chair became very noticeable. Taking my seat at the table, my tail bone was the first thing to touch the chair, followed by my sit bones which dug into the wood. My body was hollow. My bones brittle. This became the norm for me.

I remember parking my car in the garage at the community college I was attending for my first day of classes. It was a cold winter day. Walking the short distance from my car to class, I became very conscious of each step. I could feel the space between my bony thighs as I took each step and walking made my legs feel like stilts. My attention narrowed in on the slow, weak beat of my heart. The area around my ribcage felt hollow.  I wasn’t sure if I would make it to class.

I was taking a biology class with the same teacher I’d had the previous semester. I walked into class. My skin was gray. My eyes were indents in my skeletal face. I greeted my professor.

I don’t remember her reaction. My classmates – some of whom I’d had the previous semester – never mentioned anything about me looking deathly, for which I am very grateful. Class began, class ended. I drove home that night, feeling very accomplished – and relieved – that I’d made it back. I scrambled over to the fireplace to warm up. Sitting with my arms wrapped around my knees, I could feel my tailbone grinding into the tile.

This was my life for four months.

Everyday a struggle.

Everyday a threat.

Weaker each moment.

Colder each day.

It was as though I was killing myself without any ability to do anything about it. Developing anorexia had come over me so fast, it’s as though I woke up one day, brittle and deformed. The accelerated speed of my complete life turnover added to the intensity and feeling of having been invaded. What had happened to me?

I did not starve myself and develop anorexia because I thought I was fat. It is not something I chose, either. However, I do believe there is a common denominator between all eating disorders, addictions, and unhealthy habits. These symptoms are telling us that some unaddressed issue needs to be brought into the light.

But shame does not like light.

Shame is suffocating. And shame became a very close friend of mine during this time. I was utterly disgusted with what had happened to my body. My social life reduced to being non-existent. My home became the hospitalization that the doctors threatened; and I became invisible to the world.

After four months of my body struggling to live, by sheer will power, I decided to eat again. Each spoonful of cereal was swallowed with tears and torture. Although my dangerously low bodyweight only lasted four months, I entered into a bottomless bout of debilitating depression that lasted the following four years.

I had become someone I was completely not. I had come too close to touching the last breath of death that I didn’t know how to live;although I was breathing, something inside me had died.

As much of a toll anorexia took on me physically, it was my inner-spirit that starved the most. My body merely wore the truth. Recovering was an uphill battle. Rising each day was an act of faith and often felt like a shot in the dark. But I refused to give up.

The desire and belief that I could use my struggle to help others became my strength. Recovering was no longer only about me, but for everyone else I wanted to impact one day. I would turn my pain into purpose.

We don’t always see a glimmer of light to guide the path. Our journey can feel like an endless valley. But if I could go back to the seventeen year old girl who lay weak and alone and tell her one thing, it would be this: Your struggle, dear one, will become your strength. You will not be overcome.

Dear reader, I do not know what has brought you to my writing or how our paths crossed, but I pray and hope that whatever burdens you, grieves you, sorrows you; whatever it is that is still left unhealed… that you know this:  inside each of us is a limitless resilience. Struggling merely invites us to access that inner strength.

 
Check out the corresponding video I made to go with this article here: Struggle To Strength

Unlocking The Door to Who You Truly Are.

My closest friends and family (and pretty much anyone who knows me) have given me the affectionate label “soul-searcher,” which is basically an artistic way of saying I like deep things and I’m totally dorky. That’s ok. I proudly accept the label.

I spent a long time searching for home. A place of safety. A feeling of comfort. The whole cliche “home is inside yourself” became an even greater source of conflict because I didn’t even know how to be at home with myself. I felt far more like a foreigner in my own skin.

However, the soul-searcher in me liked the concept of finding my inner home, so I pursued what I thought that meant, by focusing on sitting still with myself. This little retreat felt like trying to force open a locked door. A bulletproof door at that. I didn’t like how I felt in the silence. Trying to force myself into this  “home” created even more resistance. I often left these “visits” feeling frustrated and agitated.

It is much easier to deflect the truth and make up excuses. Sitting in the pit of repressed everything (“I’m fine!”, “Everything’s great!”) challenged me.  But honesty is a catalyst. That’s where the change happens.

This is when the concept of “self-vulnerability” came up, which I define as “the practice of creating a safe space within oneself to be honest and uncomfortable.” (I’m actually pretty convinced that the words ‘honest’ and ‘uncomfortable’ are synonyms and the dictionary just hasn’t caught on. Yet).

This practice of self-vulnerability did not mean I had to feel at home in myself. It did not mean I had to feel good at all.  Most of the time I didn’t. This meant that I would take time to create a “safe space” inside where I could be honest with myself. And that, my friends, is difficult.

It is a continuous practice, yes, and this journey does take time, but my persistent efforts have lead me to a place where I no longer feel abandoned by myself or a foreigner to myself.  Although it seems I tried every key on the keychain before getting it right, being honest and sitting with the discomfort is truly what allowed me to access a home that does exist.

Connecting with the things that gave me an urgent desire  to escape – most prominently the feeling of uncontrollable and insatiable anxiety – were the very things I needed to learn to sit with in order to feel at home in myself. In the dusty crevices of my vulnerability, I became aware of the things I could change and the things I had to accept.  This is where I found the key I needed to unlock the door of who I thought I was supposed to be so I could open the door to the person that I actually am.

It is totally okay to not be okay at all. But it’s not okay to abandon yourself in the process.  If you’ve lost the key to the door of your inner home, find it. Unlocking the door can feel scary, especially if the person on the other side has become a stranger. But take that step forward. Twist the doorknob. Who you truly are is on the other side. Are you ready to unlock the door?

Check out my corresponding video to go with this article here: Self-Vulnerability

Stranger.

The studio –  where my album, Serenity, came to be – was a little green room, in a small wood house with a tree growing through it. It was rustic and certainly conducive to fostering creativity. The lights in the studio, violins and guitars and other indistinguishable instruments hanging on the wall felt like home. And that place became my refuge.

Recording was where I encountered myself for the first time. My tendency to hide came flaring up. How can I be perfect and vulnerable all at the same time? The microphone felt all too close. Moments of debilitating shame, fear and vulnerability locked up my throat. The blaring red recording button would start the piano intro in my headphones. This meant my singing entrance was coming. I’d take a step towards the mic. Panic. All I could hear was my mind screaming, “Oh no, will I be able to swallow? My throat is closing in. My throat is closing in. MY THROAT IS CLOSING IN.”

Creating Serenity was not a week long process of studio time, but a culmination of studio days here and there for a year and a half, each one taking more out of me than the one before. Each night before I went to the studio, I would roll around restlessly and anxiously in bed, unable to sleep. The impenetrable shell which I hid behind was cracking; like the sand tumbling around in the waves, my outer shell was eroding. I dreaded facing my producer because he’d seen me at my rawest and most unguarded state every time we recorded. I could barely handle the shame of it.

I started recording days with an early morning walk to gather myself, a cup of tea to soothe my throat, and the 50 minute commute. Sessions were typically six hours long, and each time I left feeling completely emptied out. Although I had finally found where I belonged for the first time, my songs resurfaced e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g I’d ever been through and learned to suppress. I had a lifetime’s worth of emotional baggage inside me, including everything anorexia had taken out of me. Though the music brought up all of the trauma and all of the emotions with it…this process of walking through the pain is what healed me.

To the world I had become a stranger, but I didn’t want to be a stranger to myself anymore.

Nothing compares to speaking the truth of your soul. Especially the dark night. It is the scariest, most vulnerable and beautiful thing you can do. Things often get worse before they get better, but not recognizing your own reflection is the greater tragedy.

What I’ve learned is that healing takes three main things:

1. Awareness – having pain or needing to cry does not mean there’s something wrong with you. Seek help.

2. Own it – walk through the fire; you are a warrior. The only way out of the pain is through it.

3. Overcome it – having support, and encouragement will give you strength. Lean on others. Acknowledging and owning your pain will lead to overcoming it.

If you haven’t found what gives your soul safety and serenity, go find it. We all need somewhere to go to be recharged. We cannot hide and simultaneously be healed. So come out of hiding. Break through the shell. Find whatever gives you the release. Don’t be a stranger to your dear self. Walk through the pain. Serenity is awaiting on the other side.

Diamonds.

It was a sunny Spring afternoon.  I was in therapy with my counselor. It had been long weeks and months worth of heavy, exhausting, and painful therapy. Insecurities, wounds and fears were rising to the surface and purging through my skin. It was as though a bright light had come over me and shone itself on all of my pain. I couldn’t hide.

But that’s not what therapy is for.

Therapy is to un-hide. It’s to shed the layers and walls we put up. It’s to explore our own nature. Like many people, I’d become very good at numbing and running away from the pain. And if I wasn’t numbing or running away from the pain, I was completely covering it up only to drown in it later when I was alone. I felt the pressure to be perfect very strongly. 

On this particular day, the jagged edges of my past were not digging into my skin. I felt a transformative energy rising inside me. Finally, I thought. The hard work I’m doing is paying off. The conversation between me and my therapist went something like this:

“Therapist,” I said, “You know what resonates with me?”

“No?” Therapist inquired.

“Diamonds,” I said.

At this point in therapy, we’d been digging through the debilitating beliefs I had about myself which had formed during my childhood.  We all have them. My strongest belief was that there was something fundamentally wrong with me at my very core. Nothing about me was beautiful. Inside I felt like an abandoned cave. Not a beautiful cave where the treasure is hidden. The dark, imprisoning, sharp rocks kind of cave. I was ashamed of my existence.

“Yes, diamonds,” I reiterated. “I think at the core of our being everyone is a diamond. Pure, precious, unique. But so often we get covered up by the pain, wounds, and insecurities we experience through life. Many people miss this reality because when we look inside ourselves, all we can see are the things covering up the diamond.”

“And,” I continued, “We can only get to the diamond that is inside each one of us if we are willing to dig through the grit, dare to uncover the unknown beneath it all, and encounter our true selves. I’m the diamond in the rough!” I proudly exclaimed.

In this moment, I realized the lie I believed about myself being inherent garbage was complete trash. I had inherent beauty that wascovered up by garbage. I no longer felt the need to hate myself as punishment for my existence. There was treasure inside me and it was my duty to uncover it.

The word “diamond” comes from a greek word meaning “unalterable” or “unbreakable.” Although hitting rock bottom certainly didn’t make me feel indestructible, it was the journey of climbing up that made me realize my inherent worth is “unalterable” and “unbreakable.” As a diamond is formed under extreme conditions – excruciating pressure and heat – so often we are transformed most powerfully through extreme conditions that seem unbearable.

Not to overuse the treasure-map-cave theme (I’m a sucker for metaphors), but turning towards our pain is the map that leads to the treasure inside each one of us. We’ve got to enter into the pain. It’s one of the best things we can do for ourselves (only second to eating chocolate).

This therapy session was not one of the (many) sessions where I left carrying a handful of tissues, trying to look like a composed human being walking to my car. It was a strutting to the car thinking, watch out, world, homegirl is on fire and she’s unstoppable kind of day.

I will be the first to tell you that therapy is hard work. Healing is a lonnng journey. But it can be done by looking pain in the face, bravely, and knowing you are stronger. It’s trusting that the dark night of the soul is leading to a greater awakening. There is light at the end of the tunnel. There is a diamond in the rough.  And that diamond is you. 

Becoming Free: Choosing to be Brave

Being brave looks different from person to person. Brave can mean giving your heart away when it has been shattered before. Brave can mean saying no to someone instead of being everything for everybody. Brave can mean risking your life and marching into battle.

For others, brave is not as romantic or heroic sounding. For me, being brave means looking someone in the eyes when my hair doesn’t feel “just right” and when I don’t have a brush of eye-liner on my upper eyelid. Brave means being seen as I am. So imperfect. So real.

I think I was born with an extra dose of vulnerability. Fragile and sensitive. Looking into someone’s eyes with a naked face or when my hair’s not braided just so or if it’s hanging down my cheek the wrong way, feels very exposing to me. We all have safety blankets. At least that’s what I’ve come to understand. It just so happens that my safety blanket is to try and hide under my own skin. It’s a pretty relentless and unachievable safety blanket.

And that’s a good thing.

Because we were not born to hide. I may have been born with an extra gene of vulnerability, but with vulnerability comes bravery and change. We were made to be brave. It’s in our DNA. We’re designed to fight off bears, march into battle, sleep in the wilderness, and perhaps most importantly: to show up and allow ourselves to be seen as we are. Beautifully broken.

Songwriting and recording my album Serenity allowed me to access and express my true, authentic self. I’d become a stranger to the person inside. I remember standing in the studio with my quivering lips an inch from the microphone, so unsure, so timid. But it was there in the studio that I unmasked the hidden darkness of my mental illness with my whole heart.  It was the most daunting, vulnerable and emotionally exposing experience of my life. 

But it changed my life because for the first time, I showed up and allowed myself to be seen. It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done. And because I broke through the chains, I became free.

Ask yourself:  What does an act of bravery look like to you? Do you enter into the opportunity to be brave when you’re given the chance? Or do you shy away and retreat into your turtle shell?

Being brave is a choice.

Choose brave.

Dear Self

Dear Self,

You are beautiful. Just the way you are. You often hear a voice that tells you otherwise. Your feelings convince you that the voice you hear in your mind is true. It’s not.

Stop striving. Be still.

The part of you that will impact the world and transform hearts cannot be changed, modified, or made better or worse by your physical form. Don’t be afraid to be searching. Don’t be afraid to walk your unique path alone. Don’t be afraid to find yourself, no matter the path that takes you. Don’t be discouraged by the neigh-sayers–they don’t understand. Don’t be afraid of your own doubts and abilities. Your purpose is written in your soul, carved into your being by the One who created and formed you. 

Don’t hide. Don’t retreat into your shell. Shed your armor. You are beautiful even when you don’t think or feel that way. You can do nothing to change your inherent dignity. Believe this. You will only bloom and come to be if you allow yourself to be who you truly are.

Don’t lose hope. You have scars and wounds. But with them, you have strength and courage. Only love heals. Nurture your heart. Care for yourself. Honor who you are. Don’t be afraid of the destiny you are called to. Don’t look back or sideways or compare. And never stop fighting. Bravery and strength follow you where you go.