But I can’t not talk about it anymore. 

Even at Great Wolf Lodge, the last place on earth I’d expect to have a deep conversation with a stranger.

I was sitting by the ice cream booth, nursing a triple mocha and wondering what on earth had possessed me to volunteer to chaperone my daughter’s scout troop.

Great Wolf Lodge, if you’re not familiar with it (lucky you!) is a huge indoor water park resort. We took our kids there when they were little. Ack! Don’t do it! I was in constant fear of them drowning in the wave pool or getting trampled on by hordes of screaming kids shoving and pushing their way to the front of the line. 

Outside the water park in the lodge area, teens and tweens on a sugar high run pell-mell shouting through the hallways, trying to rack up points on a magic treasure hunt game. 

Not exactly the place for meaningful connections. 

Unless, apparently, you happen to be wearing a suicide prevention t-shirt.

A woman walking by my table glanced at me, took a second look, then detached herself from her husband and young daughter, waving them off to head into the water park without her.

She smiled at me. “I like your shirt.”

Then her face grew serious.

 “Did you lose someone?”

“Yes,” I admitted reluctantly, feeling that old, familiar resistance to talking about it. “My brother and my sister.”

She nodded in acknowledgement, one survivor to another.

“I lost my dad,” she confessed. “I was just a kid when he died. I was convinced it was my fault. If only I’d been a better kid, he wouldn’t have left like that.”

My heart ached for her, and for the innocent child she’d been. I know that feeling of self-blame all too well.

“I thought it was my fault too, when my brother John died,” I confided. “I was only 14. I didn’t know how to process it. Neither did my family. So we just didn’t talk about it. We went on as if nothing had happened when really, we were all suffering so much.”

I stared into space, lost in my memories. “I don’t really blame my parents. Nobody talked about mental health back then. The priest said suicide was a sin, so we didn’t even have a funeral for him. Can you imagine?”

“No funeral, no closure. It didn’t seem real. I made up a story in my head that John had done something really bad so he ran away to South America. I couldn’t believe he was gone for good, you know? Especially without saying goodbye to me.”

My new friend shook her head. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

“Yeah. It took me a long time to learn how to talk about it all. It’s still kind of hard. But I’m glad you stopped to talk.”

“Me too,” she said. “It’s so much worse when you feel alone with it.”

We sat together surrounded by the cacophony of crying babies and the roar of the water park, our own little island of connection and solace.

I’m glad I wore that shirt.

If you’ve been affected by suicide, my heart goes out to you. You don’t have to deal with it alone. Here are some resources:

• The 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline

• American Foundation For Suicide Prevention (AFSP) — Support Page

• AFSP — booklet with suggestions for helping young loss survivors

• National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) — Family Support Group

It was pure freedom.

I woke up each morning and ate whatever sounded good (some days a fruit smoothie with yogurt and peanut butter. Other mornings, leftover pasta and garlic bread. YUM.) I walked on the beach as long as I wanted without worrying about my family getting bored. I made giant bowls of popcorn and re-watched all eight episodes of season 1 of Deadloch even though Kate and I just finished it, because it’s that good.

I took a gazillion photos of stormy skies and ocean waves.

And a seagull about to chow down on a crab bigger than its head.

You might be wondering, “How in the world does this married woman go off by herself like that? What about her kids? What about the pets? What about HER WIFE?

Here’s how: Kate is smart.

When we first started dating and I realized to my consternation that I was falling in love with someone who had <shudder> a kid, and who was determined to have <oh hell no> another baby, I was sure my life would be over if I became a parent. I’m a big introvert. If I don’t have time to myself I become surly and grim and everything is BAD.

Kate gets it. She loves me. She wants me to be happy.

But also, let’s get real—she’s done the cost/benefit analysis: If she insists she can’t function without me and demands that I never go away by myself, I’ll bravely soldier on but over time become very quiet and sad and weepy and snappish while declaring I’M FINE JUST FINE REALLY I’M FINE excuse me while I eat another bowl of mint chip ice cream and sob into my pillow.

Or, she can send me off for a few days, and I’ll come home energized, bouncy, and ready to take on the world! (Or at least, a few extra carpool shifts.)

It’s kind of a no-brainer.

I’ve always craved time by myself. Growing up as the youngest of nine kids in a chaotic, dysfunctional, alcoholic household, it was impossible to know who I was or what I needed. Because according to my confused and traumatized little-kid brain, other people needed things! I had to help them! Or my family would fall apart! 

What I wanted or needed? Irrelevant.

The plus side of an upbringing like that is I’m hyper responsible, reliable, and eager to please. I’m a great and loyal friend with a lifetime of training in listening to other people’s problems and doing what I can to help.

The downside: I’m still figuring out who I am and what I want. And when I’m around other people, especially my kids who I’m legitimately responsible for—it can be nearly impossible to hear my inner voice.

Getting away by myself is an antidote.

When I’m by myself, I can breathe. I can let go of taking care of anyone or anything else, and turn my attention inward. 

Time by myself is rich loamy soil, fertile with possibility.

So yes, I can hardly wait to get away! 

And I’m always so grateful to come back home.

I’m used to being on the other end of this kind of interaction. It always feels good to be generous, to feel like I’m helping someone out. But receiving? Uncomfortable.

A younger version of me would’ve said thanks but no thanks. A younger version of me couldn’t let anyone in. A younger version of me didn’t need anything from anyone.

I saw Etta watching me expectantly. And I thought of what it feels like to offer—and be accepted or turned down. I took a breath. “That’s incredibly kind of you!” I exclaimed. “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’d love to,” she assured me. “Wow, you just totally made my day!” I told her gratefully. And I meant it.

It starts in mid-May. I get moody, snappish. Kate asks “Are you mad at me?” No, I’m not mad at you. And yes I am, but only because I’m mad at everyone.

It’s been over 40 years since that terrible day in June when my brother John died by suicide, three days before my 14th birthday. And nearly 30 years since my beloved sister Barbara died, also by suicide, in July.

So summer kind of sucks.

Even after all this time, the death-day anniversaries still hit me hard. The most painful thing? Not talking about it. Suicide is taboo. Even in the survivor of suicide support groups, where everyone has experienced the death of someone they love by suicide, I feel different. Weird. “Two siblings? Wow, that’s terrible.” Then an awkward silence. I don’t blame them, I don’t know what to say either.

It’s June 4th, and I feel the weight of depression and lethargy slowly settling into my bones. It’s harder to get out of bed. The world looks a little grayer. (This Seattle rain isn’t helping!)

It’s a strange juxtaposition, this ancient grief and guilt with my present-day reality. My life now is so lovely and rich and full of joy and learning and heart-connections, both in my personal life and in my work, I almost feel bad for still feeling bad.

And yet, I can’t deny the grief is there.

I can’t make the grief go away. But I can do something about the secrecy, the pretense that everything is okay. 

On one level everything is okay. It’s more than okay. My life is amazing! I am truly, deeply grateful for the life I have, for every single part of it, including the tragedies, heartbreaks, and betrayals along the way. Everything in my life has shaped who I am. And I like who I’m becoming.

On another level, on days like today, I feel shattered, broken. It feels like the grief will never end, that I will never be whole.

Years ago when I was meditating, feeling sad and lost, a thought suddenly popped into my head: “I am a beautiful mosaic.” Made out of all the pieces of my heart that shattered so long ago.

I’m still finding pieces I thought were lost forever. Creativity. Connection.The ability to share hard things. 

And in the sharing, the pieces come together in new ways, creating new designs and patterns in the mosaic of my life. New opportunities for healing, growth, connection, and wholeness.

In connection and community, in sharing the hard stuff, we can find healing.

Please, don’t suffer in silence. Invite me for coffee. Let’s go for a walk. I’d love to listen. 

What pieces of your own beautiful mosaic are you longing to share?

I could relate. That’s how I used to feel, and still do sometimes, though not so often anymore.

The secret? It’s not about me.

You see, when I’m worried about how my writing will be received, I’m making it about me. What if my writing sucks? What if nobody likes it? What if people judge me and think I’m being a drama queen? All those thoughts are about ME.

But what if my writing helps someone feel less alone? What if it’s exactly what someone needs to hear right then to get through their day? 

With those thoughts, it’s no longer about me. It’s about connection, and hope, and faith that life is much more vast and expansive than my fear. 

It’s the belief that I can make a difference. Not because I’m particularly special, or because my writing is that unique. But because each of us, including you, including me, has a part to play in healing this world.

Marianne Williamson says: “Your playing small does not serve the world...as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” 

I wonder what would happen if we stopped playing small? If we decided to publish that poem, reach out to that friend, run for office; have enough faith to do that scary thing that just might make all the difference in the world?

She modeled for me how to work for a more just and peaceful world, with her anti-war activism, feminism, and immigration rights work. She volunteered to do childcare for our hardworking neighbors. We often had several kids over, happily chatting to Barbara in Spanish, eating snacks, and playing with the toys she provided.

When I was a kid she was my mentor and protector, always looking out for me and making sure I was ok.

But when I was a teen, our relationship was more complicated. I didn’t understand why she sometimes disappeared for days at a time, why she was frequently hospitalized in the psych ward, or why she swore me to secrecy about all of it. I just knew there was something terribly wrong, that she wouldn’t or couldn’t explain.

It was a few years later that I learned she had suffered horrific physical, sexual, and emotional abuse at the hands of her psychiatrist. It’s hard for me to write that sentence, but there it is. I wish I could have protected her. I wish I could have been there for her when she courageously broke free, when the story came out, when she was finally able to ask for help. 

But I couldn’t deal with it. When you grow up in a family with secrets and abuse, how do you even begin to process that kind of trauma? I minimized and denied it. Just like I did with my own childhood trauma that I couldn’t acknowledge.

I know now that I did the best I could at the time. I’ve forgiven myself. I believe she would forgive me too. But it’s one of the reasons I’m committed to healing myself, so that I can be present to others’ suffering in the way I wish I could have been there for Barbara.

I know that she’d be proud of me.

Related posts:

• Awakening to our Daydream

• Talking About Barbara

Example: I’m pushing myself outside my comfort zone this weekend to co-facilitate a community event. A small voice inside me insists “i can’t.” I recognize this voice as a much younger, frightened version of myself. Using reparenting techniques, I comfort this part of me and assure her she doesn’t have to do it, I’ve got it. She can play and be a kid while I take care of the grown up stuff. The “i can’t” voice quiets and I feel ready to move forward.

It feels like a miracle, but healing really is possible.

--------------------------------------

*EFT=Emotional Freedom Techniques. EFT Tapping is a body-centered therapy that targets acupressure points to reduce the intensity of emotional distress. Gwen Orwiler is a skilled and empathetic EFT practitioner who I highly recommend.

**EMDR=Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy. Designed to help you reprocess past traumatic events so they no longer have an emotional charge. It's been really effective for me. More on this coming up!

The truth of it startles me

This version of me—yawning, bed head, aching knee, extra pounds, needs more coffee, missed the deadline—is enough.

Write it quickly, before I forget:

Enough as a mother
Enough as an activist
Enough as a writer
Enough as a friend

Enough as a child
alone and frightened
hiding in the cupboard
from the danger nearby

As I am, as I was, before the beginning, beyond the end

Worthy enough to take up space
Loud enough to use my voice
Brave enough to show myself
Big enough to feel it all

Believe the truth, and everything changes—

The world cracks open 
with possibility

The world opens wide 
with love

We recently finished a big house project that necessitated getting EVERYTHING out of three bedrooms — beds, dressers, nightstands —along with everything off the walls. Furniture, clothes, and boxes of knick knacks were jammed into every nook and cranny of the house for nearly three weeks.

Just as the project was wrapping up, I got sick. Congested, no energy. I isolated for several days in case it was Covid. I kept thinking I was better, only to get knocked out again whenever I tried to do anything. I couldn’t go for a walk, let alone a hike, I couldn’t help put things back in place in the house. I couldn’t write.

Now, just coming out the other side of it all, I feel lost. I finally have a bit of energy to write … but I don’t remember how. My book project feels daunting. The ideas I jotted down while sick are scattered across various documents in my Google drive and I’m not sure it’s even worth trying to hunt them down.

Start where I am.

The thought comes to me while I’m casting about for a way to begin.

I’m feeling lost and confused, so that’s where I start. The lost feeling manifests as a fuzziness in my head, difficulty focusing. Also a scared feeling in the pit of my stomach. My legs feel heavy and weak. Breathing is a little shallow.

I consciously deepen my breathing. Unexpected tears. Slight headache. Tension in my shoulders.

Continue to breathe slowly and steadily. Breathe in, breathe out. I still feel lost, and unsure how to proceed.

Another thought, from my EHP call this morning: What if what was happening right now was perfect? What if it’s okay that I don’t know how to proceed? Instead of fighting it, what if I could accept that that’s just the way it is right now?

A sense of peace alongside the lost feeling. My shoulders feel softer.

This feeling is not resignation. Resignation is hopeless, small, brittle, sad. 

Acceptance is soft and expansive. Acceptance is letting go of wishing things were different, and resting in the spaciousness of what is, right now.

When I’m practicing acceptance, I can more clearly hear my truth:

     Right now I feel tired, still getting my energy back after being sick. 

     Right now I need to rest and drink some water.

     Right now is not the time to GET ORGANIZED! and GET BACK ON TRACK!

I want to work on my book and write a bunch of posts and go for a hike and finish unpacking and putting the house in order.

I accept that I wish it was different. I accept that it’s not different. I accept that this is where I am right now.

It’s where I can start.

I like to notice
small things: whole worlds residing
in a single drop

whose window framed
a stunning view:
Mount Rainier
in snow-capped glory

awestruck, I pointed it out
he slowly shook his head

that old thing?
he scoffed and sighed
I’ve seen it a million times

I am he 
or could be

please let me stay in wonder

the yeasty smell of 
fresh baked rolls

the quiet dark of 
a winter morn

the warmth of 
Etta’s hand in mine

the miracles
I might dismiss

because I’m tired
because I’m old
because I’ve seen them a million times

I could see the frustration on her face. She’d been talking about this particular art project for days, but couldn’t seem to get started.

“I have that same problem sometimes,” I empathized. “Let me tell you what helps me, and then you can decide if you want to try it, okay?”

“Okay,” she nodded.

“Big rocks, little rocks, and sand.” She gave me a quizzical look.

“Let’s say you have some big rocks, some smaller rocks, and some sand,” I continued, “and you need to fit all of them into a glass jar. What would you put in first, to make sure they all fit?”

“Sand!” she answered promptly. Then she paused and reflected. “Wait a minute … if you put the sand in first, it’s going to make a kind of wall. So it’ll be hard to put the rocks in.”

“Right!” I encouraged her. “So what do you need to put in first?”

“The big rocks!”

“Yep. And then what?”

“The smaller rocks. And then pour the sand in, and it’ll fit in around all the rocks. So everything fits.”

“Yes! You got it.”

“What does that have to do with my art project??”

 “Well, the big rocks represent the things that are super important to you. If you put those in first, you’ll be sure to get them done. The smaller rocks are important, but not the most important. And the sand is everything else, that you can fit in around the important things. What are your big rocks?”

“Art,” she answered promptly. “That’s my biggest rock. Movies are another big rock, but not as big as art.”

Pause. Then sudden enthusiasm and excitement. “I get it!” she exclaimed. “I’m going to do my art project first thing today! I can hardly wait!”

I cursed under my breath as I stomped around the hotel room, tossing dirty clothes into my overnight bag. Laura and I were packing to go home after a rejuvenating weekend retreat. Twice-a-day yoga sessions, meditation, immersion in yoga philosophy and deep breathing had left me with a new-found sense of inner peace and serenity. My chakras were aligned, negative energy released. I was at one with the cosmos, glowing with goodwill for all humankind. 

In fact, I was pretty much fully enlightened.

Until I checked my email.

“ARGH! This Kate person wants to meet me! Crap! I don’t want to go on a stupid blind date! Have I shown you her Facebook profile? She looks so wholesome. Boooorrrring!”

Damn. There went my chakras. 

“She’s from THE MIDWEST!” I exclaimed in horror. “What will we talk about? It’s going to be totally awkward. What a stupid waste of time!”

“Uh huh,” Laura grunted from the floor, as she stretched her arm under the bed to retrieve a stray sock.

“And she has A KID! I don’t even like kids,” I went on. “I have less than zero interest in parenting, and —”

Laura stopped me mid-vent. “Ok, fine” she interrupted impatiently. “You’re afraid she’ll be boring, you don’t like that she has a kid. But what are you looking forward to?”

“AND FURTHERMORE …  wait, what?”

“What are you looking forward to? About the date? There must be some reason you agreed to meet her.”

“Uhhh … ”

Laura waited, eyebrows raised.

 “Well, Mar is convinced we’ll be great friends, if nothing else ...”

I paused, thinking back to my dear friend’s insistence that I meet Kate. I had been terribly resistant. Even before I knew she had a kid. Before I knew anything about her at all. It’s not that I didn’t want to date Kate, specifically — I didn’t want to date anyone.

And yet, some small, hopeful part of me had nudged me to finally agree. 

“I guess I’m just scared,” I admitted, feeling a little shaky. “I don’t remember how to date. It’s been ten years. I’m still getting used to being single. I’m not sure I’m ready to get out there and try.”

“Makes sense,” Laura nodded as she tossed the retrieved sock into her bag. “And maybe she will be boring and stupid. Maybe her kid will be a jerk.” Then she flashed me a brilliant smile. “But what if she turns out to be someone you really like?”

- from my upcoming book, Things in my Pocket: Adventures of a Formerly Reluctant Parent

On our walk to school that morning, Etta and I made a magic potion from pine needles and flower petals, a potion that would grant us amazing super powers. As she skipped along, Etta asked what super power I wanted. I could have any power at all!

"I want to be super brave," I answered, still feeling small and scared.

Without hesitation Etta took my hand in hers. She said, "But Mama, you already ARE super brave!"

I thanked her for the reminder.

And decided that I would fly.

my well is dried up
boring, useless words fall flat
show up anyway

My inner critic likes to tell me I have nothing to say. She gleefully points out all the flaws in my writing, reminds me of long-languishing drafts that will never come to fruition.

Over the years I’ve learned to get curious and listen for what she’s really trying to say.

Inner critic: See? You’re BORING. You’ve run out of things to write. You never had anything to say in the first place.

Me: Hmmm.

IC: Really! Stop writing! I suppose you can keep your technical writing job, but give up your blog and the other ridiculous writing projects. You’re washed up. All done. Give it up.

Me: How would that help?

IC: [caught off guard]: What?

Me: I know you well enough by now to know you're probably just trying to help me. Thank you for that, by the way.

IC: Yes! It's not safe! Writing and talking is dangerous! Go back to hiding!

Me: Oh, hello Fear! Thanks for trying to keep me safe. I truly appreciate it. 

IC: STOP. NOW.

Me: Oh sweetie. It sounds like you don’t realize we’re all grown up.

IC: [whimpering]

Me: You’re right. It wasn’t safe back then to have a voice. You’ve done such a good job of keeping me alive. Thank you!

IC: [sniffling]

Me: Things are different now. Will you let me show you?

IC: [nods, buries face in my shoulder]

I take my younger self (for that’s who it is) on a tour of my current life. She likes the dog and my little writing room, and the fact that there’s plenty to eat. She sees that I’ve already shared some writing about scary things, and it’s brought me nothing but support.

After the tour I settle her into a comfy chair with a blanket, a good book, a pb&j, and a glass of milk. She sighs deeply and relaxes into the chair. I settle in next to her. She puts her head on my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her. She’s quiet, comfortable. Safe.

I’m ready to write.

i rush back
my suitcase passive-aggressively overflows
the bulging backpack
refuses to zipper shut

more stuff I can’t possibly pack
but desperately need
lies scattered about the room
mocking me

the plane is about to depart

the next morning
with great synchronicity
in the preparing for passover workshop
we talk about our own flights to freedom

shoshana-le asks:
in what way are you ready
to take your next step?

weeping,
i realize

i am ready

my suitcase is packed
with my writing practice
early rising
day after day

the support i’ve gathered
the insights i’ve gained
the trust i’ve developed
the tears i’ve shed

all i need
is inside me

i open the door

photo credit: Jeanne Waters

This is a journal entry from the first day:

3/3/2016
omg i did it. weeping with gratitude for possibilities opening before me. i could easily have talked myself out of this. i could have dismissed the need to write, to take time off. i could have filled this time with so many other things, kept myself busy busy busy till it was time to go back to my job. but i didn’t.

i have decluttered. i have decluttered my physical space, and my mental and emotional space.

I am giving myself the gift of space, so that i can create.

Five years later, I’m still amazed and proud of myself for taking my desire to write that seriously.

And now, it’s time for a tune-up. Nothing as drastic as the career change that came out of the sabbatical, but I’m finding myself rather busy these days. A little too busy. (Volunteer work! Classes! Book groups! More volunteering!) 

If I’m going to take my new writing project seriously, I need to make space for it. It’s as simple (and hard) as that.

I’m putting it out there to hold myself to it.

At the door to her bedroom I gave her a hug and told her I'd miss her, and to have a great day at school.

It was oddly satisfying.

I used to second-guess myself a lot. I would start a project, then worry I couldn’t do it. I would procrastinate, and hate myself for it. When I finally started I would judge the quality of my work, the choices I was making, what others would think of it.

Once when I was berating myself for procrastinating, a small but determined voice inside of me piped up: “But you always get things done!” 

I had to admit, it was true. I realized there’s a part of me that knows exactly what I’m doing. I know just how much I can procrastinate and still meet the deadline with minutes to spare. I may torture myself along the way, but I do keep my commitments.

So I decided to foster that part of me that keeps me on the right path, the part that really does know what I’m doing. The part that I can trust.

“I trust myself.”

That’s the affirmation I landed on. I wasn’t sure I believed it, but I went with it anyway. Whenever I noticed self-hate or doubt, I told myself “I trust myself.” Several times a day, for days, weeks, months. 

Of course, it didn’t magically change how I felt overnight. Sometimes that scared, hurt part of me would protest: “No I do NOT!”

When that happened I learned it was best not to argue. I would simply put my hands over my heart and send myself some love and tenderness, until that part of me calmed down. And then repeat “I trust myself.”

Over time “I trust myself” began to feel like the truth.

That experiment was a few years ago. I don’t use the affirmation regularly anymore, but it did its job. These days, I don’t spend much time second-guessing myself. I have confidence and faith in my process as I write. 

I feel aligned, and clear. On the right path.

I feel like I’ve finally come home.

That’s my mantra these days. Every morning before I get out of bed, I remind myself I’m worth taking care of. I repeat it to myself slowly, meaningfully, three times.

It’s effective! Much more so than telling myself I SHOULD: I SHOULD do my back exercises. I SHOULD keep the house cleaner. I SHOULD go for a walk. I SHOULD be able to do a better job of taking care of myself by now, dammit!

“I’m worth taking care of” inspires me, rather than berates me. It gently motivates me first thing in the morning to do my back exercises.

It helps me pay attention to my body’s signals when I’m deciding what to eat. 

It helps me get out the door for a walk and some fresh air.

It helps me become aware of that little crick in my neck, and realize I need to adjust the height of my monitor.

In general, it helps me be kinder to myself throughout the day.

It’s not a magic panacea. Sometimes my brain offers these not-so-useful comments:

• No, you're NOT!

• That's SELFISH.

• What makes you think you're so special?

I used to try to shut this voice up and make it go away. But sooner or later, it always came back.

After I realized it’s just a young, hurt part of me, I started treating the voice differently. These days I say oh hello there, and settle her into a nice comfy chair with a pb&j and a glass of cold milk. I remind her that yes indeed, we are worth taking care of. 

We were always worth it, even if nobody let us know.

I’ll keep reminding myself. Because “I’m worth taking care of” is compassionate, and it’s true.

I fully believe it’s true of you as well.

xo