Tiny Buddha

Tag: empathy

  • When You Strongly Disagree with Someone: How to Find Common Ground

    When You Strongly Disagree with Someone: How to Find Common Ground

    “The truth you believe and cling to makes you unavailable to hear anything new.” ~Pema Chodron

    I was recently having dinner with a group of friends, and I casually mentioned that I’ve been making more effort in my life to help prevent climate change.

    Across the table, someone looked straight at me and said, “You know human-induced climate change isn’t real, right?”

    I was shocked because I’ve known this person for years, and we’ve always agreed on important topics in the past. I immediately shot back with, “Umm, yes it is!” and proceeded to tell him exactly why he was so wrong.

    I’ll spare you the gory details, but let’s just say the rest of the conversation didn’t go well. It gradually got more and more heated until we were the only two people talking (read: yelling) at each other across the table.

    In the end, someone shut the argument down by saying, “You’ll just have to agree to disagree.” We both took the hint, retreated into our corners, and glared at each other for the rest of the evening.

    A few days later, I was relating the incident to another friend. In all honesty, I was looking for an ally who would help stoke my righteous indignation. But instead of nodding and agreeing with me, she said, “It sounds a lot like you were trying to force your beliefs on him and got mad when he wouldn’t back down.”

    This comment stuck with me, and over time I was forced to admit she was correct. I was so caught up in being right that I had refused to accept anyone could believe differently. Even worse, emotion had completely taken over, and I’d made no effort to find common ground or try and see things from a different perspective.

    In hindsight, I’ve realized I was missing the larger truth that we all believe we are seeing the world as it should be. Our entrenched beliefs become part of our identity because they help us make sense of the chaotic world we live in. And when someone holds a radically different view to our own, it shakes the foundation of our own beliefs and makes us feel off balance and insecure.

    But the good news is, no matter how differently you see the world from someone else, there’s always a way to find some common ground. Here are six tips I’ve learned to help have productive, respectful conversations and open your mind to different perspectives.

    1. Focus on the outcome.

    When you get bogged down arguing about specifics, take the argument up as many levels as you need until you find common ground.

    For example, in the case of climate change, we could have both easily agreed that the environment is important and we want to leave the world a better place for our kids. We just have different views on how to get there. This is a great way to reset the conversation because you’re focused on discussing the outcome rather than winning the argument.

    2. Understand their perspective.

    Learning the underlying reason why someone believes something can help you see a different side of the issue. It might not change your mind, but it will help you treat the other person with more empathy and give you fresh ideas to discuss.

    For example, someone’s refusal to accept climate change might be caused by concern about the negative effects it will have on their life. Maybe transitioning to renewable energy means they will lose their job or be forced to change their lifestyle in ways they don’t want to accept.

    If you can understand these underlying concerns, you’ll be much more likely to find common ground and have a productive discussion.

    3. Separate emotion from logic.

    A stressful argument can hijack the prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain responsible for critical thinking and decision-making. When this happens, you go into “fight or flight” mode and become more likely to react emotionally, think less creatively, and say things without thinking them through.

    The next time you find yourself getting angry or defensive in an argument, take a step back and try to de-escalate your emotions by acknowledging them. Once you’re feeling more logical and calm, you can start to look for common ground again.

    4. Practice active listening.

    Active listening is a communication technique that involves hearing, paraphrasing, and responding to what the other person is saying. It’s an essential skill for finding common ground because it shows that you’re genuinely interested in understanding their perspective.

    The next time you’re in an argument, try repeating back what the other person has said in different words to make sure you’ve understood them correctly. Then, add your perspective to what they’ve said. For example, “I can see why you feel that way, but I also think…”

    5. Be mindful of your own biases.

    We all have biases—it’s part of being human. We want to win arguments, be right, and be liked, so it’s easy to fall into the trap of only listening to information that supports our point of view.

    In this case, I was forced to admit that I haven’t actually read any of the climate change research myself. My beliefs are almost entirely based on existing in a bubble with other like-minded people who reinforce those beliefs.

    Exposing yourself to different perspectives—even if you don’t agree with them—can help you think more critically about your own beliefs. It might even help you find common ground where you thought there was none.

    6. Remember that differing views are important.

    If everyone agreed on everything, the world would be a pretty boring place. But even more importantly, differing ideas help to push society forward. They challenge us to think critically about our own beliefs and come up with new solutions to problems.

    So the next time you find yourself in an argument with someone, try to see it as an opportunity to learn and grow rather than a chance to prove your point. You might just be surprised at how much common ground you can find.

  • How I Healed My Mother Wound and My Daughters Are Healing Theirs

    How I Healed My Mother Wound and My Daughters Are Healing Theirs

    “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself… You may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow…” ~Kahlil Gibran

    Now that my daughters are in therapy trying to heal their relationship with me, I have more compassion than ever for my mom. I haven’t felt angry at her in years. But when I was a teen, I earnestly desired to kill her more than once.

    I was in my forties when my mom died. Afterward, I had frequent dreams about her chasing me around, telling me I wasn’t good enough. The dreams lasted nightly for about six months and occurred for a few more years when I felt stressed. The last one I remember, she was chasing me under the covers of the bed, screaming my worst fears—that I was unlovable and unworthy—reinforcing my wounded child.

    About twelve years after she died, I was able to come to a place of comfort with her. While in deep meditation I saw a vision of her spirit bathed with light and love. Freed from her mental and physical sufferings, I saw her as I had seen her when I was a child—my universe.

    Unfortunately, she couldn’t see herself as I did in those days. I knew that she was beautiful. I remember thinking about it as a young child, and when she was dying. How often I’d searched her face, looking for her to see me.

    Like my dad, I have prominent facial features. I wished I had her cute small nose and her pretty lips that always looked beautiful in her Berry Berry Avon lipstick. She had blue eyes, which I rarely saw straight on. She was uncomfortable with her looks. I don’t remember any direct eye contact with her unless she was angry, though I realized there must have been.

    She was born with a crossed eye. Her story was that her parents were accused of having a sexually transmitted disease that caused it, which brought great shame. My mom was also dyslexic. Sometimes at school, she had to wear a dunce cap and stand in the corner or hall because she couldn’t spell. These challenges shaped her self-worth from a young age.

    I loved looking at pictures of her in her twenties with long dark wavy hair, stylish glasses, and a beautiful smile.

    When she died, I didn’t cry. I proclaimed that her reign of terror had ended, and I held on to my anger for twelve more years. That day in meditation, when I was able to break through the veil of outrage that kept me in my darkness, I saw her as a bright light in my life. 

    I had known for years that some of my healing depended on letting go of the story of my time with my mom—one of mental health issues, abuse, and unhappiness. I needed to take time to process our relationship and see her beyond her earthly life. When I was finally able to, I felt better than I expected.

    Through my experience and my work with other women, I’ve learned that the mother wound—our unresolved anger at the flawed woman who birthed or raised us—is two or threefold.

    Our first challenge is processing the actual events that happened as we were growing up.

    The second is letting go of our reluctance to be fully responsible for our mental and physical health as adults.

    And, if we have children, the third is not wounding ourselves—realizing that there was never a scenario where we could be the perfect parent we had hoped to be, no matter how self-sacrificing we were.

    Processing Our Childhood

    Our work as adults is to make a conscious effort to process the hurt, anger, and betrayal that we endured from the female authority figure that raised us (or the figure who was our primary caregiver).

    Even if we resolve that our mother did her best, we are still left to sort through our shame over not feeling loveable or good enough, and the feeling that we missed out on the experience we should have had growing up. Processing and healing could mean seeing a therapist, journaling, or even stopping all contact with our mother.

    I moved far away from my mom, which minimized my contact and gave me space to process. But I kept the past alive in my thoughts. Now when I look back, I see that holding on to my anger well into adulthood added to the years of feeling like I was missing out on a normal life. In the end, I was responsible for my own healing, and it didn’t happen overnight.

    Now, at this place in my life journey, I see the hard parts of my life as the foundation for my life’s purpose, and I don’t feel like I’m missing out.

    I’ve met enough people to know that even those who had the perfect parents—like we all wanted—also have challenges as adults. My work to heal has led me to a deep understanding of the human condition and fueled my passion to love and to help uplift the suffering of all.

    How Our Commitment to Self-Care Helps Heal Our Mother Wound

    We looked to our mother to provide emotional and physical nourishment. Her inability to do this (or do it consistently) created our feeling that we were wronged by our mother. Now, as adults, we need to let go of thinking our mother will take care of us and do our own nurturing work for ourselves. That might seem like a harsh statement, but it enables us to move on.

    The second part of healing my mother wound was letting go of the part of me that doesn’t take care of myself. That little voice in my head that apathetically whispers, “I don’t care” about little things that would improve my health, help me sleep better, or feel successful.

    That little voice doesn’t have as much power over me anymore. So instead of overeating in the evening, which would affect my ability to sleep well, I can override it—most days. I’m also able to notice that when I don’t take care of myself, I open myself up to being the wounded child again.

    We didn’t have a choice when we were young, but now the choice is ours. We need to decide when and how we take up the torch.

    When Our Mother Wound Becomes a Mothering Wound

    My mother wound turned into a mothering wound when I didn’t live up to my hopes of being a perfect parent. Of course, I had intended to be the loving, nurturing, protecting mother, who produced adults without any challenges, but alas, I was not. How could this happen? I tried so hard. 

    I was able to find alternatives to the punitive, violent punishments, shaming, and blaming tactics that my mother used, but as a young parent, I was still challenged with low self-worth issues and an eating disorder.

    Although some of the things that occurred during the three marriages and two divorces that my daughters and I experienced together were horrific, we were luckily able to process a lot of them in real time with therapy and tears.

    Now, with their adult awareness, my daughters are processing their childhood, including my addictions, insecurities, and mistakes. It is almost torture to watch them do that, even though I know they must. And they are so busy with their lives now—as they should be. I miss them.

    To weather this time of my life and continue to grow, I need to employ my practices of understanding, compassion, and detachment, and take deep care of myself. Continuing to love my daughters deeply, to be on call whenever they need me, and at the same time be detached from needing them, has called me to deeper depths of my character.

    We all deserve to be treated respectfully and kindly. As daughters and mothers, we can role model compassion—empathy in action—and boundaries with our mother and our children. We can strive to create relationships that mutually nourish loving-kindness.

    We can focus on healing our past and taking care of our future. We all need to communicate this clearly to our mothers, partners, and children. And, although we can’t walk away from our underage children, we can set boundaries that facilitate healthy relationships now.

    We can be clear—our children don’t need their lives or their mother to be perfect. They need to know that they are loved, and they need to see us love ourselves. Holding on to this love for them and for ourselves when our children are troubled, distant, or even estranged is one of our biggest tests as parents. My heart goes out to any mother dealing with these challenges, especially if you are dealing with them alone.

    I never stopped wanting my mom to be happy. She is now at peace, maybe even joyful. I strive to let myself be at peace. I let myself live in this place of deep tenderness for her—and now for me. I understand that my experience is universal. I needn’t feel alone.

    I realized that this confident and peaceful version of me is the best I can do for my daughters as they heal their mother wounds and take care of themselves, as I am doing for myself.

    To heal our mother wound is to remember that it is ultimately a spiritual journey. Not only are we trying to figure out the depths of our own purpose, but we are bound to the journeys of our kin.

    As with all spiritual journeys, there will be rough passages that tear our heart open and ask us to become more. The journey of the mother is the journey of love. We need to remember, no matter what rough journey is behind us, we are the designers of the path ahead.

  • My Mother’s Abuse and the Two Things That Have Helped Me Heal

    My Mother’s Abuse and the Two Things That Have Helped Me Heal

    “I love when people that have been through hell walk out of the flames carrying buckets of water for those still consumed by the fire.” ~Stephanie Sparkles

    I have a tattoo on my back of Charles Bukowski’s quote “What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.” It spoke to me as I had been walking, often crawling, through a fire for much of my life.

    At times, I took different paths, skipping through fields of flowers, but eventually I would find my way back to what I knew, which gave me a strange sense of comfort—the fire whose roots had begun in childhood, with my abusive mother.

    I used to be consumed by this fire. I have another tattoo on my foot that reads “Breathe.” For years I lived with a very dysregulated nervous system, constantly alerting me to the threats of the flames forming around me, and breath was something that eluded me.

    How could I breathe when at any moment she could walk up the stairs and find something to lash out at me over?

    How could I breathe when no one wanted to hear how I felt, and my emotions were something I did not understand, nor know how to handle?

    How could I breathe when everything was so frightening?

    How could I breathe when no one ever showed me how?

    Those entrusted to my care were in their own fires that they had never learned to come out of. So of course, as I grew, I felt unsafe and uneasy. And I learned to ignore my breath, ignore that others were able to feel it move through their body, and learned to see only flames everywhere. 

    I grew up in a traditional home as a child of immigrants who had come to the USA for work and to give their children a better life. I went to Catholic school, where I threw myself into academics as a way to be seen, and excelled. My parents were excellent cooks and displayed their love for us through the kitchen table. I had all of my physical and academic needs met.

    I spent my early childhood playing with my brother, who I latched onto as a support system. My mother’s inability to soothe us as babies and toddlers created very sensitive, shy children, deeply afraid of the world around us and deeply connected to each other.

    Unfortunately, my brother and I began to distance during our preteen years. We had created different survival strategies to navigate my parents, and he began to view me as the problem, as my mother was teaching him. I then began to view myself through the same lens.

    I was ridiculed, abandoned emotionally, shamed, and made to believe the dysfunction of the family lay entirely on me. There was a period of physical abuse as well, but during these situations, I at least felt seen.

    I was gaslit to question everything I believed to be true and found myself in imposed isolation in my childhood and teen years, later self-imposed. The world felt too frightening to face. As I grew older, I rebelled against the isolation by looking to others to help soothe me, especially romantic relationships.

    If they didn’t soothe me as I wanted, I grew angry and hurt, isolating myself more and more, or lashing out internally or externally.

    I looked to ease the suffering inside with external gratifications, shopping, traveling, and sex. Unfortunately, nothing could soothe the pain I was feeling.

    In my early twenties I went to a therapist and could do nothing but cry. After a few months of not being able to communicate, she insisted I take benzodiazepines or we would be unable to continue working together.

    My symptoms worsened both emotionally and physically, and I now needed “saving” from both. The helplessness I learned early on continued, as did my need to have others make me feel safe. Both my body and brain became impossible to withstand, and proved to me that I was a victim of life and no one cared about me.

    I found relationships to validate this idea, with addicts, narcissists, and codependents who all eventually grew tired of my need to be loved and soothed out of my pain.

    I was attracting the familiar in these people, who could not show me the love and safety I needed. In other words, I was attaching myself to others to regulate, but they too were stuck in a cycle of dysregulation.

    I found various ways to hurt myself, overspending, starving myself, overexercising, and on more than one occasion taking too many medications to calm myself down, and finding myself in an emergency room. The familiar was living in my nervous system and demanded to be entertained.

    After decades of chronic health issues due to emotional and physical trauma, they finally hit a peak when I was forty-seven and no longer able to work, the one area of my life I’d had some control of. I had to learn to breathe or be completely extinguished by the flames. During this time, I began to learn how to put out the fires.

    I worked hard on retraining my nervous system out of the fight-or-flight state it had entered when I was not soothed as a baby, and rewiring thoughts and behavior patterns created as an extension of that state. In this process, I found the authentic part of myself, the inner child, which brought a deep peace, the peace of integration.

    An integral part of my healing came from practices of forgiveness and compassion. As I rewired old patterns living in my nervous system, I learned about how the brain works, how trauma is stored there, and how our realities are shaped by early experiences.

    Each day in my practices I discovered new associations, when new thoughts and behaviors had started, and had to look at these strategies and their results with self-compassion and forgiveness.

    At first, this was difficult, as it was new to my brain, but as I practiced it became easier, and I started feeling self-compassion and self-love for the first time.

    As I worked with my own toxic personality in these practices, I experienced deep grief for the past and what I was not able to enjoy as a result. Anger was holding on, and I knew it was time to let go. So, I began a practice of curious empathy for the woman who had started my fires, my mother. Awareness of my own dysfunction, self-compassion, and now self-forgiveness allowed me to do the same for others, including her.

    In this case, curious empathy meant becoming aware of her patterns and where they came from by connecting to my own experiences and empathy.

    I had observed her throughout my life to learn about what I was experiencing and how to navigate her, as well as others in the world. I also read tons of self-help books about personality disorders and toxic people, but cognitive knowledge wasn’t enough to understand my mother.

    I watched, listened, and heard stories from my father about my mother’s childhood. I drew upon my own strategies and where they originated. I opened myself up to curiously knowing her, at first from a distance (during this time of healing), and then I incrementally exposed my healing nervous system to her with empathy.

    When I felt balanced and regulated enough, I rejoined our relationship, but with strict boundaries—for both of us. And I found a somewhat different human in front of me, one who had softened in her old age but still retained old behaviors when “triggered.”

    I began to identify her triggers and remained strong when she reacted. I now knew no other way; my nervous system and heart had been retrained into compassion.

    I came to understand that she had created toxic survival strategies because of an inability to communicate and soothe emotions and needs in an effective way. She had been stuck in a fight-or-flight state that prevented her from seeing the world as it was, and seeing the motivations of others clearly.

    And I had learned (and now unlearned) similar methods of interacting with the world.

    I often pictured her as a child or a teen and connected with this version of her through my own inner child. In the moment, I was able to change the hurt and anger I felt to compassion for the way she was trying to get what she needed. This was followed by an inner forgiveness and releasing of the negative emotions.

    I made it clearly known what I would accept, and often joked with her about the way she was acting. She responded with smiling or laughter.

    It became clear that she reacted when she felt vulnerable, and I understood that throughout her childhood, vulnerability was not acceptable, and she was shamed in it. 

    In identifying her methods of showing love, I felt loved and seen, and it was easier to react to her with forgiveness and compassion. It became natural to me to speak as the “parent” (adult) when her old armor of defense came up.

    In daily forgiveness and compassion practices, I find enormous love for the woman still stuck in a fight-or-flight state created in her childhood. There are times I pull away to reinforce that her behavior is unacceptable, but these times are not as prevalent as before.

    As I changed my behavior toward her, she began to change hers toward me. As I regulated my nervous system into safety, it seemed to soothe hers, and she inched closer to the idea of vulnerability with me.  As I let go and replaced the anger with compassion, she felt safe. It is with this safety that she is able to chip away a tiny piece of her armor in our interactions.

    I cannot ever change her, and she will pass with the trauma state she is in as her identity. But, for my own well-being, I chose forgiveness and compassion, to bring her a small drop of water each time I see her. Remaining in the fire with her, by being angry, was not an option any longer. 

    I found my way out of a fire that had nearly taken my life and hope to continue sharing my experience of healing. These days I find myself skipping through fields of flowers on a regular basis, and feel it is a blessing to share it with those who have not yet gotten there—and those who may never.

    **I am not suggesting that anyone should keep people in their lives that they feel are “toxic.” We all need to do what we feel is best for us based on our own unique experience.

  • The Joy of Unexpected Kindness and 3 Reasons It’s Hard to Be Kind

    The Joy of Unexpected Kindness and 3 Reasons It’s Hard to Be Kind

    “Small acts, when multiplied by millions of people, can transform the world.” ~Howard Zinn 

    Have you ever experienced an unexpected act of kindness that completely changed your day?

    I have, and I sincerely hope you have too.

    Please pause for a moment and try to remember the last time that happened. How were you feeling before? What happened? And how did the act of kindness impact you?

    If I look back on my own life, I can find countless moments where the suddenness, the unexpectedness of an act of kindness, shook me awake.

    It might sound strange, but this seems to have been especially so when it came from a stranger.

    That’s not to say that the kindness of those close to us isn’t important, because it is. The kindness of our friends, family, and colleagues can keep us going when life throws challenges in our way, and their joy in our happiness makes the good moments radiate even stronger.

    But there is something about an act of kindness from an unexpected source that causes its healing ripples to be especially powerful.

    And most of the time this isn’t some great or inspiring act but just a very small gesture: a smile, a friendly greeting, a sincere question, a few words from someone who genuinely seems to wish you a good day.

    I remember the first time I went backpacking, feeling lost in a city, staring at my map, when a random stranger offered me his help in pointing out the way.

    I remember feeling tired and lost in thought after a long drive, stopping for gas and a quick bite, and the man working behind the counter at the restaurant clearing my mind with the pleasure he took in his work, smiling with a disarming friendliness.

    I remember sitting in a train in Thailand for fourteen hours, anxiously moving toward my first month-long meditation retreat, and suddenly getting a few genuine words of encouragement and advice from a pair sitting across the aisle.

    I remember a woman sitting in her car, rolling down her window to share her joy in seeing my son race down a hill on his bike.

    I remember yesterday, when the cook at our canteen advised me on what to choose, doing her best to prepare my dish with full attention and then sincerely wishing me a good day.

    In all these situations I was not only left with a feeling of joy, but also a sense of connection.

    Kindness can bring a short moment of relaxation in an otherwise busy day, or a complete change from feeling stressed and chagrined to feeling elated, open, and interconnected with the world.

    Kindness is just that powerful.

    And the beautiful thing is that we all have the chance, every single day, to contribute to this kindness in the world.

    So, again, pause for a moment and this time think about the last time when you were the kind stranger. When was that? How did it make you feel?

    To start with the second question, my guess would be that it made you feel good. The first question might be more difficult to answer. Looking at myself, although I would love to say “today,” that just isn’t true.

    Interesting, isn’t it.

    So, kindness is very powerful and important, it helps us and others, it doesn’t cost us anything, yet it still is difficult to give every day.

    I can think of many reasons why it is difficult, but to keep it simple I’ll list three:

    1. You can only give what you have.

    If you want to give somebody money, you must first have money in your bank account. If you want to give kindness, you must first practice being kind to yourself.

    That is why, for example, Buddhist meditation on loving-kindness (mettā) begins by giving loving-kindness to yourself, and only then to others.

    But don’t worry, you don’t have to spend hours each day meditating; just start with a few minutes every morning (or any other time that fits your schedule) by wishing yourself and those close to you happiness and health. Then try to act on this throughout the day by honoring your needs and prioritizing things that bring you peace and joy.

    It’s okay to wish yourself happiness; it’s not selfish. If you are happy you will be able to radiate that happiness outward, making spontaneous acts of kindness easier to do.

    As your ability to do so strengthens, you can always add a few minutes to wish the same to people you know but about whom you do not have a specific feeling, or a neutral feeling. If that gets easier and easier you can even start adding people you dislike, strengthening the power of your kindness further and further.

    2. You have to see the other person.

    If you are anything like me, then you probably live most of your life in a form of zombie state. Moving from place to place, working, talking, acting on what’s happening, checking your smartphone way too often, all without any form of true consciousness or mindfulness.

    You can do the following test to check this for yourself.

    At the end of the day, look into the mirror and ask yourself how often that day you truly noticed how and what you were doing. That’s all.

    Chances are the honest conclusion will be that you just rushed through the day (again).

    If you don’t notice how you are during the day, if you are not mindful of your own state of mind, if you do not see yourself, then how can you truly see another person?

    It all comes down to how much conscious space we have—how open our mind is toward ourselves and those around us.

    Consciousness tends to expand when we harbor wholesome qualities such as patience, energy, calm, and so on, and it tends to narrow when we harbor unwholesome qualities such as anger, desire, envy, and so on.

    Fundamentally, these mental qualities depend strongly on mindfulness, on our ability to see our mind for what it is.

    If you let a goat loose in a field of grass it will just do whatever it pleases and eat wherever it pleases. If you tie the goat to a pole, the goat will only eat the grass within the circumference of the rope and pole.

    Mindfulness is like the rope that binds our mind to ourselves, keeping it within. Keeping the mind within prevents it from creating all kinds of illusions and personal realities that cause the unwholesome aspects of your mind to arise.

    Keeping the mind within helps bring calm and contentment.

    To strengthen your mindfulness, you do not necessarily have to sit down on a meditation cushion as is often suggested. Mindfulness is something you can practice every day, whatever you are doing.

    Just pick a few routines you do every day and cultivate the intention to do them as mindfully as possible. Do only what you are doing, with all your attention, and if you find your mind drifting off bring it back to your task.

    The more you practice this, the more it will become an ingrained aspect of your mind, bringing with it the experience of calm and openness—and the better you’ll be able to really see other people and recognize opportunities for kindness,

    3. You have to practice regularly and be patient with yourself.

    In the end, kindness isn’t different from other skills. Every human possesses the potential to be kind, but you have to practice it in order to bring that potential to fruition.

    Research by the University of Wisconsin showed that compassion can be learned. Just like a muscle can be trained by weightlifting, people can build up their compassion.

    The most direct route I know of is training through meditation—by practicing loving-kindness meditation and the practice of being mindful, as mentioned about, even if it is only for a few minutes every day.

    But don’t go at it with the businessman’s approach most of us grew up with. A businessman’s approach means expecting results relative to the time you invest. Developing the mind, developing kindness, doesn’t work that way.

    We all have our own personal qualities and hindrances, and just as with other skills, to some it comes natural, while others need more time and effort.

    Don’t worry too much about the results; getting on the path to becoming a kinder person is the most important thing. If you keep practicing patiently you will develop the power of kindness within yourself sooner or later. And it will become second nature to offer those small gestures of support, appreciation, and encouragement that can completely change someone’s day.

  • 3 Ways to Help Someone Who’s Recovering from Trauma

    3 Ways to Help Someone Who’s Recovering from Trauma

    “Feeling safe in someone’s energy is a different kind of intimacy. That feeling of peace and protection is really underrated.” ~Vanessa Klas

    I’m now fourteen months into my recovery from complex post-traumatic stress syndrome (c-PTSD aka complex trauma). I’d been in therapy for a number of years before I was diagnosed. I’d been struggling with interpersonal relationships and suffered from severe anxiety and depression, although you wouldn’t have guessed it from looking at me.

    There are so many misconceptions about trauma, and before my diagnosis in 2020 I wasn’t very trauma aware.

    I was your typical millennial thirty-something woman, juggling a successful corporate career with a jet-setting lifestyle. My Instagram feed was filled with carefully curated photos of me adventuring through Europe, eating flashy dinners at Edinburgh Castle or entertaining friends with cocktails in my flat just off the Water of Leith.

    Then 2020 hit. The world was thrust into a global pandemic that saw me lose my job and livelihood, and with it my visa and right to live and work in a place that I had fallen in love with. I went from having a thousand distractions at my fingertips to being confined in a house with nowhere to go and no one to distract me.

    I was facing deportation since I no longer had the right to live in the UK, but wasn’t able to leave, as all flights back to Australia were stopped. I was in purgatory, stuck between where I wanted to be and where I had to go, with no way out

    Everything unraveled. It’s the only way I can describe the slow, torturous unpicking of my carefully pieced together life. Illusions of control disappeared. Choice and freedom were stripped away, and in the prison of isolation I was facing all the shadows I had so carefully avoided.

    In solitary confinement you are forced to face the parts of yourself you can ignore when you have a packed social calendar. We often think of trauma as something that happens if you’ve experienced a sudden violent incident, like a car crash, or if you’ve been assaulted, or if you’ve been in a warzone. Those are all true.

    Trauma can also occur over time with prolonged exposure to incidents and events that dysregulate your nervous system.

    The conflict in my parents’ relationship created the perfect breeding ground for c-PTSD, as my formative years (before I turned seven) were very volatile with a lot of upheaval, travel, and change.

    The stress and anxiety my parents were experiencing, first trying to migrate to Australia from India for five years and eventually going to Canada, resulted in an unfriendly divorce and custody battle. The result: neither parent was available to meet my emotional needs.

    What is Trauma?

    The American Psychological Association describes trauma as an “emotional response to a terrible event such as accident, rape, or natural disaster.” Dr Gabor Mate goes further, describing trauma as “…the invisible force that shapes our lives. It shapes the way we live, the way we love and the way we make sense of the world. It is the root of our deepest wounds.”

    Not everyone who experiences a violent or terrible event will develop PTSD. In fact, only a small portion of the population will develop trauma, even though the majority of people will be exposed to at least one traumatic event during their lifetime.

    What is PTSD?

    Post-traumatic stress disorder is considered to be a “severe reaction to an extreme or frightening traumatic event” and can include flashbacks of the event, intrusive memories and nightmares, avoidance of activities, situations or people that trigger these memories, and hypervigilance and hypersensitivity.

    What is complex-PTSD

    Complex trauma, or complex post-traumatic stress disorder, occurs after repeated and prolonged incidents that disrupt the nervous system’s ability to regulate itself. Complex trauma occurs from events experienced early in childhood development, and it causes problems with memory and the development of a person’s identity and interpersonal relationships.

    Symptoms of complex trauma include negative self-belief, problems maintaining healthy relationships, difficulties expressing emotions, people-pleasing, substance abuse, and ongoing feelings of emptiness.

    My diagnosis of complex trauma in early 2021 felt like coming up for air after being held underwater. It was painful; my lungs burned. But there was also relief.

    At first it felt like I would never be able to fill my lungs with enough oxygen, and then slowly, incrementally, my body started to trust that the oxygen was there, and I could stop gulping, grasping, floundering.

    For years I had been wrapped up in a toxic relationship with a man who was battling his own demons from childhood. For years I never felt like I was doing enough. I was never good enough or smart enough or pretty enough to deserve the relationship, the career, or the life I desired.

    I dipped my toes in the shallows of life; I yearned for community and at the same time I pushed it away. I wanted closeness, but it felt suffocating. I wanted success, but it felt terrifying. Every time life would get good, something would unbalance and everything would crumble, so I would have to pick up the pieces and rebuild.

    I was stuck in a spiral of going one step forward and five steps back in every area of my life. The pandemic only highlighted this as I was forced to move back to Australia, jobless and in debt.

    I didn’t realize it at the time, but this constant spiral of stress and loss was a subconscious play that I kept re-enacting. Subtle, insidious self-sabotaging mechanisms from childhood that had kept me safe now tripped me up and kept me trapped. I kept repeating cycles that triggered familiar responses within my nervous system—ones of unsafety, loneliness, and abandonment.

    Working on my trauma over the last fourteen months with a trauma-informed therapist, rebuilding safety within my nervous system, learning to self-regulate, to reconnect with my body, with myself, has been at times a harrowing process.

    Through it all, it was interesting to see how different people reacted to my pain and loss and grief.

    We’re not taught how to sit with our own uncomfortable feelings, let alone someone else’s. We live in a culture that thinks “positive vibes only” qualifies as a spiritual practice, when in reality, we need to be able to witness and love our shadows in order to fully heal.

    If someone you love is going through a hard time, if you know someone who is struggling, here’s some advice on how to hold space for them, from someone who has been on the receiving end of well-meaning but unhelpful suggestions throughout my recovery.

    Holding space for someone is essentially about being fully present for someone else. This means no agenda, and a judgment-free zone.

    Be Present

    Check in with yourself first. Are you ready, willing, and open to being fully present with this person right now? Are you able to leave your opinions, suggestions, and personal experiences at the door?

    If not, that’s okay. Self-care starts with you, and forcing yourself to be present with someone when you aren’t in the right head space will not help the other person.

    Let them know that you aren’t in the right head space right now and refer them to a helpline or specialist. Check back in with them to make sure they have followed through and have someone to talk to.

    You will be doing both of you a favor. This comes down to co-regulation.

    When you are grounded and fully present with someone who is going through a hard time, you are allowing them to “borrow” your nervous system to down regulate when they are in a heightened state of arousal and activation. If your own nervous system is activated, this will just exacerbate what they are feeling, causing more sensations of dysregulation and unsafety.

    When you are able to sit with someone and be fully present for them, without judging their thoughts or trying to fix things, this can be a profoundly healing experience for the other person.

    Being witnessed in our grief without judgment, pity, or awkwardness removes some of the shame we’re experiencing as we’re processing our difficult emotions.

    Often, those with complex trauma did not have their needs met and didn’t have their feelings validated as children. It’s a deeply healing experience to be with someone who cares about you and to feel seen and validated at your most vulnerable moment.

    Practice Conscious and Reflective Listening

    When we are listening to someone, we’re only half paying attention to what they are saying. Half of our attention is already formulating our response, so we’re rarely ever focused on their words.

    Holding space for someone means being fully present and listening, not only with our ears but with our full attention to what they are saying and how they are saying it. Pay attention to their words, but also observe their body language.

    Allow for pauses. Silence can feel uncomfortable, but when we’re processing difficult emotions, sometimes we need a little silence to gather our thoughts or sit with what we’ve just said. Don’t try to fill the pauses in the conversation straight away.

    Reflect and mirror back what the person has said. This doesn’t have to be verbatim. It could be as simple as “I can see that this situation has really hurt you. I hear that you’re feeling overwhelmed and stressed out because you’ve lost your job. I can image that’s really scary. Can you share more?”

    This allows them to expand and clarify if they want to, or to just feel like they’ve been heard if that’s all they wanted to share.

    Observe Without Judgment

    Be willing to listen without judging what the other person is saying or how they’re interpreting their experience. Those of us with complex trauma grew up being hypervigilant and aware of the emotions of the people around us. This was integral to our survival in childhood.

    This means you need to be aware of your responses, both verbal and non-verbal, to what we are expressing. Listen with empathy and compassion, and stay open to what we are sharing, even if you disagree.

    Even if you think other people have it worse.

    Even if you have a solution.

    You may feel like we are overreacting, but often trauma triggers reactions to something we experienced in the past. When we’re triggered, we’re not only reacting to the situation we are currently facing, but also the unprocessed emotions from the previous situations. We’re dealing with the past and the present simultaneously, and it can feel overwhelming.

    Being witnessed by someone who cares about us without judgment when we’re triggered is a deeply healing experience. Often, those of us with trauma, depression, and anxiety already feel ashamed about our emotions and reactions, so having someone witness us without judgment can be liberating.

  • How to Mindfully Temper Road Rage and Make Driving Less Stressful

    How to Mindfully Temper Road Rage and Make Driving Less Stressful

    “Smile, breathe, and go slowly.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

    As a Lyft driver, I once spent significant time out on the road—a setting rife with provocations and stressors.

    Driving can feel like a constant challenge to employ mindfulness instead of giving way to destructive emotions like impatience and frustration. Meditation can be difficult to practice when you’re navigating a vehicle (demanding as both activities are of your full attention)—try channeling all your senses into it, and you’ll likely plow over a pedestrian or end with your car in a ditch.

    Navigating the road mindfully, though, doesn’t have to mean closing your eyes or adopting any of the other classic “meditative” stances. I think it involves something simpler: momentary detachment—both from everything that’s happening around you and from your own internal reactions as you watch from an ever so slight distance while they ebb and flow.

    Here’s some of what I’ve learned about maintaining equanimity when out there on the stress-inducing road.

    The importance of keeping in mind that sometimes there’s something we’re not seeing.

    Driving down Market Street through downtown SF, I once noticed a number of pedestrians stopped inside the crosswalk in the middle of the street. They didn’t have the right of way; the light was red for them and green for us drivers who were trying to get through. Cars were honking.

    For maybe a second my impulse was to add to the honk melee. Then I took a closer look and saw what was actually going on: a lady had dropped her bags, causing their contents to spill to the pavement. The people in the street were passersby who had run to help her pick them up.

    Once they were finished, I noticed how they stood and raised their hands in apologetic gestures [to the perturbed honkers] that seemed to say both “Just wait one minute please” and “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

    Witnessing this got me thinking about how often in this fast-paced world we jump to reactivity before even understanding what’s going on first. We’re especially primed to do this out on the road, I think.

    As Shankar Vedantam said on his podcast Hidden Brain, “This woman didn’t bump into you maliciously; she’s blind. This soldier standing in formation didn’t pass out because he doesn’t have what it takes; he’s diabetic and needs his insulin. This woman isn’t heartless because she didn’t help the elderly person who had fallen; she’s paralyzed from a spinal cord injury.”

    Often in life, crucial pieces of a larger whole are unavailable to us—yet sometimes we act or respond as if under the assumption that we have access to all of them.

    Particularly when a driver in front of me is moving very slowly, or randomly stops, I sometimes feel the impulse to honk. I wonder why they’re being “so inconsiderate.” I ask them, in my head, if they’ve forgotten where the gas pedal is located. My immediate instinct is to cast blame on whoever’s holding me up.

    Yet I have to remind myself that I’m missing information. Maybe the driver in front of me is stopping to let someone cross the street. Maybe there’s a red light in front of us that I can’t see. Maybe… [insert any other number of possibilities here].

    I can’t see any of that though.

    I’ve also been on the receiving end; for instance when I stop to let a baby animal cross the road. Unable to see the road-obstructing animal, the cars behind me get annoyed and honk their disapproval.

    Willingness to admit when I am wrong (similar to the point above).

    Once when driving home across the Richmond Bridge, I thought there were only two lanes, which led me to assume that the guy next to me was cheating by driving along the shoulder.

    In response, my mind wove an entire narrative involving an entitled driver that does whatever he wants—weaves in and out, causing near collisions; uses the shoulder as his own lane, so that he can accelerate past the mass of stopped cars before cheating his way back into the pack once he’s gained a clear edge.

    To the driver he has endangered [through this behavior], who has responded by honking, he says, “Why don’t they just chill out?”

    I pictured the people out there who engage in similar behavior when not in their cars. The ones with blinders on to their own actions, who maybe call out others for “being too sensitive” while refusing to acknowledge their contribution to eliciting this supposedly sensitive response from them.

    Outraged, I honked at the driver—yet he kept driving along the “shoulder.” I shot him a look of disbelief; he didn’t look back. He seemed to not have even registered that my honk was directed toward him.

    That’s when I realized why: the “shoulder” was actually a legitimate lane.

    Remembering I’ve been wrong in the past helps me practice equanimity when I’m tempted to get outraged on the road.

    Practice forgiving mistakes.

    I think about those cars that get stranded in the middle of the intersection during high-traffic hours—usually because the light turned red when they were halfway through it. I think about how the cars around them often unleash an ambush of honks to signal their disapproval.

    I say this to myself when I’m about to become an angry honker: The trapped driver made a mistake. He or she is probably already aware. Your honk won’t teach him something he doesn’t already know.

    I realize that all my honk would have added was more noise to an already overly raucous road, compounding the driver’s shame while maintaining my own stress and self-righteousness.

    On somewhat of a side note, I’ve noticed how at times the most reckless drivers can also be some of the most intolerant of other drivers’ mistakes. One time a man who’d been driving eighty on a commercial street seemed very disgruntled when I changed into his lane (even though my doing this wouldn’t have been a “near miss” to someone who’d been following the speed limit).

    First he slammed the brakes. Then he wove theatrically around me into the lane next to us. From there he proceeded to change lanes three more times in the course of one block, dodging cars like they were opponents in a high-speed chase video game.

    If we can remember we all make mistakes, it will be easier to offer other drivers grace.

    Practice gratitude. When you do have a smooth ride, acknowledge it to yourself. Hold onto that moment and remember how it felt.

    A metaphor comes to mind each time I drive over a trafficless bay bridge (which happens very rarely but when it does, feels magical). Cruising over the smooth pavement without a car in sight conjures a wintery, white Christmas feeling.

    This calming and cleansing sight contrasts starkly with the default state of the freeway: normally a long stretch of cars, constant reminders of overpopulation and limited resources. It feels similar to gliding down a ski slope when the snow is fresh, pristine, newly plowed, and un-scuffed by other skiers.

    I made a note to be grateful for it.

    Even machines like Siri can be recipient to your gratitude. When traffic clogs the freeway, for example, I appreciate how she escorts me onto an alternative route. On one, we drove down bucolic side roads past fields of sunflowers while country music played from my car speakers (and bugs splattered against the windshield). On another, a river gushed a few feet away from us, providing a peaceful backdrop both visually and auditorily.

    Don’t force it, but when a moment that might be worthy of some gratitude does present itself, register it (even if it’s extended toward an inanimate object). Acknowledge it, if only to yourself.

    Humanize the other drivers around you.

    I think part of what exacerbates and heightens road rage is the ease with which we’re able to dehumanize the drivers we’re sharing the road with because we see cars first, people second. Attuning to certain visual cues, though, can reinstate a human component.

    I’ve found that making eye contact with another driver can at times quell any road rage that’s starting to bubble on my end. Other little things, like keeping my corgi stuffed animal visible, also help (when drivers get mad, the sight may calm them).

    One time when driving, I came upon a car stopped in the middle of the road. Just as I was about to get annoyed at the hindrance, a little Latino boy eating an apricot stuck his head out the car window. Juice dribbled down his chin while he waited for his dad to fix their car (which was why they were stopped). The innocent sight instantly calmed me. It was almost Hallmark-card level of sweet and centering.

    Another “tempering” visual cue: when a dog sticks its head out the window to feel the breeze against its face. Irritation was beginning to mount one day when I saw them: those big, brown eyes—opened wide, earnest, and slightly damp—shining above a golden snout in the back window.

    Once again I was calmed, my anxiety diffused by our eye contact—reminded that we’re are all flesh and bone, even when stress pushes us to reduce each other to the metal contraptions we cart ourselves around inside of.

    Take your time, Sir. I’m just going to have a moment with your sweet fur baby in the meantime, if that’s okay…

    In the absence of visual cues, use your imagination.

    Whenever I start to feel impatient with the slow driver in front of me, but I can’t see their face (or no other visual cues are present to temper the impatience), I take a deep breath. Then I gently counsel myself to envision the human inside the car.

    The specifics of whichever person pops into my head don’t really matter. What matters is that I recognize their humanity and extend patience toward whoever does.

    If that doesn’t work, try picturing one of your family members. What if the driver was your uncle, or your kind elderly neighbor, or your mom? Use your imagination to see inside the 2,000 pound metal machine that’s obstructing your path. Draw features onto the faceless foe inside it. De-objectify its operator.

    —

    Driving and traffic can be stressful and draining. During the times when it feels like the surrounding cars and I are basically just crawling to our destination, I feel like I might as well be outside the car, pulling it with a rope—at least that way I’d get some exercise and Vitamin D.

    Sometimes I wish someone would invent a car feature that would allow the driver to switch to “pedal mode.” It’d be a great way to release endorphins through exercise (thereby reducing stress levels) during these inherently stressful situations.

    Until those innovations get brought into existence, though, we can work on controlling our own internal responses to whatever external road frustrations come our way.

  • If You’re Afraid to Ask for Help Because You Don’t Trust People

    If You’re Afraid to Ask for Help Because You Don’t Trust People

    “Ask for help. Not because you are weak. But because you want to remain strong.” ~Les Brown

    I sat in the doctor’s office, waiting—linen gown hanging off me, half exposed—while going through the checklist in my mind of what I needed help with. I felt my breathing go shallow as I mentally sorted through the aches and pains I couldn’t seem to control.

    Fierce independence and learning to not rely on others are two of the side effects of my particular trauma wounds, stemming from early childhood neglect and abandonment. During times of heightened stress, my default state is one of significant distrust.

    Letting people in and asking for help has never been my strong suit.

    Not only did it prove painful at times, asking for help has also proven to be unsafe. I’ve been given poor and damaging advice from people I assumed knew more than me. I’ve emotionally attached to people who disappeared when I least expected it. I’ve been lied to, betrayed, and left behind when my help was no longer useful.

    I’ve been injured both physically and emotionally when relying on others to care for me and have been let down more times than I can possibly recall.

    I have plenty of reasons to convince myself that no one can help me. That I’m in this life all alone. Some days I feel just that.

    Other days, I sit in my doctor’s office ready to make myself vulnerable one more time looking for support that I’ve been unable to give myself. Hoping, fingers crossed, that maybe this time I’ll be seen, heard, and cared for.

    When the doctor walked in, I was writing a note on the depression screening form justifying why I feel sad some days. I know it’s normal to feel sad doing the work I do as a mental health therapist. Working with people’s sad can be sad. I wanted to be upfront.

    And also, I’ve been focusing on healing the trauma in my body that injured my nervous system starting in infancy. Actively inviting my body to retrieve its pain to set it free and regulate my system to a state that is considered normal. Except I don’t know what normal feels like.

    Her very first questions to me: “Are you getting back what you put into your work? Is it worth it?”

    I blink, unsure if I heard her correctly.

    “Are you asking me if the work I’m doing is more depleting than rewarding? Am I receiving as much as I’m giving?” I ask.

    “Yes,” she responds assuredly.

    I exhale.

    She sees me. She actually sees me. I ask myself this very question every day.

    This one question cracks me wide open. I know I can trust her.

    I hear words pouring out of my mouth explaining the work I’ve been doing with myself. My intention to heal my nervous system and my body, how hard it’s been to feel all the emotional pain that’s come up and the subsequent physical pain that comes and goes to remind me just how deep all this stuff runs.

    I shared with her my most recent discovery—my earliest known physical trauma at nine months old, when my mother gagged me to make me throw up to “protect” me.

    When her behavior was discovered, she was admitted to a hospital for psychiatric services for over a month. My brother and I were placed in the care of anyone who was available to watch us.

    At the most important time for healthy attachment and trust to form, I was taught that survival meant staying clear of those who are assigned to protect you. They can hurt you. And the world was not a safe place.

    This was the first of many experiences in my life that would drill in the same belief. My body spent years trying to protect me by tensing up, shaking, or wanting to flee when I sensed any kind of danger—being trapped, pressured, controlled, or trusting authority figures was high on my list of subconscious nos.

    To me, there was no logic to the way my body reacted to what seemed the smallest threat, so I shamed myself for it.

    I couldn’t understand why driving on the highway put me in an instant state of hypervigilance. Why I would wake up in the middle of the night unable to breathe. Why the bright lights and enormous amount of stimuli in the grocery store made me freeze the moment I walked in. Why perceived conflict made me want to curl up into myself or attack and bail.

    All I knew was I was not “normal,” and I felt like I had no control over it.

    I recall the first infomercial that serendipitously came across the screen during a sleepless night while I was traveling in my early twenties. At the time I always slept with the television on to drown out the noise of my thoughts in the silence of night. A woman talked about her struggle with anxiety and the way it internally took over her life. I immediately tuned in.

    She was talking about me. She was talking about so many of us. I couldn’t believe someone understood what I desperately tried to hide and despised about myself.

    It was the first of many books, programs, methodologies, and practices I would try. It was the first time I felt seen and sought help.

    It wasn’t that I didn’t want help. I just didn’t trust it, nor was I comfortable with being vulnerable enough to ask for it. Particularly because I had proof that when I did rely on people, they could turn on me, or even worse, leave.

    And then there was the cultural push to just “suck it up” or accept that “it is what it is.” Key words to encourage us to abandon ourselves.

    Sucking it up is exhausting, and it doesn’t help. It doesn’t change what’s hard, and from what I can tell, years of sucking it up never made me stronger. Just more certain I was stuck in this mess of myself alone.

    Even though I help people for a living, and fully understand that I am the help I encourage people to seek, I forgot that I, too, was able to ask for help.

    This meant I had to have the courage to let my guard down. To let go of the feeling of burden I was afraid to put on another. To remember that every single one of us has our hardships, and we actually want to be needed and helpful to another when we have the space.

    It’s why we are here as humans. To give love and receive it. When I give someone the opportunity to love or support me, it gives them the chance to feel the fullness of my gratitude. To receive love back from me in return and feel needed and wanted as well. It is also the most solid reminder for both of us that we are never actually alone.

    We need each other.

    It is a practice for me to remember this. It’s also a practice to remind myself that I have been cared for far more often than I’ve been hurt. That those who have harmed me or left me had their own burdens to bear that I was not meant to be a part of. And that every time I do ask for help, like in my doctor’s office, and receive it wholeheartedly, I am able to keep myself filled and balanced to be able to help the people I care about even more.

    I exhaled when my doctor acknowledged me. I knew it was safe to let her in, yet I still swallowed tears while I did so. Her validation of my challenge felt comforting; her support, the extra oxygen I needed. Knowing the value of support has never made it easy for me to ask, but it has made it easier.

    As humans we are regularly encouraged to give, yet it is equally important to learn to receive. We need both to keep ourselves balanced and in flow so we can be the love we want to feel. To give is a powerful feeling, while receiving can make us feel a little vulnerable. That’s okay. The more courage we use to ask for help, the more strength we have to give out in return.

    If you are feeling resistance to seeking help, ask yourself where your fear lies. Is it a current concern or is it one from the past? Does vulnerability make you uneasy or bring up insecurities you have around being judged or feeling like a burden? Or do you feel it’s hard for you to let your guard down and trust another?

    When resistance lingers, choose people who’ve been loyal and consistently supportive in the past. If you don’t have any relationships like that, or if involving your personal relationships feels too uncomfortable, consider professional support. There are affordable and even free resources available, if money is an issue.

    The key is to remember that you, too, deserve a place to be you and invite in the help that everyone needs at times. To release your burdens so you can stand back up and move forward with more ease and a lighter load. So you have the strength to be a support for others and also for yourself.

    When feeling weighed down, ask for help—whatever that looks or feels like for you. The past may have taught you what you don’t want, but you have the power to choose what you do want in the present. There are people out there who you can rely on and who want to be there for you. They are simply waiting for you to ask.

    So go ahead and let someone in. No one needs to or is expected to navigate this wild life alone. Not even you.

  • Healing from Shame: How to Stop Feeling Like You’re Fundamentally Wrong

    Healing from Shame: How to Stop Feeling Like You’re Fundamentally Wrong

    “If you put shame in a petri dish, it needs three ingredients to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgment. If you put the same amount of shame in the petri dish and douse it with empathy, it can’t survive.” ~Brené Brown

    There is a special type of shame that activates within me when I am around some family members. It’s the kind of shame where I am back in my childhood body, feeling utterly wicked for being such a disaster of a human. A terrible child that is worthless, stupid, and perhaps, if I am honest, more than a touch disgusting.

    The feeling of shame in my body feels a bit like I am drowning and being pulverized from the inside at the same time. I have a deep, awful nausea too, like a literal sickness about who I am.

    In an effort to save myself from drowning in shame, I might try to ingratiate myself to the person I am talking to. Make myself sound more palatable, more decent, less dreadful. Or maybe become argumentative to try to kill the feeling in my body by drowning out the voice that seems to be activating the sensation.

    These experiences became like shame vortexes in my life. The place where my true spirit, whatever self-love or esteem I had, went to get pulverized in a pit of torment. A reminder of what a truly dreadful and disgusting person I really was.

    Families are such incredible quagmires of emotional activation. Generations of repressed emotions—of blame, shame, guilt, resentment, rage, frustration, etc.—constantly simmering, occasionally boiling up, being thrown at each other, activating more emotion.

    And yet family are often the people we yearn to receive acceptance and unconditional love from the most. But they’re often the people who find it the hardest to give it to each other.

    My journey with shame has been lengthy because, for a long time, I didn’t know how to work with it. For many years I felt like I was bumping into shame in every corner of my life. And there were many corners.

    In my work, I struggled to be seen, to be what I wanted, to do what I wanted.

    In my relationships, I struggled to relax because I was ashamed about being a pudgy woman who wasn’t wild, free, and fascinating.

    In my friendships, I was often the helpful, problem-solving friend—because to be the messy, chaotic human that I was would jeopardize who I thought my friends wanted me to be.

    In my parenting, it was overwhelming. I wasn’t a calm, healthy-eating, active, patient goddess. I was impatient and distracted, and I dreaded having to play with my kids.

    I was terrified of being rejected, resentful of feeling used by people, and scared of going nowhere in my life because perfectionism gripped me so tightly that I struggled to get started on anything.

    I see now that underpinning all of this was shame. Shame that I was getting life wrong on a number of levels, and really, I just wasn’t trying hard enough. But when I tried harder, it never worked. I would lose energy, fall apart, and then I’d want to hide alone in a room, where no one could see me.

    I didn’t even realize that it was shame. I thought I was just self-conscious, a bit shy, needing to get my act together. I was a perfectionist. I had high standards. I wanted to get things right.

    But now that I know more about emotions, I can see I was drenched in shame. Utterly drenched around this basic concept that I was doing it all wrong, and it was all my fault.

    Shame is in that desire to be invisible, to disappear, to remain unseen.

    Shame is in that desire to hide. To not be looked at. Because being looked at means people might see who we are underneath the veneer. The mask we put on.

    Shame often breeds when it becomes unsafe to be who we are, usually as little children, or when things are happening around us that we don’t understand, that don’t feel normal. When we feel we have to hide who we are or who our families are. When our parents don’t feel comfortable being who they are, there we see shame.

    The thing about shame is that we don’t realize how much of it there is around us. As Brené Brown says, it thrives in secrecy and judgment. Most people aren’t walking around saying, “Hey, look at my shame! Come see the deep, dark crevices of my soul that feel so wrong and awful.”

    Many people aren’t aware that shame is even present for them, as it hides underneath other emotions like anger, fear, or sadness.

    But even though it is hiding, even if we can’t see it, it can control our life like gravity controls us on this earth. We don’t think about gravity, but its powerful force keeps us rooted to the ground. Shame can act in a similar way, its force dictating our actions and behaviors, pulling us in directions that work for shame, but not for the authentic, free-spirited people that we yearn to be.

    Shame serves shame, and only shame. Shame doesn’t care about your desire for authenticity and for being calm, zen, peaceful, joyful, and in love with life. That sounds deeply scary and awful to shame.

    Shame wants us to stay small, to stay hidden, and to be inauthentic. That sounds way safer.

    It doesn’t want us to leap up and say, “Look at me! Look at me as an individual, doing things that are new and wonderful!”

    It doesn’t want us to be free and happy and full of love and light.

    It wants to keep us safe by reminding us how terribly awful we really are.

    Shame is at the root of so many things that plague us—a lack of intimacy in our relationships, an inability to go for what we want in life and have relaxed, authentic friendships, and a sense of stuckness in work.

    It can come out as a sense of persistently feeling rejected, drowning in deep wells of inadequacy, lashing out in anger as a way to hide the shame response, or hiding behind crippling shyness or social anxiety.

    Shame is your worst nightmare talking to you all the time about the ever-present list of limitations in your life.

    Shame is your worst critic analyzing your performance in all things.

    The reason shame feels so horrendous is that it’s not like guilt, which induces feelings about what we’ve done wrong. Shame is so much more pervasive than that. Shame is a feeling that we ourselves are wrong.

    To experience shame is a tremendously reducing experience

    How do we get rid of shame? Well, it’s not something that is quick to shift. It’s a process, and it takes time and emotional safety.

    Emotional safety is an awareness in our bodies, brains, and nervous systems that it is safe to have an emotion. Many of us don’t have emotional safety, so we run, hide, suppress, ignore, and distract ourselves or try to propel ourselves in any way away from an emotion. Many of us learned at a young age that certain emotions are not safe, and shame is usually one of them.

    But to work with shame, to reduce its presence in our bodies and our lives, we need to bring it to the light. We need to expose it to love, acceptance, and empathy. Bit by bit, little by little.

    One effective way to do that is to share little bits of our shame with our most trusted and loved people. Once the shame comes out, it’s out! We are free of it.

    We talk about our shame only with people we feel utterly safe with. We don’t talk to people we don’t feel safe with. Not the stranger on the bus, the friend who gossips to everyone, or your blind date.

    You only give people access to your shame if they have shown you that they are completely responsible with your trust; if you can tell them things and they won’t blame or judge you (which is a re-shaming experience). They come with empathy, acceptance, and love.

    They are honored that you would share your deepest secrets with them. They are prepared for the responsibility that that entails.

    And if we don’t have a person like that in our life? Sometimes when we have so much shame it can be hard to form these types of intimate, vulnerable, and trusting relationships. Shame wants to keep us apart, and separate. That’s how it keeps us alive and safe, by never showing anyone who we really are. Because probably once, long ago, we learned that being ourselves wasn’t safe. And so we chose a safer path—to hide.

    So while we work on shame, we can start this journey with ourselves. Talk to ourselves about what we find when we think about our shame. Have tender, generous, and loving conversations with ourselves. Write or record remembrances.

    And we do this when we know we can be empathic with ourselves.

    Because we all know those conversations when we are down in the depths of shame and we talk to ourselves and make it so much worse—we add more shame, more judgment, more guilt.

    “Why did I do that? Why did I sleep with that guy / not show up for work / send that client brief in late? I know why—because I am such a loser. I always do stupid stuff like this. Always.”

    That’s not an empathetic conversation.

    Shame breeds in conversations like that.

    Shame needs this:

    “Why did I do that! I can’t believe it! Oh wow, now that I think about it, I am feeling ashamed that I slept with that guy / didn’t show up for work / was late with that client brief. And this shame really hurts. So you know what, shame? I am going to stay with you, give you some love, some support, some tenderness, because wow, shame. That’s so painful.”

    We can’t de-shame ourselves by constantly re-shaming ourselves.

    We can’t remove shame by improving either. By doing more things, becoming better incarnations of the humans we are. We can only remove shame with empathy, love, acceptance, and connection.

    That is a pill we have to be willing to swallow. That we are worthy of empathy, love, connection, and acceptance.

    We have to start ignoring what the shame is telling us.

    Shame’s advice is that we should just spend the rest of our lives trying to become better humans. But let’s be honest, we’ve followed that advice our whole lives, and look where it’s gotten us—deeper in the shame well.

    So how about instead of castigating ourselves on a constant basis, we try to interrupt our shame spirals with a bit of love and empathy instead?

    How about we decide that maybe it’s just a feeling, and not an indication of a deep flaw in who we are as humans? How about we try out not whipping ourselves for every small transgression.

    Taking a step toward loving ourselves means working with the vicious, judgmental, potent force of shame.

    But it’s work that can be done. It’s completely possible, and I know because I have drained a ton of shame from my body these past few years.

    We need to not abandon ourselves when we are in shame. We need to take a little tiny bit at a time, just a touch, and bring it out into the light. Share with someone, with ourselves, become familiar with it, look at it, feel it, touch it—and hear it.

    We need to bring love and support to our shame. Bring acceptance and understanding.

    That is what our shame is yearning for, and when we shift our way of seeing it, we can start to shift the power it has over our lives.

  • Why I Never Let Anyone Support Me Until the Day I Almost Died

    Why I Never Let Anyone Support Me Until the Day I Almost Died

    “Why don’t you get up and make the coffee, while I stay in my sleeping bag and plan our ascent route?” I half-heartedly ask my climbing partner Hank.

    He just looks at me with that unassuming, “give-me-a-break Val Jon” look of his. It’s three o’clock in the morning, cold, dark, and damp, and neither of us wants to leave the comfort of our tent. But we’re committed to this climb, so we don our parkas and gloves and confront the bitter cold.

    In silence, Hank and I gather up our gear and join the rest of our climb team assembled at base camp, which is located at eleven thousand feet.

    Thirty-three climbers in all have come together for this extraordinary ice climb to the summit of Mount Shasta in Northern California. During our team meeting, we decide to make our ascent via “Avalanche Gulch,” a treacherous glacier route up a steep icy slope. This particular route is shorter than others, but it’s also notorious for its deep crevasses and unstable blue fractures, so one wrong move could mean sudden death.

    Ice climbing requires crampons for the boots and ice axes for leverage and braking. Ropes, carabiners, and belays are reserved for near-vertical climbs, which we may or may not need for this particular ascent route.

    For those unfamiliar with ice climbing, braking is used when a climber loses their footing on steep slopes. It’s done by grabbing the ax with both hands, flipping onto one’s side, and plunging the sharp metal tong into the ice.

    A firmly planted ax serves as an anchor and stabilizes the fallen climber’s position until they can regain their footing. Everyone on the team has practiced the braking procedure many times over along with other vital safety and life-saving protocols.

    As the full moon casts a bluish glow over the ice, we begin our ascent to the summit. At about twelve thousand feet, we come upon a massive fissure running horizontally across the steep glacier face. We traverse around its left edge and cross back about thirty feet above it. Climbing to the slope’s center, we zig-zag our way up to gain altitude and distance from the crevasse.

    Traversing around crevasses is a treacherous activity. If one climber slips, the entire group could be pulled into the abyss. For this reason, we are untethered and climbing independently. We are, however, organized into small teams of six to provide each other support if needed.

    All goes well as we gain altitude above the crevasse, until one fateful moment when the crampon on my left boot suddenly pops loose and I lose my footing.

    Tumbling headfirst downhill, I instinctively grab my ice ax with both hands and prepare to stop. Landing hard on my back, however, my ax bounces loose from my hands and I slide uncontrollably down the steep slope towards the crevasse.

    In a moment of frozen terror, my life flashes before my eyes and I am going to die! Then suddenly my flailing body slams into something solid, knocking the wind out of me.

    Stunned and disoriented on my back with my head pointed downhill, I’m unable to get a bearing on how close to the edge I’ve come and how close to death I am.

    Looking up, I see a blur of movement and shifting dark images. Clearing the snow and ice off my glacier glasses, I realize Hank and my fellow climbers have formed a human net, catching me just a few yards before I careened over the edge of the crevasse!

    I’m in shock, numb, and completely speechless. I’m also totally embarrassed and feeling extremely vulnerable. I’ve spent years being a strong and independent man, priding myself on not needing the help of anyone. Needing help always seemed like a sign of weakness to me, so this emergency situation is deeply disturbing.

    “We’ve got you, VJ! Hold on buddy, we’re not gonna let you fall!” I fidget around trying to stand myself up and respond, “Thanks guys, I can take it from here.” “Lay still, you’re pushing us back towards the edge!” Hank barks at me. “No, really, I’m okay guys, I’ve got this.” There was no way I was going to be the weakest link in this chain! This time, however, a number of my team members replied, “No you don’t have it VJ, you need to stop right now or you’re going to kill us all!”

    That message got in. The reality of killing my fellow climbers so I can stay in control is just too much for me to bear. The humbling realization shatters my macho control mechanism and I suddenly relax into letting them help me.

    As they reattach my gear, stand me up and reassure me with pats on the back, I realize it’s nearly impossible for anyone to support me. Experiencing them caring for me this way is both wonderful and wrenching.

    My chest tightens and tears come to my eyes as I realize how many times in my life I’ve not let others help or support me. I would always say, “No problem, I can do it myself.” I didn’t want to burden anyone or put anyone out.

    The deeper truth, however, is that if I let someone support me, I would be obligated to them in the future. The result might be that they could then somehow control me the way my father controlled me as a child.

    Looking into the caring faces of my fellow climbers, I suddenly see superimposed images of my mother, sister, and little brother, my friends, and exes who I’ve shunned and alienated with my stubborn macho independence

    I reflect on the pain and frustration that not being able to help me must have caused all these people in my life. So many opportunities I have had to accept the support of those who love and care for me, but no, I have to be strong and independent.

    How selfish and arrogant of me to rob them of the opportunity to contribute to my life! And how easy it would be for me to slide into humiliation over this display of narcissism.

    Standing here among those who just risked their lives to save mine, I realize I have a choice; I can dramatize my humiliation and hide behind my rugged individualism, or I can humbly open myself to their care and support.

    I choose to set humiliation aside and open with humility, and as I do, a wave of emotion fills me. For the first time in my life, as far back as I can remember, I’m able to see that accepting help from others is not a sign of weakness, it’s an act of humility.

    I also realize that rather than being a burden to people when I’m in need, it allows them to feel useful and to make a difference by offering their support and care. There’s no doubt that my fellow climbers are ecstatic about having just saved my life; I can see the joy and exhilaration on their faces.

    Still surrounded by a human net of care, I thank each member of my team for saving my life, and I apologize for placing them in additional danger. Each one of them nods in recognition, and nearly everyone assures me that having the chance to help save my life was far more important to them than blaming me for being a bit heedless.

    As I allow myself to be vulnerable and let their care in, my defensive armor melts, then drops away. We resume our ascent, and tears fill my glacier glasses as I reflect on the experience of my life being saved by this remarkable group of friends.

    How strange and new this is for me. I don’t need to see out of my glasses because I have the full support of those behind me as well as those in front to help me along if I need it.

    I’ve always been the one to give support to others, but now I can receive support as well. I breathe into this new awareness and suddenly have a profound realization that has remained with me for years.

    As I exhale, it’s synonymous with the movement of giving support, and as I inhale, it’s synonymous with the movement of receiving support. Engaging in both inhaling and exhaling doesn’t mean I’m weak, it means I’m human.

    Without further incident, we all ascend to the 14,179-foot summit of Mt. Shasta where a crystalline blue sky embraces the curve of the earth. The summit perch looks like a small crater and is no more than about twenty feet in diameter. Its outer rim is composed of a ring of rocky crags with one high point that signifies the very pinnacle of the mountain.

    Shining, sunburned faces grinning from ear to ear sit together in a blissful exchange of laughter and tears.

    After celebrating our joint accomplishment, we begin the ritual of reading and signing the register book stowed atop most climbable mountains in the world. The one at the summit of Mt. Shasta is contained inside a green metal canister under the Western crag.

    Each member of the team, like those before us, takes the opportunity with the book. After finishing, Hank hands it to me. As the last to see the register, I flip through its yellowed pages and my eyes fall on a passage written by a climber on October 23rd, 1972. I’ll never forget the inscription:

    “Father, I dedicate this climb to you. I’m standing at the top of Mount Shasta today because of the love, support, and encouragement you gave me as I was growing up. It’s because of your commitment and love that I was able to make it to the summit today. And although you lost your legs in the Korean War and have never been able to stand beside me. Father, I want you to know that today I stand on the top of this mountain for both of us. I love you with all my heart and all my soul, your son John.”

    How beautiful this dedication is! I take in the grandeur of the Earth’s curve from this high summit, close the book, and clutch it firmly to my chest. A wave of inspiration fills me, and I feel deep abiding compassion for all the world’s fathers, sons, mothers, and daughters . . . and I am challenged to act upon the humility that was moving so deeply within me.

    You see, up until this very moment I’ve coveted a deep wound in my psyche. As a boy, I was violently abused by my father, and as a result, I cut myself off from him in my early twenties vowing to never speak with him again.

    But now I am faced with a choice . . . should I maintain my position and continue to empower all the reasons why I should not reach out to him? Or should I humble myself and take a chance by reconnecting after all these years? It is here, within these deeply challenging life choices, that we both test the authenticity of our inspirations and discover what we are truly devoted to.

    I made my choice, and not only did I resurrect my relationship with my father, I affirmed that there is nothing more important to me than living with an open heart and honoring the humility I was gifted with high atop the summit of humility.

  • Why Judging People Hurt Me and 5 Things That Helped Me Stop

    Why Judging People Hurt Me and 5 Things That Helped Me Stop

    “It’s very easy to judge. It’s much more difficult to understand. Understanding requires compassion, patience and a willingness to believe that good hearts sometimes choose poor methods.” ~Doe Zantamata

    In the past, judgments kept me safe. They reassured me that I had worth. That I was right. That I was good. I believed I knew the “right” way to live.

    I felt I could clearly see the truth of matters. I didn’t understand why others weren’t always able to grasp the truth that I saw. However, the real truth was that my inner world was full of turmoil.

    Since adolescence, I went about my day with a certain level of tension in my chest. It was almost imperceptible, but always there. I felt I was constantly fighting the world, the universe. I tried to control it, to mold it to the way I saw things. I judged anyone who didn’t follow my vision of right and wrong.

    I spent a lot of time arguing and judging. Politics, religion, even school board meetings—they all elicited strong judgments from me. Judging others felt OH SO GOOD for a minute. That’s the kicker. Inevitably, though, the negative energy of the judgments left me feeling irritated or angry.

    Why was I judging so much? Because I believed that missteps should be punished. My judgments were just that. I thought punishments were critical to learning. To growing.

    The reality was that the person I was judging was mostly unaware of my judgy thoughts. My judgments weren’t resulting in positive change. When I sat down and actually thought about what punishments accomplish, I realized that no one needs to be punished in order to change. I saw that I was operating from a false “truth.”

    What I hadn’t understood was that the only person I was punishing when I judged was myself. I was poisoning my body, my mind, even my soul, with anger.

    What is clear to me now is that when I judge, I create division. When I judge someone, I am saying “I’m here and you’re over there.” I’m thinking, “I’m right and you’re wrong.” The problem is—they are thinking the same thing!

    I experienced the wisdom of the introductory quote in what turned out to be a pivotal moment in my spiritual journey.

    I was a witness to an unpleasant argument about vaccines between two friends. I started to feel the tension in my chest increase. I began to judge and felt the need to jump in and share my “right view” with them.

    Then I centered. I became still. And I saw two moms who were scared. Two moms who loved their children. Two moms who were just trying to do their best. The tension fell away. I stopped judging and felt compassion for my two friends instead.

    My inner world changed. The tension was replaced with expansion. I felt peaceful. I felt love.

    There is a concept in Buddhism called “the right view.” The “right view” is often described as the perspective that doesn’t cause suffering. I’ve also heard it described as “all views, or none at all.”

    I’ve learned that we filter all external information through our own personal experiences, knowledge, and traumas before coming to a conclusion. Our inner world and patterns determine our reactions. This is why we can all receive the same information and still come to different conclusions. None are right, and none are wrong. They are just different paths.

    In the past, I would have tried to convince you that my path was right. I wouldn’t allow you to be who you were. I wanted you to be who I wished you to be. I would have judged you.

    I don’t know about you, but when someone judges or shames me, I don’t change. I dig my feet in. It’s not a very effective communication technique.

    Instead of judging, if we try to understand each other and allow each other to be who we are, we foster acceptance rather than division. We have compassion rather than judgment and our inner world changes. We feel an inner peace within.

    It’s important to note that not judging someone doesn’t mean you condone what they’re doing. It also doesn’t change the consequences of their actions. It just allows you to keep your inner world peaceful.

    So, how did I get here?

    First, I learned to meditate and find that place of stillness within me.

    Second, I learned how to find that place of stillness with my eyes open. These first two steps allowed me to create a space between an event and my emotions. This moment (or space) allowed me to respond rather than react. In this moment, the truth will often become clear.

    Third, I practiced catching myself judging. I would take a moment and hold the person in compassion instead. I would try to understand them. I would allow them to be who they are rather than who I wished.

    Fourth, I saw that punishments don’t work. Judging others or ourselves doesn’t facilitate growth. It creates tension and division.

    Finally, I discovered that judging ties you to the past. To past patterns, reactions, and impressions. I’m judging based on my personal past experiences. I learned to let go and to forgive things in my past. I knew if I didn’t, nothing would change.

    The result was inner peace. My chest doesn’t feel tight anymore. In fact, it feels like there is an open, shiny jewel in place of the tension. Love flows through me daily. I see the bliss of the present moment. I spend less and less time in the past.

    When someone says something hurtful to me now, I try to pause and center. I bless them. I know when people are suffering that suffering often spills out onto others. I hold them in compassion. I understand that they are doing the best they can.

    I’m also not perfect. I do still catch myself judging. I am also doing the best that I can.

    I challenge you to try leading with compassion. First, compassion for yourself. We are all learning and growing. Then compassion for each other. See what happens to your inner world.

    It is easy to judge; it’s much harder to try and understand.

  • All It Takes Is One Person to Start a Chain Reaction of Caring and Kindness

    All It Takes Is One Person to Start a Chain Reaction of Caring and Kindness

    “People will never know how far a little kindness can go. You just may start a chain reaction.” ~Rachel Joy Scott

    One afternoon a while back, after stepping onboard to a full train car with no available seats, I situated myself in the standing section.

    A couple of stops later, two passengers vacated their seats, allowing me the chance to sit. I embraced the opportunity to people-watch. The woman in front of me began chapter four of her book, titled How to Jump for Your Life. The girl next to her alternated between the Tinder app and a school report. A little dog ruffed from the black duffel bag on the lap of the woman across the aisle from me.

    One minute I was staring down at my iPhone screen—earphones in, listening to a podcast. The next I was looking up to a group of teenagers yelling at a middle-aged man. The man was seated next to his bike in the bike section. I didn’t see what he’d done to provoke them.

    Their voices grew louder. Removing my earphones, I watched as the man stood up, chest puffed out. Barely an inch of space separated his face from the younger man’s. His opponent bridged this distance by stepping closer and punching him square in the eye. The older man hit back.

    As the spat escalated into a physical altercation, each hit delivered with more force than the last, passengers (myself included) watched incredulously. Headlines broadcasting the recent senseless murder of Nia Wilson on BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) flashed through my mind, and I wondered if one of these men would pull out a weapon.

    I wondered how long they would fight for, and I wondered what would put an end to it. Was there anything we witnesses could or should do (and if so, what?)—or were we just captive audiences to the violent scene occurring in front of us?

    Visibly shaken, and with tears in her eyes, a woman passenger with dark curly hair, who looked to be in her early thirties, got up from her seat. “Stop. STOP!” she yelled, her voice at once insistent and pleading.

    About twenty seconds later the train came to its next stop, and the teenage boy and his group of friends ran off. The older man with the bike stayed behind—left side of his face twitching, injured eye watering heavily (he seemed unable to keep it open).

    Though I’d witnessed violence like this on television, this was the first time I’d been so close to actual, real-life physical aggression. That the fight had occurred between real people rather than actors— powered by raw anger and heightened emotions—and that it hadn’t been manufactured for audiences to consume from behind a screen both jarred and disturbed me.

    Still, the initial collective response seemed no different than had we all just watched a scene from Orange is the New Black together.

    Some BART riders put their earphones back in. Others appeared minimally affected, yet still somewhat removed and distanced from the spectacle. Almost everyone remained seated.

    Everyone except for one woman—the one who had been noticeably shaken by the altercation. The one who had cried and pleaded with the two men to stop.

    This woman marched over to the intercom and reported the assault to the station agent, asking that he please send a person to attend to the injured man. She then sat with the man, allowing him to use her phone to provide his information to the police.

    Once he hung up and handed her phone back to her, I felt suddenly compelled to leave my seat. The woman’s actions had emboldened me to push past my apprehensions. After getting up, I approached and offered the man some water to wash out his eye with.

    And then I watched as other people followed suit.

    One woman handed him eye-drops. Another conjured towelettes with disinfectant from her bag. A third offered Ibuprofen.

    I observed, and felt calmed by, the prosocial Domino effect playing out in front of me. And the precipitator of it—that woman in her thirties with the dark curly hair—stayed in my mind for a long time after.

    Since then, I’ve reflected a lot on the initial collective response. I don’t think it’s specific to our time; our desensitization in the presence of large groups of strangers is nothing new, as much as we might like to blame it on the disconnection from one another that technology has engendered.

    What came to mind was the bystander effect, “a social psychological phenomenon in which individuals are less likely to offer help to a victim when other people are present” (Wikipedia). In short, according to this theory, the more people there are, the less likely it is that any one of them will step forward to help in a given situation.

    One of the most famous examples of the bystander effect took place in 1964 Queens New York, when Kitty Genovese was brutally stabbed, sexually assaulted, and left to die while returning home from work on foot at 3 am. The New York Times reported that thirty-eight witnesses watched the stabbings and did not try to intervene. They did not call the police until the assailant was gone and Genovese had already passed away.

    It’s disconcerting to read what the worst-case scenario of bystander effect can lead to, but at the same time I think we can glean a hopeful message from it. I think we can use it as evidence that any one of us may take it upon ourselves to model responsible, prosocial behavior for one another.

    I think a lot of times people shut down and check out when they don’t see a way to be useful or help the situation. To me, it’s comforting to know that all it takes is one person to get the helping momentum going, though.

    One person can drag us out of this paralysis by leading by example, perhaps motivating others to be that initial precipitator in a future scenario—the one who steps up and steps in, encouraging others to follow their lead.

    Imagine what the world would be like if we all did just that?

  • The Many Shades of Support: Everyone Shows Up for Us in Different Ways

    The Many Shades of Support: Everyone Shows Up for Us in Different Ways

    “Empathy has no script. There is no right way or wrong way to do it. It’s simply listening, holding space, withholding judgment, emotionally connecting, and communicating that incredibly healing message of ‘You’re not alone.’” ~Brené Brown

    What do a pregnancy test, a wheelchair, and an Airbnb have in common? The answer is this story.

    In February 2019, one night before I was to get on a flight for my first ever trip to Paris, with my sister and best friend, I took a pregnancy test and it read… positive.

    Excited? Worried? Anxious? I was all of the above.

    You see, I have a history of early pregnancy loss, at least one of which has been an ectopic pregnancy. This means that for me, every positive pregnancy test is considered high risk because ectopic pregnancies can be fatal.

    Normally, I would have to notify my doctor about the positive pregnancy test. Then, they would test my blood for pregnancy hormones every two days to keep an eye on the trend. The direction of the numbers tells us whether we should expect a normal pregnancy or a miscarriage or suspect an ectopic pregnancy.

    Well, in this case, I wouldn’t be doing that… because, well, Paris.

    Another consequence of my history of recurrent miscarriage is that I never tell anyone, other than my husband, when I test positive for pregnancy. I usually lose the pregnancies so quickly that it’s not worth the shame and emotional rollercoaster to have other people involved.

    So, when I boarded that plane to Paris, my sister and best friend had no single idea that I was a ticking time bomb.

    The festivities commenced.

    One night near the end of our weeklong trip, I was standing in the kitchen of our Airbnb when all of a sudden, it felt like a dagger had been hurled through the right side of my groin.

    I dropped to my hands and knees.

    In between the stabs of pain and trying to catch my breath, the alarm bells started going off in my head.

    The girls immediately came running over. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

    I managed to get out the words “Call my husband. Tell him what’s going on.”

    They called him and he told them that I would need to get to a hospital immediately … in Paris … where none of us spoke French.

    Luckily, our Airbnb host, an American expat, lived in the same building and was an absolute angel. She responded when they called and then quickly escorted us to the nearest hospital and even stayed around to translate for me.

    We were in those waiting rooms for hours.

    At some point in the middle of all the ruckus, I had had to come clean to the girls. Sheepishly, I explained that I had had a positive pregnancy test and it was possible that I was having another ectopic pregnancy. (They knew about my first one and understood the gravity of this emergency).

    When the seriousness of the situation became clear, shock initially brought them all into silence.

    Soon after, my best friend sprung into action. She was offering encouragement and consolatory back rubs and updating my husband every few minutes. I can’t quite remember how many cups of water she offered me.

    My sister, on the other hand, my own flesh and blood, had no words. The few that she had, awkwardly dripped from her mouth—“Do you … need anything?” She had this shocked and frightened look stamped permanently across her face for the whole ordeal.

    There is one moment that I can’t forget, however.

    When they finally brought a wheelchair to wheel me down to the OB/GYN side of the hospital, someone else attempted to take hold of the wheelchair, and she quickly said “No” and rushed in.

    She planted her hands on those wheelchair handles and didn’t let go as we silently walked down the long, cold, concrete corridor to the other side of the hospital.

    Our Airbnb host eventually returned home to her son.

    But as for my sister and my best friend? They were there all night into the wee hours of the morning.
    In those uncomfortable waiting room chairs. While it was cold. Despite hunger. Without asking why I hadn’t told them ahead of time. And without once making me feel guilty about the obvious demise of the rest of our trip.

    We eventually went home and took flights back to our respective cities.

    A couple days after we had returned to the US, my sister called me to see how I was feeling.

    After giving her the updates, she offered an apology. She said that she was sorry if she hadn’t said or done the right things. She admitted that she didn’t know the right thing to say and felt bad that my best friend had been so much more proactive.

    I was happy to reassure her that she had done exactly what I needed at that time.

    You see, she was there. And she stayed there. Without complaint. Without exception. Without excuse. She was there. And that was all I needed from her at that time.

    My best friend also did exactly what she needed to do. She offered comfort and tried to advocate for me as much as she could. She gave me everything that was within her capacity in that moment.

    And I don’t take either response for granted.

    You see, when it comes to support, there is no one right way to do it. It means different things to different people in different situations.

    In any given moment, the support of a loved one can mean a word of encouragement or a pot of food. It can mean buying something from your friend’s new business at full price. It can mean connecting them to resources, driving them where they need to be, a hug, and it can mean just being there.

    Sometimes we underestimate the power of just holding space. Even though oftentimes, that is enough.

    And for those in the position to receive support, it’s important to remember that the people that love you all have different capacities for supporting you at any given time. Show them grace and be thankful for how much or how little they can offer you.

  • How I Stopped Worrying All the Time and Started Feeling Good About Life

    How I Stopped Worrying All the Time and Started Feeling Good About Life

    “We don’t see things as they are. We see things as we are.” ~Anais Nin

    When I was young, I used to stare out into the big, blue sky and ask, “Is this really the right place?” “Did they drop me off on the wrong planet?” I wondered.

    It felt like I didn’t fit in or belong. Things seemed so much easier for others. They moved forward with ease even when something was painful, while I felt an arrow pierce my heart every time a loved one was in pain, or a difficult situation arose.

    When I looked around, I saw so much suffering. Being incredibly sensitive, I did more than watch, I jumped right in the suffering. At the time, I judged myself vehemently for being emotional. I didn’t know that about 20% of the population is highly sensitive and that it’s a trait filled with gifts as well as deep feelings.

    Quietly observing my surroundings, I watched with teary eyes as my family struggled. I felt with deep-rooted sensitivity when my mom felt afraid. I watched the news and thought, “Look at all the horrible things happening out there.” Everything I saw and felt reflected back to me what I decided was true as a child: the world isn’t a safe or good place.

    It was during these early years that I developed a habit of worrying about my loved ones and the world. For me, life was a tornado of worst-case scenarios, and the what-ifs consumed me.

    I didn’t realize at the time that thinking was my way out of feeling my feelings. The pain felt so earth-shattering that I never let it touch me. Instead, I tried to control situations with my thoughts. I didn’t wait and see how things would unfold; I began making negative conclusions so that I could feel safe. If I already knew it was bad, I wouldn’t be shocked when horrible things happened.

    I took on the role of helper to save others. They were in so much pain. I believed that if they weren’t suffering, I wouldn’t suffer and could finally live. I believed I was more powerful because I could hold their pain, connect to it, and help them.

    Since I was in a constant state of overwhelm, my nervous system was on overdrive to protect me from all the thoughts and perceptions I’d adopted about life. Years later, I was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s Disease and saw firsthand the way years of stressing, living in my head, and avoiding my emotions impacted my health.

    A turning point came for me when I realized that all this suffering was my own doing. After receiving painful news about a family member, I had a breakthrough. My reaction to the news was filled with so much pain and fear that I sensed it wasn’t about the circumstances at all.

    It was about me. I had created a life that revolved around fixing others. Needing to help them so that I could feel safe. Believing that the pain I felt was because of them, their hardships, and this dark world we live in.

    The truth was, I was in a lot of pain that had nothing to do with them. I put on my super woman cape with the hope of saving others because it was easier than focusing on myself.

    At the time, I had no idea who I was or what I wanted. I’d been hiding behind the mask of “perfect helper” so I didn’t have to acknowledge that I was struggling with my identity and purpose and commit to the work of discovering and embracing my true self.

    With this sudden awareness, I realized there must be a different way of looking at life. I let my guard down enough to feel, and the emotion erupted through me like a volcano.

    I looked a little deeper and saw that beneath the murky, dark water of my emotions there was a golden door, and the only way into that door was swimming through the water. I used the deep-rooted love I felt for everyone around me and sent it inwards, to the one that needed it most, myself.

    I did this by hiring my first life coach. It was the first time I’d ever invested in myself for the sole purpose of loving and caring for myself. It wasn’t to change the way I looked, to earn more money, to gain a relationship; it was for my heart and soul. To speak up, to be heard, to receive love, and to shine a light on the tangled web I held inside of me.

    I knew that life could be filled with laughter, joy, and confidence if I started focusing more on my own issues and needs than everyone else’s. I was ready to take the weight of the world off my shoulders. I began imagining my life as exciting, filled with adventures, romance, and most of all peace of mind!

    When I turned on the light inside, I discovered I had a deep-rooted belief that my life was in my hands, I held the reins, and I knew wholeheartedly that anything I wanted was possible.

    I recognized that my worries and fears were within me too, and that meant I had the power to shift them.

    That golden door began to feel closer each day as I empowered myself with love and awareness, swam through the waters of pain, and challenged two limiting beliefs—that I needed approval from others to be safe and needed to appear perfect and strong to be worthy.

    I learned that my body was constantly on guard trying to protect me from my worries. Our bodies can’t tell the difference between actual danger and perceived danger. Since I was constantly thinking negative and fearful thoughts, my nervous system perceived danger and was ramped up in case I needed to fight. As I practiced breathwork, yoga, and physical exercise, my nervous system calmed and neutralized.

    Instead of fighting to give up my addictions to worry and anxiety, I began to add in self-love, compassion, and acceptance. I sat with my feelings and invited them to tea. It was scary and shaky but with time and support, I trusted that my life experiences were happening for me and not to me.

    There would always be unknowns in life. Rather than fear or control them, I began to embrace them and accept that whatever was happening was for the highest good. In fact, all the difficulties I encountered became the catalyst for reconnecting with my true self. Rather than see life as good or bad, I removed the label and saw it as all as part of one whole experience.

    The trust and love weren’t hard to find, they were within me. Just as everything is within you right now. The difference was my focus and perspective—instead of leaning on fear and worry and trying to fix and change the world, I began to slow down and let go of the illusion of control.

    Putting myself first and seeing myself meant looking at the broken pieces along with the whole and saying I love it all! I accept it all! I trust it all!

    When I think about life now and the planet my soul dropped onto, I am in awe and wonder of the beauty and magic I see all around me. It is in my daughter’s bright eyes, the warm hug of friend, the sound of the waves crashing on the beach. I now can see what was hidden from me when I was in constant fear.

    The boundless love I have given myself has created a sense of safety that enables me to experience life with far less fear and worry.

    I know that no matter what happens in life, I have my own back. I am listening to my needs and honoring what is present by loving myself through the difficulties that may arise instead of judging or hiding from myself.

    The first step to any great change is awareness. When you meet your awareness with loving arms, magic can happen.

    If you too feel overwhelmed by all the pain around you and think you need to control it to be safe, shift your focus back to yourself. Trust that both the dark and light serve a purpose—for all of us—so you don’t need to save or fix anyone else. You just need to take care of yourself, honor your own needs, and trust that no matter what happens, with the strength of your own self-love, you can handle it.

  • Please Don’t Fix Me: What True Empathy Is (And Isn’t)

    Please Don’t Fix Me: What True Empathy Is (And Isn’t)

    “No one mentioned until I was in late middle age that—horribly!—my good, helpful ideas for other grown-ups were not helpful. That my help was in fact sometimes toxic. That people needed to defend themselves from my passionate belief that I had good ideas for other people’s lives. I did not know that help is the sunny side of control.”  ~Anne Lamott

    I’m a well-meaning empath.

    If you share your problems with me, I’ll quickly make them my own. I’ll listen intently, feel deeply, and want to help. I’ll give you advice and solutions you didn’t ask for, then be annoyed when you don’t do what I suggest.

    I used to think this was being helpful.

    When my partner told me his joints were aching, I thought he wanted me to teach him yoga poses to ease the pain. When my friend told me how much she hated her job, I thought she wanted me to tell her how to find a career she’s passionate about. When my colleague told me about his breakup, I thought he wanted me to encourage him to get back out there.

    Now I know better.

    We Don’t Want Advice (Unless We Ask for It)

    Most people who call themselves “empaths” also suffer from this affliction.

    We think because we feel another’s pain as if it were our own—and find it easy to put ourselves in other people’s shoes—that it’s our responsibility to fix that pain. We believe we need to offer a solution because sitting with the pain is uncomfortable for us and for them. We want to rescue them. We think advice is what they need.

    Turns out, this isn’t true. I learned this lesson when my sister told me about a big argument she was having with her best friend.

    As we sat eating noodles over dinner, she shared how hurt she felt and how unsure she was about whether their friendship would recover. I offered a few suggestions: “Have you tried calling her instead of texting? Could you ask her to meet for coffee so you can talk it out? Maybe when you do, you should take it in turns to speak to each other, while the other listens without interrupting?”

    She looked at me with a flash of annoyance.

    “Becki, I don’t need you to fix this for me. Please don’t give me advice about it. I just want you to listen.”

    Admittedly, this took me aback. She just wants me to listen? As in, sit there and say… nothing?

    “Yes, that’s exactly what I want,” she said. “Maybe you can tell me what you heard so I know you’ve been listening. But I don’t want any tips. Thanks.”

    Honestly, this was a total revelation. Since my sister is pretty direct, she has no problem asking for what she wants and needs from me (or anyone else). But most of us are too polite—or too scared—to ask for what we really want.

    When I thought about it, I realized that when I share my inner world with someone, I don’t want a solution, unless I explicitly ask for one.

    What I actually want is to be heard.

    Wait, so just listening is enough?

    We don’t share parts of ourselves with others in an effort to receive tips and tricks. When that’s what we want, Google has us covered.

    Personally, I share with people because I want to receive support. That support can be as simple as someone looking me in the eye and saying, “I get it.” Letting my pain exist between us and letting it be okay that it’s there. Making me feel less alone.

    The need to be seen, heard, and understood—the need to matter—is universal.

    Ironically, when we try to help others by rescuing them, we don’t meet this need at all. In fact, what we’re saying is, “I don’t believe you have the resources you need to find your own solution to this. Here’s what I know, so do this instead.”

    We’re saying their pain isn’t okay. That it needs fixing.

    I’m also ashamed to say that, more often than not, I make someone else’s problems about me. If they tell me what’s on their mind, I might share my experience of a similar situation (and how I dealt with it) or emotionally react to what they’ve said (so they end up taking care of me instead of the other way around).

    Recently, my partner said he’s having an issue with our relationship.

    “I want to tell you this, but it would be great if I could talk without you reacting to it,” he said. “If you could just listen—without sharing your thoughts—and give me space to be open about this with you. Then we can have a dialogue afterwards. Is that okay?”

    Now, let me be clear. It’s been years since my sister taught me to quit giving advice and calling it “empathy.” I thought I’d become so much better at listening. As it turns out, I’m better at not trying to fix people. But I still have a tendency to react to people’s stories with my own thoughts and opinions, instead of showing that I’m actually hearing them.

    “He knows I’m an emotional creature, though,” I said to myself. “What the hell does he expect?!”

    On some level, this is true. We empaths are emotional creatures. It’s how we’re wired.

    But I decided not to use this as an excuse. If I wanted to experience the kind of love, intimacy, and connection I really craved, I needed to learn how to be there for people—without inserting myself into their problems.

    What True Empathy Is—and Isn’t

    In my studies, ranging from the work of Marshall Rosenberg and Nonviolent Communication to everything by Brené Brown, here’s what I’ve learned about empathy so far.

    First of all, empathy is something we do. Not something we are.

    Yes, some of us are more naturally empathic and find it easier to relate to others. But true empathy is a skill. It’s something we can learn and improve at. Plus, many of us who call ourselves “empaths”—myself included—think we don’t need to work on these skills. Trust me, we do. We all have blind spots.

    Let’s say a friend comes to us and says they’re having a hard time right now. They’re in piles of credit card debt and feel like they’re drowning. They’re working extra hours and even started a side hustle to pay it off, but they still feel stressed, overwhelmed, and burnt out.

    Feeling the urge to offer advice already? Yeah, me too.

    Instead, let’s pause and think about what our friend wants. They might be feeling ashamed, so it’s vulnerable for them to share this with us. Since they’re already actively working to solve the problem, they probably don’t need our best debt-clearing tips, either.

    Here’s what true empathy might look like in this situation:

    • Consciously staying centered, grounded, and present with our friend
    • Paying attention to what they’re saying and reminding ourselves it’s about them, not about us
    • Maintaining eye contact, nodding, and offering non-verbal cues so they know we’re listening (“mmm”)
    • Reflecting what they’ve told us (“I’m hearing you feel really stressed about this and you’re worried about paying your rent next month”)
    • Using this magic question: “Is there more you want to say about that?”
    • Asking before offering advice and being okay with hearing a “no” (“I have an idea that might help. Do you want to hear it?”)
    • Asking before jumping in with our thoughts (“I’d like to share my perspective on this with you. Are you open to hearing it?”)

    And here’s what it wouldn’t look like:

    • Offering judgments, analyses, or opinions on what they could—or should—be doing differently (“You should read this great personal finance book.”)
    • Dismissing their feelings and therefore invalidating them (“It will be fine.” Or “Yes, but at least you have enough money to get by; some people don’t even have that.”)
    • One-upping them by sharing a personal experience which seems worse (“I know what you mean, I got myself into twice that amount of debt a few years ago…”)
    • Explaining why we think it’s happening and trying to pinpoint the reasons (“Your parents never taught you how to manage your money.”)
    • Sympathizing with them (“Oh, you poor thing, what a mess you’re in.”)
    • Educating them about what we’ve learned and how this can be applied to their situation (“I started by saving 20% of my paycheck; that might work for you.”)
    • Sneakily “coaching” or interrogating them—especially if we’re qualified coaches (“How are you getting in your own way here? How has been in debt kept you feeling safe in some way?”)

    Looking at these two lists, it’s clear what I’d like to receive from another human in response to the debt situation. The first list feels far more intimate, affirming, and nourishing. Despite this, I still find myself doing things on the second list all the time.

    Luckily, I get tons of practice to develop my empathy skills.

    I get daily practice with my partner, my family, and my friends. I even get it with the elderly woman who sits next to me on the bus, the friendly barista at my local coffee shop, and the cashier at my nearest supermarket. I don’t always do it perfectly, and that’s alright.

    I’m just trying to remember that people don’t need me to fix them. They’re not broken.

    What they need is for me to present with them. To be with them—to listen—without the need to do anything. For us to dance in the pain, together. And maybe, just maybe, that’s more than enough.

  • Who Are You Protecting? Why Telling Your Story Is Powerful

    Who Are You Protecting? Why Telling Your Story Is Powerful

    “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” ~Maya Angelou

    Throughout my childhood experiences I did what every child does and rejected parts of myself. It makes sense because kids depend on adults for survival, so I was in no position to reject my parents. But as an adult I feel it is now my job to reclaim those parts of myself.

    While I had two parents that loved me and what I’d describe as a normal childhood, nonetheless I became hyper-attuned to others, over-sensitive to criticism, and a perfectionist, particularly under stress. It led to all sorts of pain within relationships and, upon becoming parent, I could see I needed to address some things. I had little sense of self and had to learn about having and holding healthy boundaries.

    I have been fortunate not to have been directly subjected to any of the more readily recognized trauma (sometimes known as big-T trauma), like addiction, violence, or sexual abuse. But my childhood was dominated by the kind of trauma that descends from the big stuff.

    The aspects of my dysfunctional persona I mention above come under the heading of developmental trauma. I think it’s important to expose these aspects of who we become in the world as they have been getting perpetuated subtly throughout families all over the world for generations and they prohibit our collective growth.

    Yet, for all the personal experiences I have shared, one I have never spoken of until recently is probably the one that shaped me more than anything else. Simply put, I had a mother who did not cope well when looking after us kids on her own. I learned to think ten steps ahead and project into the future in order to avoid any major meltdown. It drove perfectionist behavior in me, and I learned to choose my words carefully.

    Why have I never spoken about it? I suspect this is multifaceted and ranges from things like not wanting to air dirty laundry, so to speak, to knowing that both my parents (like most parents) did the best they could with what they knew and the resources they had available to them at the time. Yet these were my experiences, for better or worse they shaped me, and if I tell my story it might help someone else.

    To be more specific, mum used to often drop into this hyper tense state when she was alone with my brother and me; something I now readily recognize as a trauma state. She would say she was “up to high doh” (an old Scots expression) with our behavior, then snap at us, scream and yell, and chunter on afterward for a period of time somewhere else in the house.

    When she would yell at me or chunter afterward, I now know it was most likely a deflection of her own pain. As my bedroom was above the kitchen I could hear the aggressive slights about me “being a bitch” or a “slut” or “a selfish cow” even though I was only a child.

    When my father got home she would immediately approach him using a baby voice, another thing I could hear from my bedroom, conveying just how stressed she was (we kids usually being at fault). In the evenings Mum would then sit in front of the TV sucking her thumb, which I suspect were signs that she was likely regressing into her child self.

    Watching this cycle, at the time, made me feel disgust and anger on top of the fear I already felt in being under her watch each day. My nervous system was under constant alert not knowing what aspect of her would show up.

    Everything was our fault because we had broken the rules. With hindsight, and far more knowledge of children’s development, I now know we were just going through the normal growth and development cycles that kids go through rather than being bad kids.

    Because it was probably a dissociative state that emerged when my mother was in flight-or-fight mode, it is possible (especially since Mum never did any meditation or therapy around this) that she had no clear memory of acting like that, or the frequency with which it occurred. I expect she was too identified with the thoughts of how bad we were and how bad it made her feel.

    Dr. Gabor Maté’s words ring true: “It is often not our children’s behavior, but our inability to tolerate their negative responses that creates difficulties. The only thing the parent needs to gain control over is our own anxiety and lack of self-control.”

    My mother was not able to do that, and nor are most people to be fair. It is far easier to blame people or circumstances than take a good hard look at ourselves and have a willingness to explore the hidden depths that we are held hostage to.

    All this was unspoken with my mum. It is like it never happened, as if my brother and I somehow lived in a parallel universe.

    Likely looking after young kids on her own was overwhelming and activated the trauma stored within her, perhaps in response to her own father’s violence and/or possibly the disgust at my grandmother’s passivity about it, or her own guilt in not doing something more (even although she was incredibly young at the time and couldn’t possibly have intervened).

    However, when she was diagnosed with cancer my mum did say, “You know how I like to stick my head in the ground” when I tried to share with her the metaphysical possibilities related to the disease. Since my mother was most often too open with her opinions and usually gave us direct answers to questions we asked, sticking her head in the proverbial sand wasn’t something I immediately associated with her.

    But now in retrospect I wonder whether, on some level, she may have been acknowledging her dissociative behavior when bringing us up, and the effects it may have had on us kids. Certainly it wasn’t something she ever directly acknowledged.

    Though she did not readily share details during her life, she was simply what I would have called very dark on her father and her eldest brother. Just before she died I discovered her father was an abusive alcoholic. I also knew her eldest brother, a half sibling, abandoned the family as his father before him had abandoned him.

    My mum, like a lot of people, never saw any value in revisiting those childhood experiences; she couldn’t fathom why anyone would partake in coaching never mind counseling, perhaps because she felt herself adequate enough and externalized her feelings. She certainly did not believe she was in any way held hostage to her experiences, which is what most of us would like to believe I expect.

    As a result, I felt very alone and invalidated. My parents had each other, whereas my brother and I were left to deal with our emotions alone. Certainly it often felt our needs were not important (which was the predominant theme of the “do as I say and do not argue/we know best” approach to childrearing that had gone on for centuries).

    While, like anyone, I could express many more things in my childhood that have stuck with me, experiencing my mother’s own trauma when we were alone with her, which was for significant amounts of our early life, elicited a feeling of constantly being on edge.

    As I grew I spoke up more, unwilling to accept the emotional load being put on me, which resulted in a lot of raging arguments in my teenage years.

    No one except my brother would have much of an appreciation for this, because around others my mother was quite different. In fact, around others, especially my father, she would have felt safer and, therefore, calmer. This Jekyll and Hyde behavior obviously made it very difficult for me to bond with a mum who, for all that I knew loved me, because my internal shields were well and truly up.

    While I did not have the words for any of this back then, having caught myself descending into this chuntering state with both my partner and our own kids at times was a red flag for me. I knew I had to address my own reactions to break the cycle.

    All that said, I feel blessed with my experiences because they helped shape me and to relate to others’ struggles and other dysfunctional behavior. I feel strongly that I have come into this life to shine a light on this more insidious type of trauma, one that lives in all of us in various guises, and help break the chain of pain that is occurring in pretty much every home across the planet. So in this sense, um was the perfect mother for me.

    I also recognize that this was but one facet of my mum, one I have come to see with compassion, and she had many more that were far more positive. As a grandparent she was generous and loving, as a friend she was insightful and loyal, and as my parent she was all those things too; I always knew I was wanted and loved, it just did not always feel that way, especially when she was “up to high doh.”

    It seems to me that through shame, guilt, and pain very few of us talk about our experiences, not realizing the person next to us is living their own twisted version of the same. The systemic issues we face in society today are all fed by the ongoing cycles of trauma within us and can only be solved by bringing them into the light. 

    We don’t all have to share our stories publicly. Even just opening up to a trusted friend or therapist can help us understand what we experienced, chip away at our shame, and break the cycle of pain so we don’t unknowingly repeat the same patterns.

    So who are you protecting? What trauma shaped you? Is it time to tell your own story? Maybe sharing is the key to your healing, or helping heal someone else.

  • Why I Don’t Define Myself as a Victim and What I Do Instead

    Why I Don’t Define Myself as a Victim and What I Do Instead

    “The struggle of my life created empathy—I could relate to pain, being abandoned, having people not love me.” ~Oprah Winfrey

    See yourself as a victim and you become one. Identify as a victim and you give your tormentor power over you, the very power to define who you are.

    Statements like this have become commonly accepted wisdom today because they are undoubtedly true. If you see yourself as a victim, you will be one. You will be someone who has been defeated, someone who is at the mercy of another, and that is no way to live.

    And yet, the truth is that many people have been victims. Actually, it’s probably fair to say that everyone has been a victim of something or someone at some point in their lives. So, how can we reject being a victim without denying reality? On the other hand, if we accept being a victim, aren’t we then giving up our own power and independence?

    The answer I think lies in part in a subtlety of language, a small distinction with a big difference. Rather than defining ourselves as victims, why not just say that we have been victimized?

    One thing this immediately does is to describe the act, not the person. It means someone was taken advantage of, mistreated, bullied, tricked, or whatever the offense was. It does not disempower that person thereafter by defining him or her going forward after the event.

    In fact, “victimize” is a verb, and just using it seems to bring a sharper focus on the subject rather than on the object. When I hear the word “victimize,” my first thought is “Who did that?” not “Who was the victim?”

    While that may sound like splitting hairs, the word “victimize” describes a moment in time, not a person. It accurately portrays a reality without turning that reality into a perpetuity by defining someone as a victim. It rightfully places emphasis more on the person who shouldn’t have done that rather than the person who shouldn’t have let it happen, as if he or she had any choice in the matter.

    However, there is a much more important point here than those semantics, which is this: While we don’t want to define ourselves as victims, we also don’t want to erase an important part of our story, a part that may have played more of a role in our personal growth and development than anything else.

    As unpleasant as it may be to experience, pain deepens people. To hurt and to be sick is to commune with all of those people who are sick and hurting and who have ever been sick or hurt or ever will be sick or hurt.

    In suffering, one is given the chance to suffer along with everyone else who is suffering, to be connected with a vast array of people facing innumerable different circumstances. To suffer is to be human, part of a much greater whole.

    When coming out the other side, we have a choice. We can forget our suffering and learn nothing, remaining unchanged. Or, we can define ourselves as a sufferer and collect another sad story to cling to. The telling of that story is what creates our ego, and indeed, for many people, that ego is a victim story.

    While on its face a victim identity is not a happy thing, the victim story does have its allure. It certainly can be a way to avoid responsibility and curry sympathy from others. More than anything, it provides the stability of an invented identity, which is exactly what the ego is.

    That stability staves off the ultimate fear—that of life’s ever-changing uncertainty. But, at the same time, clinging to this stability causes us to fight with life, and hence leads to suffering. It is a rejection of life.

    However, there is a third way, which is to accept what happened to us and learn from our suffering to become a wiser, kinder, and more empathetic person. It is to embrace our victimization without becoming a victim.

    Suffering is the great teacher and the great uniter. There is an ancient spiritual teaching from India which asserts that there are three ways to acquire spiritual knowledge: through experience, through reading books, and through a teacher, or someone who knows about it.

    Unfortunately, if you’ve ever met or read about people who have undergone a major spiritual awakening, or if you have experienced one yourself, it is usually the result of the former, and that “experience” is usually pain and suffering.

    So, when we’ve been victimized, we gain some insight and some power. We can recognize those people who are or have also been victimized, or even who are just hurting, and more readily empathize with their experiences. We are more able to be that helping hand, that listening ear, that open heart.

    This is a lesson I have learned though painful experience.

    A few years back, I was in a cancer caregiver support group when my mom was going through her cancer journey starting just a few weeks after my father passed away. I moved back home from very far away and had served in part as caretaker to both of them—a very difficult experience.

    I stayed in the group until my mom was miraculously recovered and it was time for me to get on with my life, maybe after a period of sixteen months. When someone left the group, different members would go around in the circle a say a sort of little tribute to the person leaving.

    One woman in the group came from a very different set of circumstances than I did. I’m a white guy from the suburbs who grew up in stable family and attended a prestigious university. She was a mixed-race African American and Hispanic woman who grew up in a single mother household in the Bronx and went back to get her degree as an adult.

    She had a confession to make. She said when I first came to the group, I just seemed like a privileged white guy from the suburb where I was born. However, as she got to know me and heard me in the group, she knew there was “something” about me—that I could listen to people and hear their pain and somehow relate to them. I could hold space and give good advice at the same time, and she knew it was from the heart. It was not something she expected of “someone like [me].”

    What she couldn’t tell was that the picture-perfect suburban upbringing I had masked an uglier truth.  Unfortunately, my childhood story was one of frequent abuse—physical, emotional, and even on a couple of occasions sexual.

    I grew up in a family of four children, the scapegoat of the family. It was a relationship dynamic that my parents taught to all of my siblings. Thinking back on my childhood, nearly all of my happy memories took place outside of the home—at school, at friends’ houses, by myself, anywhere but home. I was alone in a house full of people.

    While I’d love to say that ingrained a tenderness in me, an intrinsic empathy for the downtrodden, it didn’t. It hardened me and made me uncharitable. I could tough it out. I could push past it all. Why couldn’t other people? That was my attitude.

    Then, well into my adulthood, I had a crisis—a complete emotional breakdown. After years of illness, a difficult career, tragedies among my friends and family, it all become too much. I collapsed but was reborn. It was at that time, when all my defenses crumbled, that I experienced a total change of heart. Among other things, I found my empathy. It was a bottomless well of goodness that I never even knew was there.

    More than anything, I found myself drawn to the outsider. Deep down my harder self had seen the outsider with contempt, probably because I could recall how painful it was to be the outsider growing up. Now, I was able to empathize with that outsider as I fully accepted and integrated the whole of my experience, including my childhood of victimization.

    And yet, having grown up the way I did and even after the big “shift” caused by my breakdown, I still didn’t really think of myself as a “nice” person. I suppose my outer reserve remained intact because I didn’t think people thought of me that way either.

    What that lady in the cancer group said to me that day was better, more meaningful, and more rewarding than any trophy, award, accolade, or recognition I have ever received. But it was a compliment dearly bought, for without my childhood victimization and the suffering I’d experienced in my adult life, I never would have earned it.

    A victim I am not. For that to be true, I’d still need to be sad or resentful. I’d need to be living in some maladapted way, surviving through coping mechanisms and pain management. Is it upsetting when I think about that innocent, happy, carefree childhood I never had? It sure is. But my past brought me to my happy present and taught me heart lessons that I never would have otherwise received.

    When I look back, would I want to live through it all again? Definitely not, but I’m glad it happened that way and thankful for those experiences.

    But, while being nobody’s victim, I do not reject—indeed I embrace—my victimization. It’s part of my story, maybe the most critical part.

  • How to Embrace Your Sensitivity and See It as a Strength

    How to Embrace Your Sensitivity and See It as a Strength

    “Sensitive people feel so deeply they often have to retreat from the world, in order to dig beneath the layers of pain to find their faith and courage.” ~Shannon L. Alder

    Being a highly sensitive person can be rough in a world full of agendas, processes, rules, and numbers. Feelings and senses, being intangible and invisible, are often dismissed because not everyone experiences them in the same way. The intensity of those experiences varies, as well, depending on the individual, which makes it all the more confusing.

    Living in a society all about speed and efficiency, feelings can often be perceived as a hindrance to productivity. They are not seen as what they truly are—internal signs and guidance of what needs attention in the present moment.

    I came into this world a sensitive empath with a keen intuition. I would pick up energy from my environment, as well as other people, quickly and easily.

    Even as a fun-loving and carefree child, I noticed tiny details no one else did and felt things toward them no one else felt. I could be laughing one minute, then at the sight of an injured, struggling bee, stop in my tracks and start to panic because I didn’t want to see it in pain.

    I dreaded being sensitive as an adult, especially when I worked in the corporate world. I felt so out of place and different from others, who seemed to just let things roll off their backs and focused on their own goals.

    I would sense someone was having personal problems before anyone else knew, or that something was going terribly wrong about a project before it happened, and then I’d want to change direction. I felt those things were more important than the minute detail of who was bringing bagels for the next meeting.

    People often saw me as irrational, paranoid, or even difficult because there was no concrete evidence that what I was saying was true. It would take days, weeks, sometimes years for things to surface and prove me right. I often felt frustrated.

    For many years, I wished I was less sensitive, that I wasn’t so easily affected by others’ words, expressions, moods, and intentions. I felt my sensitivity had caused me nothing but pain and frustration.

    Life would be far easier and less complicated if I wasn’t so sensitive. I could just be blissfully unaware and truck along like everyone else.

    The many personal praises I’d received for being kind and compassionate became meaningless because, in my mind, I’d gained nothing in return. I continued to feel overlooked and unappreciated, doubting I had any deeper value to offer the world besides my productivity.

    I tried to suppress my feelings for a long time, then went on to read books, join workshops, and acquire self-improvement tools in an attempt to lessen my sensitivity.

    Ironically, through that journey, I learned that I had it backwards. I’ve come to not only accept my sensitivity as is, but also see it as a gift and use it every day to my advantage. Now I actually want to strengthen my sensitivity and encourage my feelings to speak louder.

    5 Advantages to Being Highly Sensitive

    If you see your sensitivity as a liability, as I once did, take a minute to reflect on the many advantages to being highly sensitive…

    1. You are self-aware.

    You are good at putting yourself in others’ shoes and sensing their feelings. That makes you conscious of your words and actions and how they may affect others.

    Having this solid foundation of self-awareness enables you to constantly learn about yourself and how your environment responds to you so you can adjust accordingly if needed. Not everyone has the capacity to respond with sensitivity to others and adapt to unique personalities and situations, but you do, and that helps you along the journey to happiness and personal fulfillment.

    2. You are intuitive.

    You pick up the abstract and invisible, and you have an ability to detect hidden information. This gives you insights into issues that have not yet surfaced and enables you to identify solutions that benefit you and the people around you.

    For example, I was recently put on a call by a client with a web designer I’ve never met. She reacted angrily toward my tardiness (my previous meeting had run late) and the fact I was talking to her in my car and not at my desk.

    Even though I’d never spoken with or met her, something told me this wasn’t about me being late. I waited until she was finished and asked her if my client had told her about the design changes I was going to make. She responded immediately: “No, actually this all came as a shock!” I then explained my position and filled in the blanks for her, and she changed her tone right away. She even apologized for her earlier reaction and said that she was having a bad day on top of that.

    It was a situation that could have gone very differently if I had taken it at surface value and reacted with annoyance instead of listening to my senses and being empathetic.

    3. You have a deep capacity for compassion.

    You are compassionate toward others because you feel more deeply and intensely than most. Compassion is one of the most underrated strengths in modern society. While it does not come across as an obvious trait for monetary success, it contributes greatly to anyone’s long-term personal success. It is a required component for love, forgiveness, overcoming setbacks, and sustaining personal and professional relationships.

    4. You have higher EQ (emotional intelligence).

    You are most likely good at reading others and recognizing what they’re feeling and are better at relationships, whether personal or professional, as a result. Being sensitive to others’ feelings makes you caring and understanding, with a knack for sorting out complicated emotions.

    5. You let your heart guide you.

    You are soulful and in tune with the essence of who you truly are. Your feelings are the driving force of your desires, needs, and choices in life, which means you don’t simply go through the motions. You are sensitive to subtle internal signs that help you make choices that feel right for you.

    5 Steps to Harness Your Sensitivity and Turn it into a Strength

    So now that you’ve changed how you perceive your sensitivity, how can you leverage it to help yourself and others?

    1. Do not judge yourself.

    It’s easy to tell yourself “Stop being so sensitive” or “I have no reason to feel this way” when you hear these things often from others. It’s important to change your internal dialogue and stop shaming yourself for your feelings. They come up for valid reasons and they deserve your attention.

    2. Practice gratitude.

    Thank the universe for your sharp senses and live as if you consciously chose to have them. The more gratitude you show toward your gift of sensitivity, and all its advantages, the more you will embrace and understand it.

    3. Trust the energy or messages you pick up.

    You feel what you feel for a reason. Your job is to figure out what that reason is. Regardless of how nonsensical your feelings may seem, respect them, honor them, and explore them further.

    Your feelings could be a reaction to someone who triggered something inside you, or they could indicate something that needs to be resolved so you can move forward in life. Trust that your feelings are guiding you toward the next steps in your journey. Don’t react until you have an understanding of the message or lesson to be learned.

    4. Establish an emotional (or energetic) boundary.

    You likely pick up other people’s feelings and moods so readily and easily it can become confusing or even overwhelming at times. Pay close attention to the way you feel or react. Are your feelings your own, or is your energy being swayed by someone else’s? Whenever your energy is affected by your environment, take a deep breath in through your nose, exhale from your mouth completely. And recenter yourself.

    It will also help to practice mindfulness, perhaps by developing a consistent yoga or meditation practice, so you can more easily recognize when you’re being affected by someone else’s energy.

    Remember, there will always be people who seem to clash with you. Expect it and let it be okay while maintaining your own emotional space by consciously choosing the energy you want around. If you feel the energy of anger, frustration, or doubt reentering your space, close your eyes, take a deep breath, and choose again.

    5. Help others.

    Highly sensitive empaths are likely in this world for the purpose of spreading kindness or healing others. Because you have been through so much internally, you have a soft spot for others who are going through painful experiences. Whether you choose to do so as a career or just by being there for someone who crosses your path, you have the ability to touch someone on a deeper level and help release their hurt. Don’t let that talent go to waste!

    —

    I hope this has helped you see what a gift sensitivity really is. As you understand your sensitivity and gain more trust and confidence toward it, you will feel more empowered to use it every day to your advantage, just as I have.

  • I Was Addicted to Helping People – Here’s Why It Made Me Miserable

    I Was Addicted to Helping People – Here’s Why It Made Me Miserable

    “As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.” ~Maya Angelou

    Growing up in Africa, I was told that the virtue and worth of a woman lies in her ability to take care of everyone around her; that a woman was considered good or worthy when everyone around her was happy and pleased with her. I took this advice to heart, especially since I watched my mother meet this standard to a T. Putting everyone else, including strangers, above herself.

    Most of the Things We Learn as Kids Shape Us

    As a kid, I was taught how to cook, clean, and care for others. As a teenager, I got a lot of practice caring for my younger siblings; at first, it was great, being a caregiver, being the one who everyone went to when they needed something. I loved being needed, and I relished in the label I was given as dependable.

    Family, friends, and even strangers knew that I was the go-to girl for whatever they wanted. If I couldn’t help them with whatever they needed, I would find someone who could. I was determined to never leave anyone high and dry. I loved being needed, and if anyone needed me, I believed that I was their last resort.

    The Joy of Giving

    You see, one thing about giving is that it feels good… until it doesn’t. The moment you get to a place where giving doesn’t feel good anymore, it means that you need to turn the giving around and start giving to yourself. But how does someone who is addicted to being needed realize this?

    When helping people started feeling more exhausting than exhilarating, my first instinct was to give more because I believed that the more I gave to others, the more I would receive from them. But that was not the case. The more I gave, the less I received, and this prompted me to label most of my friends as bad friends because I wasn’t getting as much as I was giving to them.

    When I became isolated from cutting friends off because they were “bad” to me, I realized the problem wasn’t that I was not getting as much as I was giving; the problem was that I was giving to everyone but myself. I had put myself in the back burner and abandoned myself. How can I abandon myself and not expect others to abandon me?

    The Guilt That Comes with Giving to Yourself

    Realizing my deep-seated issues was easy, but addressing them was a whole other thing. Because I was conditioned to believe that my worth was in pleasing others, I always said yes to everyone who needed my help; saying no was extremely difficult.

    This was because I was suppressed by intense guilt and ended up caving in to finding help for the person at my own expense. Everything changed for me when a former classmate said to me out of the blue: “You are nobody’s last resort.”

    You are nobody’s last resort, no matter how bad it is. If you cannot help someone with their problem, another person will. And more importantly, it’s not your responsibility to ensure they get the help they need—it’s theirs.

    This was a turning point in my life because now I knew that telling someone no because I needed the time to invest in my own needs did not mean that they were never going to get help.

    The guilt was still there, but little by little, I persevered in choosing myself over and over again. I started with little things, like saying no to helping a friend walk their dog to stay at home, to take a long bath and read a book (I enjoy reading). And over time I was able to get better at saying no to larger requests that would have been draining and would have negatively impacted my mental health.

    Give to Yourself and You Won’t Expect Too Much From Others

    Slowly but surely, I learned that my worth is determined by me and me alone—by how much love and care I direct toward myself. Guilt still visits me sometimes, but it is not as intense as it used to be.

    I know now it is better to feel guilty for taking care of yourself than to expect others to anticipate your needs and take care of you. News flash: if you don’t take care of yourself from the inside out, no one will.

    Don’t get me wrong, I still take care of my loved ones and help others as well as I can, but I now do it from a complete place, a place of wholeness, knowing that I will be fine whether they invest in me or not.

    I don’t expect much from people, and I don’t get disappointed much because I have learned to prioritize myself. Frankly speaking, I have noticed that the people around me enjoy me more now that I am not a self-righteous person who resents her giving and selflessness.

    “I give and give and give, and what do I get? Nothing.” If you have heard yourself say or think these words, then you are expecting people to make you happy just because you are bending over backwards to make them happy. If you keep bending backwards to make others happy, one day you will break your back. A broken back is very painful to bear, take note.

    Life’s a Journey, Not a Race

    This is not an overnight process; it will take time and patience. I have learned that part of taking care of myself is being nice to myself, whether I’m making progress or not. I’m done talking down to myself. Everything I wouldn’t do or say to another person, I’ve vowed never to do or say to myself.

    There is no glory in stomping all over yourself to please the world, there is no glory in self-deprecation and self-hate. It is not humble to call yourself terrible names or to live in suffering because you don’t want to hurt some else’s feeling or because you want to be called a nice/polite person.

    Our feelings and needs matter as much as anyone else’s, but we can only honor them if we recognize this and prioritize them.

  • Hurt by Negative People? How to Stop Taking Things Personally

    Hurt by Negative People? How to Stop Taking Things Personally

    “Some people are in such utter darkness that they will burn you just to see a light. Try not to take it personally.” ~Kamand Kojouri

    The saying goes that money makes the world go round, but of course that’s not true.

    It’s our relationships.

    How we relate to other people and how they relate to us keeps our world turning. When things go well, all’s right with our world. When things go badly, it can feel as though our world has ground to a halt.

    This is exactly how I felt whenever I had a difficult experience with a loved one or friend.

    Whenever they lashed out at me for no real reason, it felt as if I couldn’t move on again until their negativity or bad temper had blown over. Until that happened, I replayed the scenarios in my mind, trying to work out where I was to blame for their behavior, and feeling awful in the meantime.

    That’s why our relationships will always be the most important thing in our lives—they have such a strong impact on us, both good and bad.

    That is also why it serves us well to try to have the best possible relationship with others, as well as ourselves. That includes improving the connections we have with the difficult and less-than-positive people in our lives and strengthening our boundaries in the process.

    We probably all have several negative people in our lives—those who criticize, complain, belittle us and other people, and say or do cruel things. They can be the closest to us, people we have known all our lives, and that makes their negativity harder to escape and endure.

    I had a family member who was very negative about pretty much everything. Spending time in their company was usually a draining and disheartening experience due to their complaining and sniping comments.

    This person made it very clear whenever I met them that they had little time or affection for me, which of course made family get-togethers less than enjoyable.

    I was also puzzled as to why they were like that: we’d never argued, and I had never, to my knowledge, done or said anything mean to them. Yet, they still acted in a negative way toward me, especially if I mentioned affirmative life experiences such as a great holiday or a new exciting project.

    Unsurprisingly, I responded to their negativity with a sense of apprehension, frustration, and confusion, which stopped me from enjoying the company of my other relatives. It also made me wary about fully expressing myself or talking about my life. And my uneasiness undoubtedly made the atmosphere between my family member and me even more negative.

    We all Have Emotional Scars from the Past

    I eventually recognized that I was hurt by my relative’s treatment in large part because I took it personally and allowed it to affect my self-image and self-esteem—as if I somehow deserved it. Then I realized something that changed everything for me.

    We all have a self-image shaped in large part by other people. Family, friends, and partners, who’ve likely scarred us through anger, resentment, jealousy, judgment, neglect, or even outright abuse. And this affects how we show up in the world.

    Everyone, including the people who have wronged you or been negative toward you in some way, has scars from their past too.

    Maybe your critical mother doesn’t know any better because her mother was critical. Maybe your absent father never knew his father either. Maybe your backstabbing friend was jealous of you for reasons only known to them. Perhaps your cheating partner had abusive parents, and your partner sabotages relationships because they don’t believe anyone can love them.

    Each and every one of us carries around our scars, going out into the world to meet other people who have scars, and when we connect, these combined scars can sometimes tear open.

    We all See Ourselves Through Others’ Eyes

    We all tend to see ourselves through our loved ones’ eyes—starting with our parents when we’re young—because we assume their perceptions of us are accurate and blame ourselves if they’re not flattering. Our self-image can alter based on their comments, emotions, and actions—positive and negative.

    This is a classic case of our relationships shaping our sense of self, an ongoing shaping that begins even before we can fully understand the meanings of what other people say or do to us.

    We are each the result of our experiences within our multiple relationships and interactions. How other people relate to us affects our image of ourselves, but that doesn’t mean we are helpless in the face of other people’s behavior toward us.

    We may not have had much of a choice as a child, but it’s a different matter once we’re adults. With awareness, we’re now able to protect ourselves far better from others’ negativity toward us and set necessary boundaries.

    Learning to Connect in a Different Way

    If you’re dealing with a negative or painful relationship that leaves you feeling bad about yourself, you can of course choose to distance yourself from the person and limit contact. Sometimes, however, this isn’t possible, so you have to learn how to connect in a different way while safeguarding yourself from their negative impact on you.

    I decided I had to respond differently to my family member and their negativity for the sake of my well-being. I began to look beyond their behavior and actions, and in doing so I started to piece together an idea of what might be the real cause of their pain and unhappiness.

    I recalled they had often moaned about how much they hated their job, how they disliked the town they lived in and their neighbors, and they also often complained of tiredness and physical aches and pains.

    I began to see that this person’s negativity—even if it was aimed at me, maybe due to their feelings of envy—wasn’t really about me. They were unhappy with their life in general. Negative people are often unhappy on many levels.

    It also helped me to remember we all have emotional scars, as mentioned before. When you approach people from a place of understanding, compassion, and empathy, you no longer see them as cheats, liars, betrayers, or “bad” people out to get you—even though they might cheat, lie, or betray you. You instead begin to see beyond their behavior and recognize that they’re in pain.

    When you do that a lot of their power over you starts to fade. You begin to see them as vulnerable, like everyone else. You start to realize that their negative actions toward you reflect far more on them than they do on you.

    People often hurt each other because of their own deep pain and because they don’t know any other way to act. This is often a painful lesson to learn.

    But when you finally grasp this difficult truth, you become more accepting of what happened, more forgiving, and ready to let go and move on. You realize you do not need to take on their negativity, brood about it, or feel you are the cause of it.

    That doesn’t mean you have to condone or accept mistreatment. And that’s not to say people’s negativity toward you won’t bother or hurt you ever again, but the effect won’t be so intense. You’ll realize that the situation isn’t really about you at all. Any pain they try to inflict on you is simply a reflection of what they feel inside; it no longer feels so personal.

    When I stopped taking my relative’s negativity personally, I was able to interact with them in a different way. I was much more relaxed in their company and able to enjoy family gatherings much more.

    When you stop taking other people’s negativity personally, you cease to be so susceptible to creating your self-image through their eyes. In fact, you start to focus far more on how you view them.

    Then you’re also free to focus less on their negativity and bad behavior and more on how you respond to it. That might mean setting boundaries and limiting your contact with them, and that’s okay. Sometimes you have to understand and empathize from afar to take good care of yourself.

    We’re All in the Same “Life” Boat

    Essentially, we’re all in the same “life” boat, bobbing up and down on the vast ocean of existence.

    We are all fallible. We all inflict hurt on others, intentionally and unintentionally.

    We all experience negative situations and inevitable suffering, and we simply have to accept this. Without pain and suffering we might not value joy or experience spiritual growth. If we never experienced adversity, we might not appreciate our strength.

    And without negative people we might not be truly grateful for or cherish the loving, supportive people we have in our lives.

  • Feel Hurt in Your Relationship? How to Get Your Needs Met and Feel Closer

    Feel Hurt in Your Relationship? How to Get Your Needs Met and Feel Closer

    “The less you open your heart to others, the more your heart suffers.” ~Deepak Chopra

    I used to handle hurtful situations in relationships the same way. I’d get angry, shut down, get irritated, or just give my partner the silent treatment. This just led to more of what I didn’t want—separation, loneliness, and frustration.

    So one day I made up my mind. I was going to change my approach and try something different. Cause we’ve all heard that famous saying from Albert Einstein: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

    I was tired of not getting the level of intimacy in my relationships that I longed for. I was tired of feeling alone, frustrated, and separated from my partner, especially during the moments when I felt most hurt.

    It all turned around in one single moment.

    People think that change happens incrementally over time, but in my experience it’s often a defining moment in time where you make a new decision that changes everything.

    Turning Separation into Intimacy

    Let me take you back to this moment… I was upset, lying in bed next to my partner. Earlier that evening we had attended a birthday party, and my partner’s ex was there. Truth to be told, it made me jealous.

    Looking back, I had no real reason to be jealous, but that’s the innate nature of jealousy—it’s never rational, it’s emotional. On instinct, I handled the situation as I always did when I felt jealous, inferior, or threatened. I shut down, got irritated and cold, and gave him the silent treatment.

    “What’s the matter?” my boyfriend asked for probably the hundredth time that evening. (Have you ever been in a situation where your partner asks you the same question over and over again, and you repeat the same answer over and over again, secretly wishing that he’d read your mind?)

    “It’s nothing,” I replied with a cold tone, and turned my back on him. That’s where I started to ask myself what was really going on. What I realized was this: At the core, I was not really angry, upset, or irritated. I was hurt and afraid. I felt exposed and rejected.

    So I made a new choice there and then. I told him what the situation was really about: me not feeling pretty enough, not lovable enough, scared that he would choose someone else and leave me. And believe me, it was extremely scary to be vulnerable and expose myself in that way. I was way outside of my comfort zone, but it was truly worth it.

    When I dared to communicate honestly from my heart, I received what I needed: love, connection, and confirmation. This shift that I made during the conflict changed everything and made us, as a couple, closer than ever before. It opened up the door to a new level of communication and intimacy.

    Today, instead of pointing fingers at each other, we always try to take responsibility for our own thoughts, actions, and emotions. To stay honest and vulnerable, even when the stormy weather of negative emotions desperately tries to separate us and impose conflict.

    Assuming you’re in a healthy relationship with someone who would never intentionally hurt you, you too can turn conflict into deeper intimacy and not only feel closer to your partner, but also better meet your needs. Here’s the process that I follow to turn hurtful situations into intimacy:

    1. Stop and notice your emotions.

    The first step is to become aware of your emotions. Just stop and catch yourself when you feel hurt, angry, disappointed, jealous, irritated, lonely, etc. Don’t beat yourself up for having those emotions. To become aware of them is the first vital step in the process.

    For me, it was feelings of jealousy, irritation, anger, and separation that came over me.

    2. Ask yourself what story you’re telling yourself about the situation.

    What thoughts and beliefs do you have? It’s often very helpful to write down your story. The story in your head generates the emotions in your body, and it’s therefore crucial to become aware of your specific story.

    In my case, the story was the following: “My boyfriend still has feelings for his ex. He’s mean and doesn’t respect me. I don’t want to be close to him. I want to punish him and make him suffer. Also, I knew it; I can’t trust people, they always leave and hurt me.”

    3. Scrutinize your story.

    The stories that we play in our minds are often influenced by past memories and experiences. And they tend to trigger strong emotions, which makes us blindfolded; we aren’t capable of acting or thinking rationally.

    So, what we need to do is to scrutinize and question our story. Is this really true? Do I know for sure that this is the way it is? What are guesses, assumptions, and projections, and what are the actual facts?

    In my case, I had very few facts. My boyfriend had not left me, nor had he said or done anything that implied that he had feelings for his ex. When I scrutinized my negative and destructive story, I realized that there was little evidence to support it.

    4. Identify the root cause.

    Ask yourself what it’s really about. What are you not willing to see or feel that needs to be seen or felt?

    In my case, the root cause was me not feeling pretty enough, not lovable enough, and scared that he would choose someone else and leave me.

    This can be a tough one, but give yourself some love and credit for being brave enough to acknowledge your shadow. It’s key to be kind toward yourself, because this stage requires vulnerability. Trust me, the reward of doing so is immense!

    5. Reveal your true needs.

    When you know the root cause, ask yourself: “What is the underlying need that is not being met right now?” Is it to be loved? To feel connection? To feel special and significant? To feel safe? To tell what your heart is experiencing?

    Also, separate the needs that stem from fear and the needs that stem from love.

    Instinctively, I would have answered that I needed space and some time alone to think and reflect. That may sound rational and sound, but that was only my ego trying to avoid facing the real issue and pain. That only increased the distance and separation between me and my partner. To help you navigate this and to find the real, underlying need, ask yourself, “Is this need based on love or fear?”

    For me, the underlying needs were love and connection. I needed to feel my boyfriend’s love and presence. What I desperately longed for was a hug from him. A sincere hug that made me feel safe and seen. A loving hug that ultimately made me feel loved, significant. and special.

    6. Dare to be vulnerable with the other person.

    “Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome. Vulnerability is not weakness; it’s our greatest measure of courage.” ~Brené Brown

    If this is a person that you truly want in your life, that you like a lot or love, then you have to take the risk of being vulnerable. You have to open up and tell the other person what you really feel. But really take time and contemplate this one. Not everyone deserves your vulnerable communication.

    I know that this can be very scary. The first time I did it, I stumbled on my words and I wasn’t able to look my partner in the eye. That’s how scared I was. But I did it anyway. And the reward was huge.

    So take a deep breath and speak your truth, tell the other person how you’re experiencing the situation right now, and dare to express your real underlying need(s).

    7. Take responsibility and own your thoughts and feelings.

    See the situation as an opportunity to acknowledge what you need to work on in life. See it as an opportunity to get closer to yourself and other people. Most importantly, don’t expect others to fix you.

    On my side, I realized that I have a hard time loving myself. But that was not my partner’s problem to fix. At the end of the day, I had to find a way to love myself, with or without his love.

    —

    Next time you are in a situation where you feel hurt, stop and reflect. Use the steps outlined above to move from separation to intimacy with the people you love.

    And remember to be loving and kind to yourself while you do it. No one is perfect, and you show courage by even wanting to look at the situation from a new angle. So stay curious and compassionate toward yourself and others. You got this!