Lessons in Resilience from a Half-Dead Garden Plant

I’m honestly not sure when this plant burst into bloom. This will be my second spring season in this home, the first place I’ve lived with a yard of my own, and I have treasured getting to have steady and personal relationships with the plant life that grows on the little plot of land that I’m honored to tend. This plant, in particular, has been challenging though. It gives very mixed signals and often looks like it is all but dead only to begin blossoming just a matter of weeks later. Large sections of the plant have had to be cut back. Not normal pruning, but extensive removals in order to salvage the living parts from being taken down with the sections that seem to be dying. And yet, here it is, offering up sorbet-colored flowers, seemingly out of nowhere, and I am beginning to feel like this plant is here to teach me something about resilience.

I too have had to undergo deep losses in order to preserve my overall wellbeing. An emergency removal of my appendix. Sections of my cervix cut away. Skin cancers removed from my leg and arms and face. I’ve had more biopsies than I can even keep track of at this point.

I told a friend of mine recently, half joking and half serious, that I feel like a science experiment sometimes.

I grew up with an ex-green beret father and, as a result, one of the worst feelings to me is the sense that I am fragile or needy.

I spent much of my childhood trying to prove to my dad how very tough I was. How much I could take without flinching or giving way.

Even years after his death, I would often cast myself into circumstances that tested my limits, both physically and emotionally, and overrode signals from my mind and my body that indicated that I was, in fact, human and subject to both needs and limitations.

It’s strange how, more than fear for my own well-being, my response to most of my health challenges has been shame. As if I am somehow less worthy or valuable because my body has weaknesses, and is, in some ways, more sensitive than others. 

There have been points where I have wanted to withdraw completely. I’ve fantasized about moving out into the middle of the desert, alone, and forsaking community life and connection just to avoid being confronted with the ways I feel different from other people. I would live in my little adobe home and it wouldn’t matter how many scars I accumulated or if I was too damaged to be loveable because it would just be me and the sand and rocks and wind. Maybe the people in the nearest town would tell stories about me, say that I’m a witch, or weave myths about why I was out in the middle of nowhere, all alone. 

Of course, I’m probably far too social of a creature to ever actually become the feral desert recluse in my fantasy, but sometimes it makes me feel better to imagine it. To make myself and all of my struggles into some larger-than-life character from a storybook, if only as a game that I play in my mind in order to feel powerful within circumstances that so often leave me feeling helpless. 

If I exile myself then no one else can reject me. I won’t have to see the look of discomfort or pity when someone notices my scars. Or feel someone pull away when they find that they can’t be in the presence of reminders of their own human fragility or mortality. I would never have to feel like my existence or honesty about my experience is burdensome.

But then I look at this plant in my yard. This scraggly little plant that is half-dead and half bursting with life, that keeps doing its best, trying to hang in there season after season. It doesn’t shrink with shame over the parts of it that are damaged or atrophied. It goes dormant when it must in order to conserve its energy, and then blooms in the places that it can, whenever it can. 

I think it knows something. That even when we’re struggling just to survive, life is still a gift. That even when we’re broken and have suffered great loss, we can still blossom, offer nectar and nourishment to the beings that are able to receive it, and unapologetically share our unique beauty, however unconventional it may be. 

I don’t know if this plant will eventually stabilize, if it will continue to struggle on in this way for years, or if it will some time soon give way to death. It’s a mystery that lives within the core of each of us, but is too uncomfortable to face for most. None of us know how long we have here or what will bring us to our inevitable end. Many of us will make it all the way to our last moment without giving it much thought at all. And maybe those people are the lucky ones.

But I’m finding that, amidst all of my struggles with my body, I’m coming to be more and more at peace with the thing that is perhaps the most true and most universal part of the experience of life, which is its impermanence. And maybe, despite all of the ways my physical being may be fragile, this makes me extraordinarily strong in ways that will transcend the time I have in this particular form. 

I can’t cling to my body or force it to exist beyond its limitations.

But I can infuse my spirit with a strength that will carry it through whatever comes its way, in this lifetime or the next. 

Your Best Will Always Be Enough

Usually at the outset of a new month I have a big burst of energy. There is something about turning the page on the calendar that feels refreshing and uplifting and while I won’t say that none of that new month optimism is present for me at the moment, it would be dishonest of me to pretend that it is not coupled with a great deal of weariness. The cumulative strain and grief of a full year of navigating a pandemic, some recent news from a doctor that was not devastating, but certainly left me shaken, and the uncertainty about what lies ahead for me and for us finds me arriving at this new month with a little less vigor and pep than is typical for me. And I’ve decided that that’s okay.

As someone who, more than anything, wants my legacy to be one of uplifting others who are struggling, I often find myself walking a fine line with what I share with my community here online. I, of course, want my words and images to bring hope, inspiration, and nourishment to anyone who comes across them, but I am also committed to being real and honoring the full spectrum of my/the human experience. If you’ve been following me for any length of time you know that I do not have any interest in bypassing or toxic positivity. 

And so, my message for the beginning of this month is a tempered one and draws from a lesson that my father gifted me with when I was in 6th grade. It was a tough year for me. Up until this last year I would have said it was the toughest year of my life. My home life was chaotic and overwhelming that year and for the first time in my academic career, my grades suffered to the point that my report card required a parent’s signature. As I handed the report to my father, my hands shook. I was ashamed and also scared of what his reaction might be.

He reviewed my grades and then looked at me and calmly asked, “Did you do your best?”

I answered “yes” honestly as tears welled up in my eyes and then he placed his giant bear paw hands on my shoulders and said, “Then, I’m proud of you.”

I broke down into sobs of relief and some other feeling that I still can’t quite name.

To know that it was enough, that I was enough, despite the ways I felt I had fallen short, shattered me.

I have thought about that moment so much over the past year and especially in the past handful of months, none of which has looked anything like I would have hoped. 

There have been days where I have been able to create meaning and purpose out of these odd times, but there have also been days where I have struggled to hold myself together or do anything of substance at all. On the days where I’m in the latter experience, I have noticed the voice of my inner bully piping up, telling me I should be doing more, or that I should be handling things better. And then, I remember the question my father asked me and I ask it of myself: Am I doing my best? 

And as long as the answer is yes, I take a deep exhale and begin the practice of releasing myself from the grips of shame and not-enoughness. 

Some days, our best is what we envision it to be. For me that looks like taking good care of my mind and body, showing up in my power and light, and engaging in meaningful work that serves both myself and others. 

But some days, our best just looks like making it through. And whatever that looks like for you, please know that you deserve grace on those days, too.

As I look to this new month ahead, in this wildly strange time, I don’t feel the need to set any big goals or place high expectations on myself. The only thing that I am asking of myself in this moment is that I do my best. And my hope for myself, is that I truly know in my heart that it’s enough, that I am enough. I hope you know that you are, too.

This is What I Remember

I’m sure I must have driven through Gaviota sometime before, but the first time I remember going through the pass was almost exactly 5 years ago with one of my dearest friends on our way to Big Sur. It’s hard to put into words exactly, but as soon as we entered the gorge, I felt like I had fallen under some sort of spell and was completely enchanted by the only stretch of wilderness along the SoCal coastline that extends all the way to the ocean. The rugged mountains with stone cliffs and dense vegetation felt like something from another land and time. I can remember seeing the wind caves and feeling completely haunted by their beauty. Like they were singing to me. A song much, much older than human language.

I said for years that I was going to go hike up to those caves, but somehow it wasn’t until yesterday that I finally got around to making the trek. I had a whole day planned: hike up to the wind caves, explore a bit, then on to the peak for lunch. If I made it down early enough I would head over to the hot springs and then spend some time at my new favorite beach in Goleta on the way back down to Ojai.

Well...you know what they say about best laid plans...

I arrived in Gaviota in the morning, made my way up the 1.25 mile climb to the wind caves, spent some time exploring all of the various caverns, and then proceeded to roll my left ankle just as I was starting out on the second leg of my climb to the peak.

I quickly realized that I couldn’t put any weight on my left foot at all without experiencing radiating pain and decided to abandon the peak and make my way back down to the trailhead. 

The terrain on the trail is steep, fairly uneven at points, and includes areas where scrambling is required. I hobbled and hopped on one foot in the areas where I could do so and crab-crawled through the sections that I couldn’t safely navigate with only one point on the ground.

It was easily the slowest descent I have ever made on a hike, and as I made my way down the mountain, inches at a time, I started thinking about how I had always wondered what would happen if I ever got injured while I was hiking alone. That this had actually been one of the fears that kept me from hiking alone for a long time. And here I was, meeting that very fear, head on. 

I decided about a month ago around my birthday that the practice I wanted to lean into most during this trip around the sun was consciously choosing grace. Trusting in the universe and myself. Moving in harmony with the ebbs and flows of life rather than resisting or forcing. Embracing whatever comes my way as if I had chosen it and meeting it with clear eyes and an open heart. I feel like yesterday was one of my first potent lessons in those very practices.

Not only did I realize that I was able to handle much more than I thought I could, I was also reminded that I am never alone.

Several different pairs of people who were hiking up actually offered to help me get back down the mountain. Honestly, I would have been floored regardless, but in the time of Covid when contact with others feels riskier than usual, this felt like such immense generosity of spirit that the gestures alone infused me with strength. I also know without a doubt that my father’s spirit was right there with me too. He was far from a perfect man, but I’ve never known anyone who was able to summon up grit and sheer will in the way that he could. When I had moments of feeling like I wanted to stop, I took a deep breath, reminded myself of where I come from, and continued forward.

I’m not sure that I’ve ever been so happy to see my car.

I decided to have my ankle checked out and thankfully it’s not broken, just badly sprained, and I’m hoping to be back to my usual shenanigans in the next couple of weeks. Probably with some additional ankle support and most definitely with a renewed sense of faith in humans, the universe, and myself. 

So much of how we see our life, current and future, depends on how we choose to frame our past. What I will remember about yesterday is the beauty of the place I live, the kindnesses that were offered to me, the fact that I was able to crawl my way down a mountain on one leg, and that I did it with grace.

My Takeaways from the #AmplifyMelanatedVoices Movement

As the weekend comes to close, I find myself reflecting on the last nearly week of refraining from posting any of my personal content on Instagram, the platform that i am most active on, and instead sharing the voices of people of color, and most specifically Black people, as the US and the global community more broadly have been experiencing the largest civil rights movement in world history.

This time of muting myself and listening to, learning from, and amplifying melanated voices has brought me into intimate awareness of the places where I could and needed to be doing more to support equality and social justice in my communities and around the world. It has illuminated the blocks I have had around stepping more fully into this work (namely perfectionism/a fear of making mistakes and being held accountable and overwhelm/the sense that I will never be able to do enough) and also led me to the understanding that I don’t need to/can’t do it all, but that I absolutely need to do something, or rather many somethings, consistently. 

I am especially grateful for the powerful lessons that I received from Myisha T. Hill of Check Your Privilege around the importance of creating a sustainable approach to doing the work in order to avoid burnout and about “niching down” my work and finding the intersections of my gifts, my passions, and the many spokes on the wheel that is systemic racism and oppression. I am still honing in on the areas where I want to focus my external work (I’ll be sharing more about this soon), but I know it will involve wellness service access and outcomes in Black communities. I have purchased Myisha’s book “Check Your Privilege: Live Into the Work” along with a community membership to Rachel Cargle’s “The Great Unlearn” platform to continue my personal education and inner anti-racism work, and have committed to a monthly gathering led by a dear friend of mine for accountability and continued exploration within my own community. 

While the week commitment to #AmplifyMelanatedVoices is winding down, I absolutely intend to continue sharing the voices of Black and POC leaders, artists, healers, and activists. I am committed to continuing to raise awareness in my communities, both online and in person, about both the challenges facing Black communities (and marginalized communities, in general) and about ways to engage in social justice work. Because, if I’ve learned anything over the past week, it’s that we really do need all hands on deck. 

Meeting Fear with Love

I went to my very first ever hypnotherapy session a couple of weeks ago. The practitioner used a combination of biofeedback and neurofeedback to track my levels of physical activation and brain states as I practiced resonant breathing in the hopes of dropping into a deeply relaxed, pre-sleep stage, also known as a trance.

After about 40 minutes of Breathwork, the therapist told me I could open my eyes. He showed me the graph of my brain waves during the session and the way that, just as my body and mind would start to drop into deeper states of relaxation, something would happen and my mind would suddenly become highly active again, never allowing for the trance state we were seeking.

I can’t say I was entirely surprised.

I’ve known for many years that my baseline is much more highly activated than the average person and can’t remember a time when sleep wasn’t a struggle. Since I was a child, I would lie in bed at night for hours on a loop of almost slipping away to that other land and then feeling my body jolt myself awake, as if it was terrified of becoming unconscious. And on some level, it probably was.

I don’t move through the world thinking of myself as someone who experiences Complex PTSD. I don’t even, on a conscious level, believe the world to be a particularly unsafe place. But my body remembers the chaos and abuse that I experienced as a child, and, in its best efforts to protect me, is constantly scanning for any potential threats.

This makes deep relaxation fairly elusive and, when I tune into my thoughts during mindfulness practices, the most common theme I notice is a tendency to anticipate every single thing that could possibly go wrong, almost constantly. I can’t speak for others, but I feel fairly certain that these experiences are at the root of the anxiety I have managed for much of my life and intimately connected to the panic I experience in response to a handful of specific triggers, namely travel, the prospect of a new relationship, and any circumstance in which I perceive there to be a high degree of pressure for me to perform.

For many years, I tried to bully myself out of fear, throwing myself into extremely challenging circumstances to try to prove to myself that I could handle anything, to banish fear by sheer will. Another not so surprising thing (at least in hindsight anyway) is that that method didn’t work. In fact, I often ended up further deepening the grooves of trauma, learning that I couldn’t even trust myself and that even I would dismiss and run right over my feelings and needs. I spun out in this way for years, forcing myself to jump off of metaphorical cliffs, feeling briefly proud of myself for “doing the thing”, but then feeling shaky and unable to stand on my own two feet only a short time later, because overriding your body’s cues is not the same as learning to trust yourself.

So, in recent years, I decided to take a different approach. One of honoring. Of looking my fears right in the face, and saying, “I see you and your existence makes sense. I know you are only trying to protect me. Thank you,” and then to my own body and heart: “I’ll take care of you. You can trust me. I promise.”

To those who subscribe to the “fuck fear” culture, this might sound self-indulgent and counter-productive. But I’ve actually found the opposite to be true.

For me, this process has been a re-parenting of sorts. A way to create in myself that baseline sense of safety that, in ideal scenarios, our parents offer us through proper attunement, mirroring, and the meeting of our physical and emotional needs in early childhood.

It is not about saying that the fears should stay put, but instead about validating the truth of my own experience, the very rational physiological and emotional responses that I developed to cope with highly irrational circumstances, and the ways in which this actually did serve me as a child.

This creates an opening for me to choose a new way of being from a place of loving myself, rather than one of coercion or shame and allows me to be curious, both about what’s coming up for me and also about the possibilities that span out in front of me. It illuminates options for how to heal and move forward. Sometimes I hear the fear and I know that, in that particular moment or circumstance, I don’t need to push past my own boundaries.

Others times, with a little extra self-care and holding the intention to stay present, move forward at my own pace, and in a way that works at the edge of my comfort (rather than total disregard for my own experience), I find that I can work through fears that I know are no longer serving me.

This practice of gentle expansion, supported by embodiment work, somatic experiencing, mindfulness, shadowwork, and intentional grounding has completely shifted the way I relate to my own physical and emotional experience and has dramatically decreased the suffering I experience when old wounds find their way into my present life. It may take a little more time and investment than simply barreling through fears, but I truly believe it builds a much stronger foundation. One from which you can build great things. Things that won’t crumble under the slightest bit of pressure. And to me, that’s worth the slow build.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today would have been my father’s 73rd birthday. It’s always strange trying to imagine what life would have been like if he had decided to stay. Would he still be alive? What would our relationship be like? These are questions that I’ll never know the answer to.

Only weeks before what would have been his 51st birthday, he took his own life.

While this came as a shock to many, I knew it had been coming for quite some time.

I was 14 and I had moved my younger sister and myself from his home in Houston to my mother and step-father’s home in Los Angeles a year and a half earlier.

My father was undiagnosed but struggled with an absolutely textbook case of Bipolar Disorder. His swings from manic highs to deeply depressed lows narrated much of my childhood and I have spent much of my adult life trying to heal the scars left from growing up in a household that was often steeped in chaos and unpredictability.

My father was a complicated man. Brilliant, charismatic, and playful, but also at times violent and terrifyingly reckless. He was an exceptional doctor--he worked in the Emergency Room, but many of his patients requested that he be their personal physician. He had an incredible ability to connect with absolutely anyone regardless of their age or background and he was deeply moved by nature and art.

When he died, people from all over showed up to honor him. There were three memorials and the words people left in the guest books all echoed the same sentiments. That he was one of the most alive people that they had ever known. That he was a loyal friend. That he would be so deeply missed.

I often think that one of the most insidious parts of his illness was his inability to feel loved.

I know he was deeply lonely.

I know he struggled immensely with his own darkness.

Even as a child, I could see the pain flash across his eyes, in between fits of rage, and maybe some fear, too. I think he knew he was out of control. But the tricky thing with Bipolar, in particular, is the promise of the high. The delicious sense of power and euphoria that would also be wiped away if he were to receive treatment.

So he suffered. And we suffered. And honestly, the waves of that suffering still continue to extend outward, albeit more gently these days, I think, for most of us who were impacted by his wild and wondrous life that was laced with so much tragedy.

I am doing my best to heal the parts that I carry. For myself. For the world around me. But also for him.

The last time that I spoke to him, he had already made his decision that he was done struggling. Some part of me knew when he told me that my sister and I were “his legacy” that he was saying goodbye.

I think about that often. That I am his legacy. That my time here on this planet and what I choose to do with it is inextricably linked to him. That I carry pieces of both his light and his shadow, and that I also get to choose how I use both.

I talk to my father frequently, often out loud. His body may have died, but I know his soul is ever-present and our relationship lives on. Sometimes I can almost feel the way he has softened. The way death has brought him a peace I don’t think he ever had during his life. I miss him in moments. In others I am still angry with him. I’m okay with it being both.

We are dynamic beings. It only makes sense that our relationships would be as well. I can love him and not always like he who was. I can honor the beauty he brought into my life and still be honest about the pain that came along with it. And I do. Every single day. Happy birthday, Dad, wherever you are. I hope that if you’re watching, and I believe that you are in some unexplainable way, that somehow my healing is supporting yours. Because you deserve it. We all do.

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

The Body Knows: Anxiety as a Clue to Where More Love is Needed

I mentioned yesterday that I’ve been dealing with some low-level anxiety in recent weeks. I say “low level” because I have a history of severe panic attacks and generalized anxiety that was, at several points in my life, completely debilitating. What I’m experiencing now pales in comparison to the intensity of my symptoms when I was younger and much of that is due to the fact that, when I was younger, my anxiety was triggered by a constant abandonment of my body and spirit, through self destructive habits and trying desperately to be anyone other than myself. It was my body’s way of letting me know that I needed to come back home to myself and make some serious shifts in my lifestyle and self-care practices, which at that point were pretty much non-existent.

What’s been coming up for me lately has an entirely different tone to it and I think that’s because the tension I’m feeling is more of a growing pain of sorts. It’s the fear that comes when you find yourself standing on the precipice of major life shifts, preparing to confront the unknown, and choosing to have faith in yourself and in the universe so that you can take the leap.

It’s still uncomfortable in certain ways, but it’s also exciting, and for me right now, it feels necessary. I want to live a life full of growth and expansion, and sometimes that means a little butterfly medicine—breaking down to break through just as the caterpillar does on it’s way to emerging with wings.

I’ve learned to trust this process. To embrace the discomfort and to continually tune into, rather than out of, my body for guidance on what is truly right for me, and what is not. And in the moments where it gets really challenging, I dig more deeply into my self-care practices. Removing unnecessary stressors, keeping a clean and balanced diet, getting up and going to sleep on the earlier side, meditating, engaging in regular movement, and getting some sunlight on my face. What supports each of us is unique but these are the practices I’ve found most helpful for me.

If you’re moving through fear or anxiety right now, my wish for you is that you find a way to embrace it, as crazy as I know that might sound. That you make friends with it and open to being curious about what it might be trying to tell you. And that, through this process, you find a deeper connection to yourself, more tenderness, and maybe even some gifts that you didn’t even know were hiding in there.

For the Love of Tea and Healing through Ritual

During the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in high school, my mother, stepfather, younger sister, and I spent some time in Barbados. My father had just committed suicide and we were all processing that in our own ways. Like my relationship with my father had been, my emotions around his death were complicated. I needed space from my family to move through the layers that were coming up for me on my own terms, so I spent a good amount of the trip by myself, hopping on buses into town to explore and roaming the vast and lush grounds of the property we were staying on.

One of the remnants of the colonial history of Barbados is that many of the hotels and resorts offer high tea every afternoon, and during my stay, I found myself spending many of my afternoons sitting by myself on an outdoor patio, drinking tea and taking in the natural beauty that surrounded me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was my entry point into the world of ritual and the healing that can come from practices that encourage stillness, presence, and simplicity.

When I returned to LA with my family, I continued to make tea for myself almost daily. I would boil the water, drop a tea bag or two into a teapot, and watch the steam pour out of it as I filled it with water. I would wait a handful of minutes and then pour my fresh brew into a mug with a little raw sugar and cream, just as I had enjoyed it during my time in Barbados.

My family thought it was kind of silly, but for me, it was a way to create sacred time for myself. The whole process was meditative; it dropped me into my body and my sensory experience and allowed space and quiet so the more subtle aspects of my inner world could come forward. I savored those moments. They were healing in ways that I didn’t even understand at the time. But I could feel it. Even if I wasn’t consciously engaging in a practice of self-care, I was doing something that was nourishing for me on so many levels. And so, I continued.

Over the years my tastes have shifted. Black teas to greens to florals and herbal infusions, but the practice is the same. Heat the water. Steep the tea. Drop in to the experience.

These days, it’s become a very intentional practice. I choose the ingredients that I’ll be using with care and often choose a plant or a blend of plants based on what I’m needing support around. Rose for opening the heart. Thyme for immune support. Ginger root to cleanse. I’ll set aside time to really be present with the ingredients, both as I prepare them and as I sip the infusion, and I’ve come to notice that each ingredient seems to have an energy of its own, a medicine, not just for the physical body, but for the mind and spirit as well.

The element of water is present, too. The source of all life and the universal renewer. Few things are quite as soothing as perfectly warm water, the simplest of all healing balms for weary bodies and souls.

Each of these pieces comes together to create something greater than the sum of its parts. Plants, water, time, all infused with intention. None of it has to be fussy or complicated. Honestly, it could be as simple as a little bit of fresh lemon juice in warm water, but used as a way to hold space for yourself, to connect more deeply with the parts of you that so rarely get heard above the din of everyday life, it becomes a ritual. A practice in healing. A way to make even the tiniest moment sacred.

And while tea is my healing ritual, the truth is that it could be anything. Watering your plants. Dancing in your living room. Taking a bath. Massaging oil into your skin. Preparing a meal for yourself with so much love.

So many people seem to be seeking heightened spiritual experiences these days. A connection to something greater, something ancient, perhaps. And while there’s nothing wrong with exploring different practices to find what supports you most, I think what so many people don’t realize is that profound connection to Spirit doesn’t require elaborate ceremonies or a bunch of fanfare. It can be found in the seemingly mundane, everyday rituals that we create for ourselves. In moments of quiet, enjoying the simplest pleasures, like watching the steam rise and swirl above a freshly poured cup of tea.