Maybe I’m Not Back Where I Started

Life appears invested in circling me back to these places, almost like an invitation…

My son used to get horrendous nosebleeds. From a very early age, and for many years, they would come almost every day and often in the middle of the night. The scream that would pierce my sleep became an alarm that I wouldn’t be able to shake for many years after the nosebleeds stopped. An alarm that would elicit sheer panic, overwhelm, and despair.

The events that followed the screams became predictable but never any easier. Chad and I would jump out of bed, rush to the scene; one of us would sit with our son, mopping up the blood as it gushed out uncontrollably; one of us would strip his bed, spray the sheets and carpet, scrub and clean the spots. We were renting at the time, which only added to the stress of it all. Eventually, after what felt like endless minutes, the bleeding would stop. And every time, I couldn’t restrain myself from audibly venting my frustration with the whole process, as it repeated night after night.

As he got older, my son began to express his own frustration with these nosebleeds. “My stupid nose, I hate my nose,” was among a few of the lines I heard often. My heart would sink, feeling a deep pang of shame, driving me to try and fix, well, all of it: his nose, his attitude… only seeming to make everything worse.

Even writing about it now, I can feel emotion rising. It is a tender thread in my story.

The mirror that my son was holding up to me was unbearable at times. I wanted to smash it, run away from it, avoid it at all costs. I also wanted to repair and figure out how to heal so I could show up with more patience and unconditional love. But the pressure to become better, driven by shame and self-judgment, seemed to fortify the cycle for a long time.

This is one example of a theme in my life that has been weaving itself in and out of my motherhood, with origins in my past. This idea that mess, mistakes, process, hard seasons, flaws, and imperfections signify that there is something wrong. And supporting that is a deep shame because, as hard as I try, I can’t avoid being a messy, imperfect human.

The nosebleeds slowly decreased over the years. And with that particular stress removed, it was easy to believe something had been resolved. Maybe I had simply stopped having to look at it. Even then, life continued to offer up ways to keep learning how to tolerate being in process, not having arrived yet, and life being broken at times.

I wish I could say I found a way to heal this part of myself and leave all the shame behind. In fact, trying to outrun it was one of the reasons I ended up in deep shutdown for many years. I dissociated, fell into depression, and my health took a turn. I was chronically fatigued, finding it hard to get out of bed, sometimes for weeks at a time. During that time, I didn’t seem to be triggered by much. My capacity felt tiny, and I would burn out easily, but it was as though many of my deeper triggers had gone dormant.

Then, as I slowly began to come out of shutdown and find more capacity, those triggers seemed to come back online, as though they were thawing out with me. And in each one, I found myself meeting what hid underneath it, something I hadn’t been able to tolerate before.

I think for a long time I believed healing would eventually mean I stopped getting triggered. That one day, I would arrive at some final version of myself where the old patterns no longer surfaced. But experiencing shutdown like that, where the triggers eased up, was like becoming a frozen wasteland. And while I wanted that at first, because it was easier than feeling the pain, I’ve grown tired of feeling void. Instead of making life easier, it actually created deep ridges and chasms of confusion, frustration, and conflict within. If turning off what makes me feel alive is the only way to avoid triggers, then I don’t think that is healing, nor do I want that anymore.

It seems healing can’t really satisfy when it looks like leaving my humanity behind. What frightens yet satiates the deepest places within me is this idea of owning a relationship with my humanity… learning how to stay with myself as I let it be, accept it. Allowing activation to be there without being overrun by it. Noticing what happens in the part of me that feels afraid or angry and choosing to support myself in feeling it rather than collapsing into shame. And here is the bigger picture of it: letting this kind of inner grace flow into how I show up for my kids. Remaining present with their messy process and leaning into compassion even when I feel that surge of desperate panic.

Just recently, my son started getting nosebleeds again. They had been happening every now and again, but suddenly they became more consistent. Every day. And with them came all the familiar sensations. Coiling in my gut, fear and panic, an urgency to fix the situation, a desire to dissociate, and a feeling of failure. It was all still there, ready to motivate me into action.

Life appears invested in circling me back to my reflection. Perhaps encouraging me to learn how to look at her with tenderness.

Thankfully, I know now that this doesn’t have to mean regression for him or for me. It doesn’t have to mean there is something wrong, or that I haven’t healed. More likely, this was something habitual in me switching on… but this time, I was aware. I could pause and notice all the strategies I once employed. And this time, I also found another part, one that felt like she could tolerate being in the process with my son. She felt compassionate and maternal.

Just this morning, as I was reflecting on all of this, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the opportunity to meet this thread with new capacity. To be with the parts of me that felt so overwhelmed all those years ago. To be with my son, who may have learned back then that something was wrong with him, and that his needs were a burden. Gosh, I find it hard not to believe that, and I feel the deep ache that story brings.

The nosebleeds are still hard. Yet somehow, I feel like they are a gift, helping me discover that I am more resourced to stay in it, with myself and with him, and meet the need.

I think this is how healing looks for me, most of the time. Finding myself revisiting old triggers and rehearsed patterns, wondering whether I am back where I started. Sometimes it takes me a while to notice that something is different. That I am different. It can be subtle like that. There may not be large, sweeping changes or grand shifts, but I can still see movement toward more awareness, presence, or choice, even as I wrestle with the same struggles.

I imagine I will find myself in front of this mirror again, meeting different parts of myself in its reflection. I can’t be sure what it will look like each time. I just know that avoiding it is no longer something I want to do. And with each invitation to see her, I want to continue to stay.