I felt a little flat as I watched the streetlights and headlights dance with more definition than usual. I was glad I had my glasses on. I don’t like driving at night. It was after 9pm, and I was no longer on my way to pick up my daughter from her first high school homecoming dance. She’d felt quite anxious about going, but had ended up having a wonderful time, and I was looking forward to getting the scoop. But after a mix-up with the arrangements, I’d changed course mid-drive to drop off her sleepover supplies at a friend’s place instead, while she was still out. I was tired, a little disappointed, but glad to be heading home.
Chad had been flirting with me all day, making comments about what he was going to do to me later, as long as I could stay awake. He didn't know I was about to come home an hour earlier than expected.
I pulled into the driveway, and a few seconds later, he came beaming out of the house, clapping his hands with giddy excitement. I couldn’t help but smile as I got out of the car. With a wink, he teased me about being home early and kissed me like he had intentions, pulling away only for more flirtatious comments. I giggled as we headed inside, but weirdly felt a bit numb, like some of me was there while some of me was floating away. I ducked into the bathroom, and realized behind the closed door that I was struggling to receive the beauty of the moment.
What a stark contrast to how things had been between us just five years ago. I was taken aback. Is this real?
As I sat there, it slowly hit me. This moment means so much to me. To have this dating energy after fifteen years of tension. It is something I often have to pinch myself over. Something I had only dreamed about for a long time. And yes, it was real. I could be confident in that now, because over the past few years, our relationship had been steadily growing more intimate, playful, warm, and erotic. And that is exactly why a small part of me wanted to run from it. With a hand on my heart, I felt the recognition begin to land in my body. It was comforting, delightful even… and a little scary. And I was OK with that.
As I walked toward him, my husband looked at me with anticipation. Another smile crept across my face, and I felt vulnerable, shy even, as I shared, “Hey, I just want to say, the way you came out to greet me, how excited you were that I was home early, made me feel so loved. Thank you.”
He clearly loved hearing that and wasted no time reminding me of what he had planned for us. The exchange felt so natural, and I relished it. This is us.
I remember the days when this was all I wanted. I’d spend so much of my energy trying to manufacture this exact exchange. At times pleading with my husband to desire me, pursue me, and be more affectionate. I wanted him to want me. The more I tried, the more I needed to try. An insidious cycle that never gave me the natural ease that this interaction had almost overwhelmed me with.
It wasn’t so much about what I wanted from Chad. It was what his actions seemed to say about our marriage, our life. What all of it said about me. Chad had become a rather significant chess piece in the game I had been unwittingly playing since I was young. I was consumed by the responsibility to make sure life turned out a certain way, as though that would anchor me to a sense of worth. My work, my motherhood, my possessions, my thoughts and beliefs, how I did everything and anything. All of it was internally scrutinized.
My life with Chad and the kids has had to hold the worst of it at times. My expectations were fervent. If I wasn’t allowed to be imperfect, no one or no thing could be either. The house, the laundry, the way we dealt with the kids, their behavior, my husband’s behavior. Nothing escaped the microscope in my head as I searched for meaning. Was I loved, or would my worst fear be affirmed? I am unlovable.
I wanted real love, real beauty, real value, to make a difference, to set my kids up for a wonderful life, to cultivate something worthwhile and true. My convictions have always been heartfelt. I cared so intensely about getting things right, and control was the only way I knew how to pursue what mattered to me. When that didn’t work, I’d turn it back on myself. The shame was debilitating. I was committed to staying and figuring it out, but at times I let myself imagine blowing it all up.
Connection Instead of Control
My “I’m never looking back” exit off this maddening highway began in a really unassuming moment. I was sitting on the stairs in our townhouse, after moving to California from Australia, sobbing, feeling like I was drowning. I could not stop yelling at everyone, my anger flaring hot most days, and everything seemed to overwhelm me. My capacity was shrinking, and I felt like a failure.
I opened up Instagram to help block the pain, but instead of the mindless scroll, I saw an ad for a course that helped you parent from connection instead of control. I clicked on it so fast, and not long after reading through the details, signed up. Something about that idea of connection instead of control struck such a deep chord within me that I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The course introduced me to this practice called Special Time. It was so simple. Just spend 10 minutes a day with each child, on their level, doing something they want to do. There could be limits around it, like no screens, no spending money, or no roughhousing. It was to help them explore their agency. They got to choose how we spent the time, and I was to get really present, giving them my undivided attention.
My daughter would look up at me, so besotted, thrilled by the invitation each time. She would often request that we roleplay. She’d be the baby dinosaur and I’d be her mommy. It seemed easy, and at the same time I dreaded it every single day. I felt like I was pulling teeth to get through it.
In the midst of burnout and depression, these simple moments invited me to be present with the very thing I felt like I was failing at. They became a new kind of unraveling I didn’t expect.
The course was giving me useful tools, different ways to relate to my children, and a direction I deeply believed in. But why was it still so hard? The idea of connection seemed like the solution, but the new program wasn’t saving over the old one. I was doing the practices, trying so hard to change, and yet I was still angry, overwhelmed, easily activated, and struggling to regulate myself. I was even trying to get Chad to parent the same way, managing his efforts as though getting us both to do the right things would finally make it stick.
I was bringing my old patterns into this new way of parenting, but my wiry determination wouldn’t let me give up.
Unaware of it at the time, I was coming face-to-face with what it meant to stay in it when it was uncomfortable. My resolve to connect to my kids so I could offer them emotional safety and a shot at secure attachment was like an invisible thread tethering me to the next step forward, even when I didn’t know how to get there.
Here I was, opening up an ancient trapdoor and actually deciding to enter into the darkness. The unknown. A place where I was no longer in control. And this undoing kept bringing me closer to the thing I had spent my entire life running away from. My humanity.
I think it’s poetic how it started with my kids. Because I don’t think anything else could have cracked me open quite like motherhood does. I also have this conviction that I can’t just divorce my children when they trigger me. Being a mom, I am continually challenged to grow my capacity to remain engaged, repair, and cultivate connection. There is no leaving this relationship.
When Staying Still Meant Surviving
I had a similar resolve for my marriage. Even though I threatened divorce at times, deep down I believed my relationship with Chad deserved the same commitment to stay in it. To be honest, I always felt the cost was just too high to follow through on those threats. I couldn’t bear to imagine a life where I was suddenly on my own, trying to work while taking care of the kids. I wanted to exhaust every last option, and even then, I could resign myself to surviving through it. I was used to that already.
After years of fiery tension, we did find “peace.” Similar to the calm before a storm, I could tell it wasn’t good, but it was better than the pain. It was then I realized we had both become numb. The lack of fighting was simply the result of defeat.
Then, on my birthday, we were rudely shocked back into reality when I learned that my husband had caught feelings for another woman. Suddenly I wasn't numb anymore. Sharp pain clawed into my chest, as tears spilled out of my eyes. The anger seemed inevitable, like it always had, but instead, a sorrow slowly grew from my belly, swallowing me. I felt like I was floating down into the depths of an ocean, its weight pressing in around me. I was too tired to be angry.
I had only met her the night before. I didn’t know she existed until then, and I had this sense they were too close for comfort even though they barely talked to each other all night. She knew details about my kids that left my stomach in knots. She was young, beautiful, friendly, warm. I was depressed, angry, cold, and empty.
My second catalyst.
I was driving home one day, devastated by it all, and as I pulled into the driveway and turned off the car, I couldn’t move. I just sat there, crippled by my grief, falling apart as my whole body heaved.
Chad came and found me, pressed his forehead to mine, and for a long while we stayed there before he scooped me up and helped me inside. We did not fight. Something was happening that I couldn’t explain.
I somehow had this inner knowing that I could open up this trapdoor too, and head down into the depths. Instead of riding on every urge to blame, criticize, scream, “I told you so, you don’t love me,” I started allowing myself to feel what was there. And I felt led to express my pain with vulnerability, saying, “My heart hurts,” instead of “You hurt me.” I was seeing something I hadn’t seen before. There was more to the usual story my brain would run on repeat. He deserved to have an experience in all this too.
How did we get here? What was my part to play?
All the manufacturing of romance, his pursuit, our love. He had been walking on eggshells. As he tried to protect himself, I felt managed by him, too. We had both been trying to survive in a marriage that had become exhausting.
I was beginning to see an opportunity to cultivate connection between us, just as I had so passionately been trying to do with my kids. Maybe this man before me was just as tired and broken as I was. Maybe we both needed a soft place to land.
We stood in the kitchen. The words my heart hurts had barely made it out of me. I had said it a few times now, because it was all I could say. Chad moved in close and wrapped his arms around me. We sort of held our breath at first, timid in this spontaneous affection that shouldn’t have happened. After all, I was meant to be mad and he was meant to be ashamed. But suddenly we melted into one another with such emotion… it felt spiritual. Like the ocean of pain I was feeling should have been between us, but there we were, in it together, holding each other. We made love after that. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. And it was the most vulnerable we had been in the bedroom.
All I wanted from that point onwards was to find a way to hold this change we were experiencing. I was so scared it would all go back to how it was before, and that this was some sort of delusion.
By the grace of God, I came across some relational skills that helped me learn new ways to relate to him. How to offer empathy, express vulnerability, appreciate what he contributed, and make room for him to have his own thoughts, choices, and process. How to stop trying to conjure the love I so desperately wanted, and allow something different to happen between us.
This path I had found seemed so promising. It lit a small fire underneath my stalled ambition. I didn’t really know what to expect, but oh how I discovered so much more than I thought possible.
Learning to Stay With Myself
It was fascinating to find out that I had missed the mark in much of my earlier attempts to change the culture of our home through connective parenting. Turns out, focusing on Chad’s cooperation, or trying harder myself had nothing on the call to relate to myself in a new way.
I had learned ways to participate differently with my children, and I was beginning to explore those possibilities in my marriage. But nothing was sustainable while I was still living in survival mode, disconnected from my own needs, desires, feelings, and capacity.
Who was this woman who was working so hard to defy all she had known to pave a new path? What did she need or want? What were her passions? What would light her up?
Chad asked me one day if I had any hobbies, and I got mad. What? Hobbies? I don’t have time for that. What’s the point? I went on justifying how I was too busy trying to fight for our kids and take authority over our home, so we weren’t subjected to what could harm us. I had lost all passion for living and instead was obsessed with managing, surviving, striving for some greater purpose. I had no idea who I was underneath all that.
There was something about that moment that stuck with me, though. I felt a little humiliated that I was perhaps boring in the eyes of my husband. Eventually, I started to get to know myself a little better. It felt awkward and foreign, and for a long time I had to experiment my way through it because I didn’t know what I wanted, or what would nourish me. And the memory of Chad’s question would ring in my ears, secretly motivating me.
Things changed when I took to heart how important it was to let myself feel, not just what would come up in my day-to-day, but the whole chest of stuff I had locked up in the recessed corners of my heart. The things I had been running from.
Up until this point I was sure I had been feeling and healing. Maybe I had a little, but I was mostly thinking about my emotions or finding meaning from them. This became so obvious one day when I was at home pottering around and suddenly felt the need to just stop being busy and tune into what was going on inside. I had been running feelings of frustration and pain through my head all morning, but when I stopped trying to sidestep them with busy thoughts or errands, it hit me how sad I was. I got down on the floor and cried for a long time.
Feeling is doing less and just letting the sensation be experienced in the body. Feeling is letting the anger be, without lashing out. Feeling is curling up in the sadness without trying to quickly feel better. It is so different to solving or understanding a feeling. It is a tender experience and sometimes leaves you raw.
So I found ways to resource myself. After years of turning every instance of fear or frustration into another self-improvement project, I started asking, What would support me in staying with this feeling, even for just a little longer? Then I noticed some needs that hadn’t been acknowledged in many moons, maybe never. I couldn’t remember the last time I read for enjoyment, instead of betterment. Childlike play, like spending hours at the river collecting rocks or listening to the birds, restored my soul.
I also got better at discerning when my schedule was too full, or my body was too tired, and I needed more rest or support. I took my limits seriously, looking for signals that I needed to tend to something before it got too late. Because I wanted to continue to feel what it was like to be capable, and that meant honoring my capacity in the first place.
The more I inhabited my own life, the more capacity I had to participate differently in our relationship. Like looking through a kaleidoscope, I could see how one shift affected another, creating new patterns of connection. Chad responded differently, too. There was more warmth, more openness, and moments of affection and connection that gave me real hope. This gave me more ground underneath my feet, like a growing sense of security that helped me continue doing the deeper work within myself.
I hadn’t let myself dream about the future in a long time. But I was finding the courage to imagine something beyond surviving. A whole new future where I was free, alive, wholehearted, and feeling loved.
This new confidence brought me full circle. I was able to sustain more of what I set out to do for my family, starting with my kids. I felt more capable and less desperate. I could see everyone's needs underneath their behavior and empathize more. I started letting go of needing to secure certain outcomes. Connection was becoming a lived experience, and it led me to ask myself, What did it mean to allow things to be, to see where moments took us, and to let what unfolded between us be spontaneous?
Walking in nature is one of my joys and it has become a daily practice. It allows me opportunities to check in with myself, and feel things I may have unwittingly suppressed. As I was practicing more grace and acceptance, a phrase became particularly important to me. It's okay, I understand why you feel that way. Every time I was processing something hard, I tried to remember to say that to myself and really pause to feel the compassion in what I was saying.
Then it became a part of the new culture of our home.
“It’s okay, Mom, you’re just having a hard moment.” My son empathized one day as he rubbed my back. I had lashed out and quickly apologized. In that moment I saw all the times I had said that to him or his sister being reflected back to me. It was such a sweet interaction that I couldn’t stop the emotion welling up, as tears trickled down my face.
The way we related to one another was changing, and I had this sense we were never going back.
The Freedom to Be Human
I came to this work thinking I had to fix my life. I had no idea what I would find as I ventured down those trapdoors. Up until this point, my darkness had been the reason I was failing, the reason I was unlovable. I knew in my mind that love shouldn’t have to be earned. Yet I still lived as though I needed to earn every bit of goodness I wanted to experience, because I was broken. And here, my darkness was actually offering me relief.
I had a vision a long time ago of myself as a little girl, in a bleak room, mostly dark. But it was brightly lit where I was curled up in one corner. As I moved closer to see what was going on, I noticed she had no mouth. Suddenly I was her, experiencing it from my younger body. I looked down and saw that I was sitting on a mountain of diamonds. In fact, the whole floor was covered with them. Intrigued, I carefully picked one up and watched as the light tried to pass through it, fracturing into colorful beads that danced around. Something flinched down in my core, and I knew these diamonds were symbols of my pain. Wait, no. It dawned on me. Not just pain, but all of my unprocessed emotions. Everything I had suppressed. Everything left in the dark. As I continued to rotate the one I had in my hand, I saw how it glinted so beautifully.
What did it mean? The vision had stirred somewhere deep within, as though God was leaving an impression on my innermost being. I had some idea of what it meant, but didn’t understand it fully until years later, when I found myself face-to-face with my darkness, learning to stay with my pain. A yearning for me to turn toward something. Well, not something. Me. A relationship with myself, my humanity. To hold all the things I feel with compassion. To discover that my agency, my limits, my desires, and my curiosities are wonderful things. To discern that having access to my voice and being able to express myself was intrinsic to how I tended to my inner world. Could I meet myself with grace and appreciation? Could I see the beauty? Could I call it good?
When I could call myself good, I could call life good. Because I didn’t need perfection for it to be good. Good includes the whole experience. Good is about how I embrace it. And as I embraced it, it became so much easier to let my kids and my husband have their human experiences, too. They all needed space to breathe, to feel, to struggle, to have an opinion or a preference, and to process in their own way.
Chad started to seek me out to share updates about his day. Sometimes we would sit on the front porch, as the air cooled, and he would talk, and talk. I wouldn’t interrupt. I just listened. In the past, he would usually avoid these conversations, or I would be quick to hijack them. He started to get more vulnerable with me, and I was hearing things about his process that I had never heard before.
I was letting him be.
My daughter came into my office recently and asked if we could chat. She settled herself on the floor, and there was something effortless about the way she opened up. As she expressed some concerns about her friendships, I tracked the familiar urge to try and fix or teach a lesson. But I did very little, savoring how candid she was with me. I gave her room to share all her thoughts, asked questions, and let her know I understood, allowing the conversation to find its own way. It was over pretty quickly. She thanked me, hopped up and walked out. But the wholesomeness of it lingered with me.
I was giving her space.
My son loves playing Minecraft and tends to struggle with time limits. I used to come in hot with corrections, making the limits even stricter. Then we discovered that, over a two-week period, he’d been staying up through the night on multiple occasions to sneak in more playtime. Instead of raging at him, I took some time to process what we’d found, and my heart broke as I began seeing his struggle in a new way. I looked at Chad and said, “I think I want to handle this with a lot of compassion. I think I’ve been way too controlling about this. I want him to feel safe enough to come to us and not hide his desire for more time.” Chad felt similarly and asked if he could talk to him first. I responded, “Yes, of course, whatever you think,” and watched from the sidelines as he moved toward our son with such tenderness. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I saw the effects of it. Suddenly Jace collapsed into his daddy’s arms, crying, as Chad curled around him.
Later, I apologized to Jace for being so controlling and asked if he felt like he needed more time. I told him I wanted him to feel free to come talk to us about this stuff. He burst out into tears all over again. We co-created a new schedule for game time. He hasn’t been gaming in the middle of the night since.
I was a soft place for him to land.
Their messy, beautiful humanity didn’t threaten me anymore. It was no longer a reflection of myself, and the grip to control, correct, or fix began to loosen. I was discovering the freedom of healthy interdependence. That idea of secure attachment was no longer just a pipe dream for my kids. I could see myself becoming securely attached, too.
My life came to reflect this: I am me, you are you, and we remain whole as individuals in relationship. The energy I had spent on control was finding a new purpose as I came back to my own life and began to feel good in my skin, while continuing to be deeply affected by and invested in my loved ones.
I made this game up with my kids where we try to make each other laugh. When it is my turn, I can sometimes still notice an echo of that dread from the early days of Special Time. But I choose to lock in, and own the moment. The laughter that erupts from this game can be easy to dismiss. It’s a silly game. But I treasure every second of it, even when it is uncomfortable. I try to let these magic moments with my kids pass by in slow motion, as I hone in on how their noses crinkle, my son’s dimples, the way my daughter squeezes me with enthusiasm. Because I know what it took to get here.
Rediscovering the Pleasure of Being Alive
Every time I sit in the sun, I imagine I feel what a child feels when they have nothing in their brain other than a curious thought about why the ants march like that in a line, as the heat prickles their skin. I flip my hair over my face so the rays can touch the parts hidden underneath, and get lost in my own daydreams as I watch individual strands catch the light while swaying softly.
When I’m on a walk and a breeze sneaks over my skin, I let my arms open outward to welcome the bristle of my hairs along them, taking in how good it feels to be right there in that moment.
These seemingly ordinary, boring moments are revolutionary to me, reminding me of how gorgeous it is to inhabit this life. I’m no longer sitting in the sun because the wellness gurus say it fixes all your problems. I’m sitting in the sun because of how it feels to be alive.
I started a playlist when some of the bigger transformations in our marriage were settling into our new normal. It was my way of celebrating this new puppy-love, excitable, dating energy we had going. Every time I listened to a song that made me feel sexy, it got added. One of my favorite pastimes became driving in my car, by myself, listening to this playlist. I remember driving by the beach one warm, sunny California day with the windows down, my sexy songs resounding. I was absolutely elated. I felt beautiful.
I think this was so significant because, at some of our lowest points in our marriage, I would turn off romantic songs whenever they came on while we were in the car, seething with resentment and bitterness. It was another reminder of what I didn’t have, and that quick reaction seemed productive in some way, like I was getting the message across to Chad how unhappy I was.
My sexy playlist has evolved over the years, as I’ve grown. It started out as a slightly reserved exploration of something new and grew into a much fuller expression of it. The songs are naughtier, and Chad loves to tease me about it. But now it gets played every time we get sexy in the bedroom, and I think that’s a win.
Loving My Own Skin
Feeling trapped in your own life is a pretty horrible feeling. I wouldn’t recommend it. Learning how to stay had to look different than just suffering through it. It had to feel different. And it did. It started with this idea to romance myself. If I could get really intentional about knowing my passions, dreams, desires, and what made me happy, I could begin to create more of those experiences in the life I already had.
I had never romanced myself before. In fact, I always thought self-care was for women who weren’t busy doing important things. I would judge them when they rocked up with their perfectly manicured hands and freshly done hair. Comfort was for the weak, I would think. Then my health deteriorated, and it became necessary to slow down and tend to myself. I could get behind self-care when it was medicinal. I started doing somatic work, and resting more. I was putting my body first after years of being at war with it.
It wasn’t until I started experimenting with the kind of self-care that goes beyond basic needs that I saw how naive it was to frown on frivolous fun. Manicured hands or a perfect hairdo might or might not be someone’s self-care. The important part was how it made you feel. I could do something simply because I enjoyed it, without needing it to serve some greater purpose. And when I began making room for experiences that made me feel good in my own skin, I felt filled up. And with that, I had more of me to bring to the table of my life.
Romancing myself became a crucial part of my daily life. And with it, life got smaller in some ways. I said no more often to things that didn’t light me up, kept my schedule pretty simple, and became intentional about my social circle. But as I began doing less of what didn't work for me, my life felt much fuller. I launched a new business, did a pottery course, began healing from chronic illness and pain, started walking every day, and watched our cats have kittens and then decided I wanted to keep them all. One of my favorite pursuits was a Latin Sculpt dance class I did once a week. Apparently I really enjoy moving my body, especially my hips, in a sensual way. It was addictive, and I felt so vivacious.
In doing less, I was becoming more.
Meanwhile, my loved ones are still here, and seriously enjoying this new, alive woman in their midst. My kids get so excited to hang out with me. My husband can't stay away. It's contagious. I feel so free to be myself and pursue what I love while staying connected to them, allowing them to have their own lives, too.
Learning How to Receive
The kind of affection Chad showed when I came home early has become a regular part of our life. And I still sometimes struggle to let it land. I’m having to keep stretching, opening myself up to all the loveliness. Being able to enjoy it without needing to secure what happens next has been slow work. Those protective patterns have been around since I was little, and for good reason. No wonder it still takes me a second to soften and let the love in.
It has been a journey of worth. Am I worthy of this love if I had always believed I was unlovable?
And that is why receiving is uncomfortable. It leaves me bare in my vulnerability, having to accept who I am and that I am enough, after believing for so long that I wasn’t. In an unexpected way, it exposes the parts of me that are nothing special, perhaps the parts that feel like a burden, that aren’t giving, helping, performing, collecting accolades.
It is slowly becoming easier, though, as I keep experiencing the good. Like when my husband jumps in the shower with me, just because he saw me wet and naked, and wanted to take part. Or when my kids and I watch a funny video and laugh so hard my sides hurt, and we can’t stop quoting it for weeks after. Or when Chad pulls me into him, strokes my hair, and turns on relaxing music because I woke up in the night with anxiety. It is all so simple yet so arresting.
What It Means to Me, to Stay
Staying once meant being so hyperaware of everything, deciphering what it meant, anticipating the pitfalls, and feeling convicted to make it right. I noticed when a smile seemed forced or a compliment came across contrived. Most of the time everyone was tiptoeing around my triggers, while I pushed on theirs, sometimes on purpose. Staying felt like pleading for more affection, only to feel dissatisfied when Chad would finally comply. It felt like heartache and disappointment over and over again.
Now staying feels empowering. It means supporting myself so that I can cultivate what I want, without expecting myself or my loved ones to have it all figured out. Because I feel resourced, I get to embody staying rather than perform it. I am no longer trying to make anyone love me. I am creating the environment for love to thrive.
My marriage was always at the center of my obsession to create a good life. Being able to trust in something bigger than my relationship with Chad has set me free in so many ways. Our marriage no longer carries the responsibility of being my entire world. When we have a bad day, it doesn’t mean catastrophe. I can trust in my ability to build a beautiful life, the life I desire, while welcoming my loved ones into what I’m cultivating and allowing them to remain who they are.
I think of this as wholeness in connection.
Staying means choosing to be known, even imperfectly, by my loved ones and by me. It means learning to be fully present with the woman who was always there, hiding behind protective patterns, afraid of rejection. I never expected that knowing myself would become one of the greatest adventures of my life, and in turn bring me closer to feeling loved.
And it is all so uneventful in the loveliest way. Most days, several times a day, my husband will come find me to check in, see how I’m doing, give me an update on his day, kiss me, or flirt with me. He helps with cooking, school schedules, and the things I need support with. I can tell him what I need or what I’d love, and he wants to show up for that. We can’t help but joke and laugh during most of our regular interactions because one of us will turn some comment into a sexual innuendo. Most nights he fills my water bottle and places it by my bed. And when we finally get into bed, no matter how hard the day has been, he spoons me with what feels like such an honest endearment. I still find it hard to believe it’s real.
My North Star
Author’s Note
As you can see, connection became such a poignant part of my journey. Connection to myself, the people I love, and my life. It’s the direction I want to keep finding my way toward. My North Star.
But I’ve also learned just how hard it is to stay oriented toward connection when I’m running on empty. That is why Self-Resourcing is the fuel to my North Star. It helps me not just practice but inhabit this work. It is deeper than just self-care, although that is important. It has been about embodying my worth. I find it helpful to imagine myself as a vessel. And when that vessel has cracks in it, no matter what is poured in, it leaks. And unfortunately, when I pour out of it to show up for my life, I run on empty. This was true for a long time, and pouring out was in some way my attempt to receive something in return.
Coming back into my body with more presence, romancing myself, including the frivolous fun, taking responsibility for what is mine, and supporting myself enough to tend to my wounds were all part of my journey toward becoming more alive and able to hold the goodness I wanted to experience. To feel fulfilled and live from more of my whole heart with fewer strings attached.
This is how I feel resourced. And it took time to discover what walking this out looked like in everyday life. Over the years, five relational capacities have become especially important in helping me do that. You’ll see them woven throughout my story. They’ve also become the five points on my North Star.
Receptivity. Respect. Appreciation. Vulnerability. Openhandedness.
I’ve brought these five relational capacities and Self-Resourcing together in a resource I call The North Star, as an invitation to explore what connection might look and feel like in your own life, and how you can support yourself if you choose that path.
If you’d like to receive it, I’d love to send you a copy. You can subscribe below and get it directly in your inbox.
