Personal Growth

Since I was a young girl and continually found myself crushed beneath the feet of people with more power, there has always been a deeply rooted part of me that wanted to excavate love and inclusiveness in the world. With time, I recognized that I had a gift for making people feel like they matter, for inviting conversations from different points of view and valuing people for their individuality. When I began posting on Facebook my messages were about love, self worth, kindness and making our corner of the world a little bit better. I invited people to look inward and cast their net as wide as they could make a difference. I believe that to my core more than ever right now. But my messages do not look the same because we are not living in the same world. The cracks have been illuminated and the light it shines on our inequities demands our attention. Make no mistake, we are in a revolution my friends, one that requires every ounce of our conviction. Or our regret forever. 

There is a huge storm brewing in our country, one that will lead to our demise. Lines have been drawn, weapons both physical and emotional are being used, voices are louder, stronger and angrier than ever. Within a few short weeks into the pandemic, I had taken my stance for wearing masks and shared those reminders on Facebook. I believed then, as now, that it is the simplest, kindest thing we can offer to help get this virus under control. I couldn’t have been more shocked when it became a political talking point and all of a sudden you could look up and see who was who by whether they were wearing a mask or not. There was no discernible voice of reason in the hateful, judgemental responses I was getting and I made a lot of people angry who justified and refused to look at their own behavior. Of course, I don’t like that but it doesn’t deter me when I am standing in my truth. That is vital for each of us to identify.

Soon after that, civil unrest exploded with the death of George Floyd. It had been a long time coming, but with the world being more sensitive, stripped of all its comforts, financial security, music and art, it all bubbled to the surface. Our emotional safe places and diversions were laid bare and we had nothing to do but look at our feelings and they terrified us. The rage and fear was palpable, and we began to recognize a great divide. With that event and the uprising, there was a deep and permanent shift in me, and it was powerful and undenaible! By that time I was already blogging, and like everything I share, I was compelled to use my voice for this cause. It came from the deepest part of my soul, the part of me that I call my Knowing that tells me exactly what I should do and when I should do it. It is not always comfortable or something I would ask for, or even understand, but it always leads me to growth and to what someone else needs. I could not in good conscience, with my black and brown friends who I adore, surrounding me, remain quiet to the violent injustices that are going on. It wasn’t new for them, but a huge wake up call for me. I was heartbroken, aware in a new and meaningful way and could no longer carry the shame of my inherent ignorance and be unwilling to do something about it. I knew it would mean discomfort to many of my good and decent white friends who were not yet ready to look. 

All of a sudden I was certain that I was no longer being loving or kind to remain silent. How can I advocate kindness and love when so many people I know live in fear and are being destroyed?

My silence is compliance.

I don’t have the right to be comfortable in my little bubble while violence, centuries old brutality, and blatant racism burn through our cities. 

I was raised in a family that was neither political or even involved in current events, making any kind of free thinking an evolution for me and always a fight against the status quo, in every aspect of life. I don’t even remember watching the news growing up, so much of what I learned was a whitewashed version from school or any research I did on my own. For the majority of my life I was a conservative Christian and not because I believed in a certain party but because my values were more aligned there. This is the interesting thing…although the region I lived in wasn’t very diverse I always had an innate sense of fairness, but there were things I obviously didn’t know and always found myself searching for. Something existed that aligned with who I knew I was and it called to me. Over time I have found that my open-mindedness and tendency to act for the greater good allowed for a more diverse political view, and I found common ground with some good friends that helped me expand my thinking further. It felt like home to me to include everyone. 

I’ve always been able to respect other views and agree to disagree, until now. This is no longer about party or partisan, it is quite simply about the narcissistic power driven man himself, Donald Trump, devoid of moral fiber, who has been entrusted to nurture and guide our country, and does so with an eye single to destruction. He dehumanizes people, promoting rage and vengeance as he strives to eradicate entire classes of human beings. He is popular because he gives hate a voice and a flag to wave. This is not tolerable behavior, this is not human decency. This is soulless. The President of The United States just threatened a coup if the election doesn’t go his way and if that doesn’t scare you or make you realize who he is I can’t agree to disagree with you. He is decimating the democracy he vowed to protect, and I wouldn’t care WHO he is, red or blue, right or left. This is not about how we want our eggs in the morning, this is about human beings. I draw lines in the sand when it comes to morals, to racism, to the rights of anyone that is different than you or me. It is a deal-breaker. Everything in me has to speak up. 

I had an enlightening conversation with my daughter Chelsea the other day. She has taught me so much about political evolution, ahead of her time way back in junior high, always challenging the narrative and leaning into truth, love, equality and justice. She heard her own voice much sooner than I heard mine and I am humbled by her. We talked about white privilege and the inherent racism that many of us have and why it is so frightening for us to take a look at that sometimes. We agreed that it is our time to be uncomfortable, and that without that discomfort we might never challenge our own internal narrative. It doesn’t mean we’re bad unless we decide to close our eyes to it. 

My daughters have always been my Touchstone. They are brave, strong and independent, and we have this gloriously liberated relationship where we can say anything, seriously anything, to each other and call each other out on our shit. They have held my hand and heart through my evolution. When I told Chelsea that a dear friend had acknowledged her discomfort with my new political posts and said that I am dismantling character and devaluing people who think differently, I asked for her insight, just to check myself. She didn’t hesitate and said to me, “Mom, no. YOU are dismantling and devaluing the white, racial, patriarchal system that has been the cornerstone of an unfair government.”

And today, she sent me this, my sweet and beautiful girl…

“We all have a lot to unlearn and unpack. I’m glad we’re on this journey together.” 

If I had a shred of doubt about my purpose and my truth going forward it completely dissipated. Another reminder that my truth is never going to steer me wrong, the people who really need it will receive it, and a way will always be provided for me. 

This is a revolution. You have a place here. If you are compelled to create change right now, then quiet the outside chatter, the opinions of others, even your closest friends who need you to stay where you are, and listen. Go forward with your voice, encouraged and strong, however that looks for you, and trust that you are right where you belong doing exactly what is called of you.

I was having a difficult day yesterday and was aware of it so I thought I had a handle on it. My body was experiencing a lot of physical pain and I was emotionally vulnerable, so I was processing, identifying and talking myself through it. Then last night I snapped at my boyfriend when he tried to help me with something. Like, really snapped. It was careless and mean, and I am neither one of those things. At that point I was scrambling to figure out what the fuck was wrong with me! 

Earlier in the afternoon, I had randomly reached out to a friend and when I read her response this morning, I cried, because her reply mirrored exactly what I was experiencing, and suddenly it all came together. “Wavering many times daily between feeling fine or happy, to frustrated and sad.”  

Everything in me not only relates, but feels this deeply. To my core. I have a sadness that I cannot escape, not permanently anyway. Unfortunately, I have many friends who share these feelings. So this became the thing I wanted to talk about today.

It’s time to rethink depression. 

“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don’t.”                  Stephen King

I was born an old soul and forged resilience through necessity, time and time again, from my childhood to now. In the process of survival, holding steadfast, letting go and doing whatever it took, I learned what I was made of. Somewhere between the innate joy, the fierce tenacity, the chronic illness, the love and zest for life, the empathic compassion, lies a profound depression, one that has taught me patience and courage. It was a natural byproduct of a stifled, abusive environment and constantly being told how to feel or rather, how NOT to feel. I had no map or blueprint for traveling through this ‘blue and lonely section of hell,’ but I didn’t let it take me and I won’t now. I could. I certainly would not say that I enjoy this gloomy shadow of mine. However, it has lent itself to the whole of me and added another dimension to my substance, my passion and my voice.  

As mutual friends began sharing their isolation and frustration with this topic, I noticed that as a society it’s not something we allow as part of an accepted narrative. For so many right now, regular depression is exacerbated by the upcoming seasonal change, the uncertainty and isolation of the pandemic, the anger from both the current political climate and violent civil unrest. It weighs heavy on the heart of those of us who feel things deeply. Then, of course, there are those tragic life things that keep coming at us no matter how much our depression takes from us…death, illness, money issues, etc. Yet, mental instability and mood disorders generally make people uncomfortable, unlike heart disease and diabetes that are readily accepted as the norm. Throughout history we have shown disdain and treated people with these conditions as disposable, even using it as a weapon of weakness or unworthiness against them. There is usually a sense of judgment about how people deal with and navigate their way through it. Our coping skills are silently, and sometimes not so silently, assessed by people who have never experienced it on any kind of real level and have no idea what it feels like, except for how it affects them. They want to give us simple answers, offer platitudes and tell us how to fix something that they have not done anything more than bear witness to. I do understand that it’s because they want to help, and I agree that there are many valuable ways, even aside from medication to nurture ourselves through this, but that’s for another post. There is no one-size-fits-all for depression, because depression looks different for each person, and careless responses can have the opposite effect. When we are not allowed to show all of ourselves to someone we trust, it may make us feel marginalized, to the point of withdrawal. That has a ripple effect which may cause us to confide in them less when we need their perspective, or their arm to hold while we find our way. That only adds to the weight, the loneliness and despair. 

If you love someone and you know that they are struggling, and doing the best they can, but you have no idea where they’re coming from, I imagine they would appreciate you taking their hand in yours, telling them that you’re there for them and asking what they need from you. Then be prepared for them to not be sure. None of this is personal. Honestly, sometimes it’s hard when I’m in the middle of a depressive swing that manifests as anger or frustration, for me to even recognize my own needs or behavior. Articulating myself during depression is very challenging, and my thoughts become overwhelmed by tears or confusion. It can be a burden for us, the depressed ones, to constantly teach other people how to deal with our mood disorders because our energy is so limited, but there is a very specific magic in being loved through it that builds a bridge to understanding for both sides. That is the common ground and gateway that can connect you to something you don’t personally experience. Also, there is endless availability for resources to help you if you know someone, but aren’t quite sure what to do next. 

Just as we would come together to learn about a physical illness the other one had, we can foster communication in our relationships, remove the stigma to engage in open conversations that invite uncomfortable feelings, creating safety and allowing honesty. 

If you’re at a point with your depression that you feel out of control, and you haven’t already, it’s time to seek professional help, knowing that it is just as vital for you as seeking a medical opinion for physical health issues. If your main frustration is that you feel like you are alone with this and you’re not sure where to put all these feelings, I want to offer you a place that is safe to say, I Am Not Okay. And I am whole. I am struggling. Yet I rise. I feel the shame. And I do not own it. I see the inner workings of all the pieces that create my existence, both cracked and pristine, and I embrace them. 

“She did not know if her gift came from the lord of light or of darkness, and now, finally finding that she didn’t care which, she was overcome with almost indescribable relief, as if a huge weight, long carried, had slipped from her shoulders.”  Stephen King

My evolution has brought me here. I know who I am, with fierce clarity and that every experience is woven into my soul. All things, including my passion and purpose flow from that sacred space. There is no good or bad to that, just things that I choose to grow through. I will continue to check myself for ways that will serve me to be a better person, especially when I have been mean or hurtful. And I will not apologize for the human condition that makes me exactly who I am.

I have been drowning for three weeks. Feeling dragged under a  current so powerful that I can’t catch my breath. Fighting my way to the surface just long enough to convince myself that I’m really okay…because if I know anything about me, it is that I am strong, I am a ‘get-er done’ kinda girl!! I can kick anything’s ass!! HA!! TAKE THAT!! But about halfway through week two, I found myself running out of things to take hold of, as this remained relentless. This pain, this bouncing between a constant autoimmune flare up, which causes a weakened immune system, still navigating recovery from hand surgery, feeling depressed and overwhelmed, then guilty for feeling overwhelmed when I know other people have it so much worse. And feeling like I know better than to let this get the best of me!! I have dealt with this for a really long time, since 2003, in fact, so I should have all the needed skills by now. But I haven’t had to do it to this degree, every single day without a break, and the energy it takes is incredible. 

I feel it as soon as my body starts to wake up in the morning, the weight of liquid lead moving through me, languid and hot, wrapping first around my neck and shoulders and then into my joints, muscles and through my limbs. The weight of it is enormous, making it a challenge to climb out of bed, to hold up my head. The nerve endings in my body feel like they have all turned inside out, even making my skin tender to the touch. The mundane necessities of living become chores I must do with intention, like walking, which feels like carrying quicksand over the tops of my feet, where neuropathy thrives and bones often feel fragile and as though they will shatter when they hit the floor. Going up and down the stairs requires holding not even as much as a cup of coffee, only the handrails on both sides, sometimes leaning over and using the actual steps to help get me to the top. The idea of wrapping my hand around the refrigerator door handle to pull it open, and the pain that will ensue in my swollen hands, is something I have to prepare myself for every time. Lowering myself to get in my car or, TMI, even onto the toilet, is often excruciating because of the sluggishness in my glutes and thighs. I’m not sure why it settles more deeply in certain areas and lies listlessly in the rest, but once it’s here, it never let’s me forget it’s my annoying constant companion, like a devil on my shoulder, but not as much fun. While all of this is happening it signals my body as a threat and everything implodes. Daily pain and side effects that I routinely live with get ramped up, and recovery from anything becomes more complex, like the common cold I am also currently fighting. Due to my connective tissue disorder, my insides collapsed in 2014, requiring reconstruction with mesh, and any remaining issues with that also have become agitated. Between the pain, the shrill headaches, the unexplained tremors, the fierce severity of it all, it’s been taking its toll. Throw into the mix a healthy case of pandemic loneliness, some upheaval with a few personal relationships, and I find myself feeling emotionally and physically vulnerable.

I don’t deal with life by way of denial, except for those times I really need it, and I just kept thinking, this will pass. It always does. Until it didn’t. I kept waking up feeling like shit, not just sometimes like it was before, but every day, exhausted, hurting and having to plan around it, not sure how I would progress. An amazing beach trip and a social distanced birthday celebration helped lift my spirits, but did little to relieve this mass denseness I’m carrying. Sleep has eluded me, and recently, new unexplained symptoms are rearing their ugly head, leaving me to feel helpless. Scared. Hopeless. I have had no energy for anything but this, yet, strangely, like burning embers inside of me, something was whispering to me that I needed to speak up and write about it. I needed to give life and acknowledgement to someone else’s pain. I was at a loss as to how I would organize my foggy thoughts and most afraid that if I gave it a voice, if I shared this, it would consume me. That I would be swallowed whole in this excruciating vortex of ugliness, weakness and inexplicable, constant heaviness. 

For those of us who deal with any kind of chronic illness there are times when we wonder if our last good day was the last good day we will ever have. And if this is the most we have to look forward to, we wonder how we will ever do it. We’re beyond depleted. I never say why me, but I have questioned if my resilience will outlast the uncertainty of what this disease will bring, like flaming batons constantly being thrown at my body, that I have to catch so I don’t ignite and burn to dust. The sensations moving through me are so visceral that oftentimes I feel my life expectancy is being stripped away from me a little at a time.

This isn’t unbearable. I bear it. It’s just the most difficult thing I do in my life and it takes up more space in my head and time in my life than any other thing. 

And I know, this sounds bad. Depressing. It is. But stay with me, I have a point here, because this has been a catalyst for me…

More than anything else, this illness, layered with its insidious effects, has taught me to listen. It has gifted me with the knowledge that my entire being is equipped to tell me everything I need to know. I am a firm believer in surrender, but in this one area that has been very difficult for me. I’ve been resistant to the limitations that have asked me to slow down, accept help and the idea of progressively getting worse, perhaps dying. I don’t want to be the sick girl. I want to be the strong, empowered, self-reliant, independent woman that I know I am. But in order to connect with that part of myself I must be willing to accept every aspect of what makes me who I am. I continue learning to relinquish control and reach inward, connecting to not only what is living in my body, but to my intuition, my emotional responses, and mostly to my pain, not as an invader, but as an ally I can draw closer and glean knowledge from. Ironically, my limitations feed my strength, and as those pieces of me work together, we create a sense of understanding, build and nurture a relationship of trust so I can navigate the very tricky business of knowing when to push myself and when to rest, when to do things that are difficult and when to step back and let someone assist me. Over the years this has been a tightrope of finding balance between powering through and knowing when enough is enough. I often feel like I have no choice but to stay there, walking from end to end and back, moving with grace, determination, and steadiness as I embrace this offering placed before me. If I stumble there is no net to catch me, other than my own belief in what I know I can do. I think perhaps in life that is all any of us have. We take leaps without a net, we fall many times to eventually learn that we are the reason we get back up again and again. To find ourselves soaring. Thriving. Being okay in a world that is not okay. Or in a body that is not okay. 

Like usual, with this flare up, I kept plowing through, but I told no one, not really, about what else was going on, how this has upended me, sent me into an identity crisis that is confusing me. Making me doubt the very essence of who I am, sucking the life from my motivation and usual ‘go get it’ attitude. It is ruthless, daunting, unforgiving and has been so completely foreign in its constancy that I really didn’t know what to do. It has made me withdraw, feel like I have little to offer, become afraid to reach out and even be a bit mean at times. I was empty. We’d go out and I’d feel uneasy or unsure of myself. I’d find it difficult to make conversation and I’d be very aware of my perceived inequities, like my recently amputated finger. It was as though the illness became me, this second skin and all my demons reveled in the darkness there. That’s not like me at all. Anyone who knows me knows that I am very confident and comfortable with who I am. I’ve done the work. With time and listening I recognized this emotion as shame and that is something I have been intimate friends with and continue to work on because I refuse to claim it as my own when it is not.

It also helped me recognize how much we need to talk about this.

From the feedback I have received over the years, I believe society needs awareness and conversations that encourage true understanding and a safe space to express our fears, experiences and especially victories, making this part of the norm and not something to be hidden in the shadows. As you can tell there are many layers to chronic illness, not just the disease itself.

We are far deeper and more complex than one thing that is happening to us. We are a beautiful combination of all the light and the dark, the limitations and the power, the circumstances that chip away at our identity, and those battles that reveal us as warriors! We are able to harness the energy from everything that is given us and wear it proudly, not just as survivors but as people who thrive in a world with color, life and magic! I Am The Sick Girl. I am also the social butterfly. The dancing queen and the woman who cannot bear weight on her feet. The woman who loves and lives with passion, and the woman who has shattered and rebuilt herself. The girl who gets giddy about simple things. The woman who believes deeply in love and romance. I am both girl and woman, sensitive and frightened, compassionate and struggling, joyful and depressed, broken and kind. I am light, magic and beauty, because that is how I choose to see the world. Mostly I am grateful. For every experience, every emotion, every fiber of life that is woven through my soul to make me who I am. 

This has taken me weeks to talk about, and finally, finally I am turning a corner, and the words just came. And with everything in me I am here to tell anyone out there who is struggling that I see you. I hear you. You are whole, even under the weight of your despondency. It is in the sharing that we see our collective humanity, as we shine a light on our humanness, suffering and our frailties. There are fewer things more empowering in this world than bringing our perceived brokenness to the forefront not to say I am bad, I am shamed or I am damaged, but to say, I Am Here, vulnerable, uncertain and scared, in the abyss of my own suffering, and I recognize you, out there, doing the same. My vow to you is this…

You are not and will never be alone in this world as long as I have a voice.

I have walked the corridors of shame my entire life. My circumstances had taught me to be very comfortable with being the one cast aside, the girl whose nose was pressed against the glass, watching all the cool and popular people gather in groups that I would never be welcomed into. With anxious breath fogging my view, I observed them, the shiny, confident chosen ones, certain that they possessed something I didn’t have, some sort of magical, inherent hierarchy that for whatever reason I missed out on. Intuitively, and with my whole being I knew that the home and family in which I lived was not normal, and just as certainly, I didn’t know what normal looked like. I just knew it was a thing. A thing that meant light and beauty and laughter. A thing my friend had that made her mother smiling and kind. A blinding contrast to my life, that was filtered through a lens of intermittent joy, darkness, comfort and pain, both insidious and unimaginable, yet as familiar as my favorite ragdoll. Something in me burned to be on the other side of that glass, to know what it felt like to be included, to belong, completely and totally myself. Whoever that was.

I spent years doing persistent, gut wrenching, soul searching work to uncover the truth of who I really was, years of reading other people’s words and hearing other people’s voices before I could find my own. Mine was buried. Buried beneath the rubble of a city burning down, a city that enrobed a life that should have guided me, but was never fully lived. All because the cycle of abuse had never been broken, and my stunningly beautiful mother would bear the brunt of that and pass it on to me. You cannot raise a healthy child if you are nearly shattered and splintering at the seams yourself. You cannot instill in a child the worth that they deserve if you do not first see it in your core. And ultimately you cannot do anything else but punish a child for their strength when you see yourself as weak and unable to survive in the life you’ve been given, a picture perfect, white picket fence fairytale you were expected to live even though you were never up to the task. My mother didn’t know what to do with any of the emptiness that plagued her or the weight of responsibility that slowly crushed her. A Leave It To Beaver society and the trappings of religion created no room for her mental illness, her alcoholism, the shadows of a father’s wrath, the heartbreak of being abandoned by a cheating husband and the residual effects of living a domestic lie, raising 5 children, mostly alone and uneducated. When life gives you sensuality and abuse brainwashes to believe it is your only value, it is what you use when all else fails. And she did. It is where you tell yourself you feel most loved, even as the revolving door of men strips away your confidence, your dignity, and ultimately, your being. So when you turn to a liquor bottle and pills, you hide it behind yet another label of untruth called migraines. That was manageable, acceptable, that was something people understood. She could black out for days and never face the reality of her choices. Everything else bubbling beneath the surface, brutal, undaunted and painful in a way you didn’t know you could overcome, had to hide behind that label too. I know how lonely it is to live behind pretense and deception, to hide in the darkness of shame so no one will know the truth you’re drowning in. I think that was the most heartbreaking thing for me to realize, to watch my mother disappear into someone unrecognizable, never truly realizing her potential or living a life that belonged to her. As a family, my three sisters, one brother and I lived the story of the lie as expected. We pretended to be normal. We had chores, we sang together, we went to church and vacation Bible school and celebrated Christmas like it was the happiest, most sacred day on earth. We posed for traditional pictures in our Sunday best, happy, content, hiding behind a facade of big hair, toothy smiles, creased trousers, shiny shoes and matching dresses. But we lived in fear. In sadness. We lived waiting for the other shoe to drop, never truly safe. Always mistrusting. We faced each day, surviving, looking for our way out.

You’ll never have to wonder what shame looks like because you will recognize it by its darkness. It sulks in the corner, shrouded in layers of desperate lies, the lies that they created to make you responsible for their depravity. The falsehoods you have to spend a lifetime unlearning and unbelieving. My sexual, emotional and physical abuse would find its way into every decision I made, every relationship I encountered, every narrative I would tell myself for years. But I was always the strong one and there was a flame burning in me, a fire that smouldered quietly beneath the bitterness and pain. I was not about to let any of those people steal who I was or take my god given gifts of trust, sexuality, or wholeness. I would fight like hell to make my way back, to step out of the shadows of shame that never belonged to me. 

It took me a long time to realize what I was feeling, that the fire in me was my actual authentic self, my voice and essence. The person I was before the joy robbers told me who to be. Before the labels. Before the expectations. Before the darkness. But there is a Knowing deep inside, a voice that consistently whispers until you find your way home to it. I was always in there. I just didn’t know where ‘there’ was.

My mother died 9 days before my 20th birthday. She was only 47. It was a standard ulcer operation that caused an infection. But I believe mostly it was apathy. My mother was tired, she had nothing left in the world, did not like who she had become and had nothing more of herself to give. I think she needed to rest. I’m glad she is.

I’ve come to terms fully with the way I grew up and the fact that those of us surviving in my family never or rarely speak. I’ve done my work and we’ve all made choices, and while it is sad, it is understandable and something they have chosen as a way to cope with those emotions they can’t face. I have, with intention and purpose, created a life of light, color and complete authenticity. It began as a journey I made for myself, then for my children. I knew if I was ever going to break the chain of the violence and fear I lived with, I would have to do the hardest work of my life and face every bit of it fiercely and without hesitation. Many people don’t do it because it’s brutal and it’s not something you do once. It’s a lifetime of growing, evolving, being open to change. Now, with gratitude and without anger, I am blessed with beautiful children, loving friends and a life I look forward to everyday. I spent so much of my existence feeling like I didn’t matter, like my feelings weren’t allowed, and my voice wasn’t welcome. My difficulties have made me kind, aware, and inclusive. I have, for as long as I can remember, wanted to make others feel like they matter, because it was not so long ago that I was that girl with my nose against the glass, hiding in darkness of shame. 

I will do anything in my power to prevent another person from feeling like that. Life should be experienced in the light! That is the power and moral of my story.

A strange queasiness in the pit of my stomach swelled to a lump rising in my throat, followed by tears, hot and salty against my cheeks. I told myself I was ready, but there are some things you can only be ready for by experiencing them. The loss was not only tangible, it was visceral. I had to look, to see it, to own it. This wasn’t a finger I recognized, the one I had spent my whole life with, used to hold a pen and write letters with. No, this stubby little half finger was disarming at first glance, shockingly so. And to me, ugly and unfamiliar. 

I hadn’t expected to see the results of my surgery and amputation for two weeks, but my bandages came loose on the third day, causing friction between the two surgical sites and it had to be rewrapped. I knew I needed to make a decision as to whether or not I would look at it. Yet. But the way I navigate a challenge given me is to face it head on, no matter how difficult or fierce. When the lab tech peeled the last bit of gauze from my wounds, it took my breath away and I requested a few moments to lean into the weight of the emotions that came over me. My friend held my hand as I cried. I was grateful that the excruciating pain from the metal was gone, after an exhaustive, difficult year. And I was heartbroken that it had come to this.  

That same day my boyfriend’s daughter was hospitalized for a gunshot wound and my roommate, who is going through cancer, was dealing with some very difficult symptoms. Instinctively, I wanted to be there for them, to help ease their pain, while managing my own, and they wanted to do the same for me. These losses were personal, connecting us by our own humanity and wouldn’t be resolved quickly. 

That next two weeks went by, in a blurred, dizzying array of heaviness, lingering and deeply felt. As intellectually prepared as I knew I was for my surgery, I also anticipated that there would be many more feelings bubbling to the surface and, boy oh boy, was I right! I had no idea how to traverse having a finger amputated because I’ve never done it before. As with everything I’ve never done before I tried to start with what I knew, and that was listening to my body because every response it shares with me is there to help me find my way. Between the upheaval in my living space and continued chaos in the world I simply could not hear it. I realized that a lot of that was my own fragility, both emotionally and physically, but this was all so foreign, and I felt lost. None of my coping skills seemed to be working. Literally, part of every day found me crying, seemingly out of the blue, feeling confused and unequipped to deal with the ups and downs that were ravaging my body. I wanted to record my feelings as I clumsily made my way through this new experience, to talk about the spiraling thought process, share those real and raw moments of mourning, and not just for my own release but in the hopes that I might help another person. Sadly, I couldn’t find my way to writing and wasn’t ready to let our collective situation disconnect me, but I lacked the energy to do anything except let go. There was no respite from something I couldn’t identify. So it remained in our home, clouding our normal, affectionate existence, shrouding it with emotional pollution, smoggy and stifling. Eventually, I made the decision to just let all of it teach me, to not worry about figuring it out or changing it, but just to sit with it. 

To be okay with not being okay. This shit was hard.

I reminded myself that I could be present for these men I love and share a home with, but I wasn’t responsible for them, nor them for me. I owned what was mine and they owned what was theirs and we showered each other with grace and transparency, working together to create the most loving supportive environment we could muster. It was the permission we gave ourselves to navigate our experience the way we needed to, and it is how we healed.

Fast forward to now and I find myself in a better head space. I’ve acknowledged the gravity of all this, the fog is lifting, we are all reconnecting and coming to the other side of our own trauma. Time offers perspective. I got my stitches out on Friday and now I am in the process of conquering the mundane and the miraculous with my new fingers. Both need time to mend from the incisions, and the middle one still needs to be splinted while the bone holes heal from the metal plate and 7 screws. Of course, there’s pain and a great deal of fatigue, along with the readjustment. I don’t cry now every time I look at my finger. In fact, I am learning to be comfortable with how it looks and feels. I experience phantom pain everyday, so I wrap the little nubby in a blanket and squeeze the end that’s missing to remind my brain there’s nothing there. The sensation of an actual finger is currently drowned out by nerve damage. It’s wildly surreal, kind of indescribable. I see it, I touch it, I feel pain at the actual sight and the sight that’s gone. It is odd to feel the finger that isn’t there but not the one that is. So I let myself experience it all. Every time. And I breathe. I breathe in hope. 

The art of reclaiming myself during a deeply felt loss is seeking my complete, unconditional surrender. It requires something of me, which is to remain curious, grow toward understanding and become a loving partner with my body, as it works its magic to render me whole again. Respecting the value of  grief and loss has been an interesting road. Ultimately, this is about coming to terms with me, without condition or judgement, accepting every emotion I’m going through as equally important and valid, every weakness, every fear, every bit of strength, fortitude and resilience. Visualization has helped me imagine myself as malleable, everything flowing through me, no matter how uncomfortable, feeling like one finger has sympathy for the other and wants to restore it. In those moments when the pain is too intense, I lay my left hand over my l right and invite the energy to move freely through me. I know that my body is a majestic vessel with a powerful purpose, and with time and synergy, it will heal itself. I also know, humbly and without doubt, there is beauty in both the darkness and the light and this process of healing has been both for me. Eventually, I will gift this little half size digit of mine with an appropriate name and a badass tattoo, to honor the sacrifice that it made for my body, and represent the gratitude I feel for everything it’s meant to me over a lifetime. 

The truth that rises to the surface for me is that even when it’s hard to hear, everything we need is inside of us, a lesson I learn again and again. The power of our minds and how our bodies can adapt to change continues to amaze me. I was in a place emotionally that I’ve never been before, unable to find my center, yet here I am now, on the other side of it, expanding my ability to grow, my gratitude intact. Everything ebbs and flows, the joyful and the difficult. 

As I journeyed through the last two weeks, unsettled and uncertain, I came to know that this was never just about losing a partial finger, but about all those little losses I have felt over the years since I got this illness. All those things that chipped away at me, those things I thought were part of my identity, that I have since come to recognize as a lie. This was about practicing self-love on a profoundly meaningful level, finding my absolute worth at my core. I am now and will always be so much more than any one thing that is taken from me.