Moving Through Despair

To be an awake + aware human on planet earth means we sometimes feel despair.

Which is normal + okay.

I try to remember this when it happens to me.

I’m extremely lucky to be in good mental health, in possession of tools to help me cope, and in relationship with good humans who give me expressions of love + experiences of togetherness when I need them.

And I’m thankful I’ve pieced together a worldview that more or less keeps me sane, grounded, and connected to what matters, even when things get hard.

And still, there are days when I feel like I’m moving through a thick fog. When I feel heavy + lost. When bad news floods my capacity to process it in real time. When there seems to be no way this doesn’t all end in disaster. When I find myself asking: wait, what is the actual point of all of this again?

This happened today.

I woke up inside the fog.

So I took a deep breath and...

...remembered that despair is an entirely normal symptom of the times we live in + just part of being human. It’s not my favorite, but I also don’t need to panic every time it shows up.

...also remembered that it’s February, which isn’t the greatest month for me all around. (Despair happens in context.)

...spent some time with the ancestors because they get it. Talking to dead people who’ve lived on this planet (+ know how this goes) reliably makes me feel less alone.

...forced myself to get on the treadmill and then cried in the car on the way to work -- because it’s smart to keep the energy moving.

...told a story to a friend that made me laugh so hard that I cried some more.

...plugged into the goodness I could find -- my Spotify playlist, the cozy sweater I picked out today, the green tea that perked my energy by fractions.

...thought about why I’m here + what I’m doing + why it matters.

In my experience, despair usually doesn’t have a satisfying answer -- at least not one that makes it all better + resolves the issue.

Despair asks us to go deeper.

Into a subterranean space where it takes a moment for our vision to adjust, where -- if we stay there long enough -- we can start to see new things in the shadows.

And in that space, I see that, while real, despair isn’t ever the only thing in the room.

When I widen my gaze + deepen into the space, I begin to see other real things: flashes of freedom, moments of meaning, flickers of hope.

I begin to remember that there are things that exist in the world that matter to me.

I see the small openings where my agency shapes the trajectory.

I feel -- deep my bones -- that I’m not alone. Never was, never will be. (Neither are you)

And as long as we’re still here, power + freedom are alive inside of us.

As long as we’re still here, there are still things to try, create, and strive for.

As long as we’re still here, we might as well enjoy beauty, connection, and awe where we find them.

As long as we’re here, laughing, enjoying, playing, and singing are endeavors worthy of our time.

And maybe none of this fixes or solves much, but it matters.

And there’s something inside of that mattering we can carry with us -- an enduring power + big magic that lights the way forward.

Protest + Truth-Telling + Hope

Thinking today about acts of protest + moments of truth-telling.

I’m thinking about Nancy Pelosi ripping up the State of the Union speech and Mitt Romney casting a lone vote to convict.

I’m thinking about Taylor Swift (after watching her documentary) choosing to take a political stand after a lifetime of political silence to endorse candidates in the midterm elections.

I’m thinking about how all our moments of pushing back, doing a lonely + brave thing, and telling the truth as best we can matter, even when we don’t get the results we want, even when we fail, even when - by every objective measurement - it’s not enough.

It’s easy to feel defeat + impossibility + not-enoughness in times like these.

Pelosi led an impeachment charge and Romney voted to convict, but Trump is still in office. The candidate that Swift endorsed in 2018 lost his election.

Doing the right thing doesn’t mean we win.

It doesn’t always usher in some dramatic change.

Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter at all.

But while concrete results are important and the stakes are high, impact isn’t only calculated by what we can see + measure on the surface.

Truth and courage have an inherent + built-in momentum -- they are sources of power that fuel our work + connect us to each other + build morale.

And anything we can do to bring more truth and courage into the world is worthy of our efforts.

None of us (including superstars + senators + speakers of the House) can do it alone.

But moments like these remind us that we’re not acting alone. We never are.

We hold the vision for each other. We remind each other what truth-telling feels like. We share courage. We reflect possibility. We remind each other what we’re capable of.

(And obviously, celebrating words of truth, acts of courage, and moments of power can coexist with fair + valid criticism. Romney, by his own admission + calculation, has voted with Trump 80% of the time. I still think his politics are trash *and* I’m so appreciative + super moved by what he said + did here.)

At this point, I’ll take truth (+ courage + power) wherever + however I find it.

I’ll absorb it into my system, use it to fuel me, and squeeze all the goodness and hope out of it that I can.

And I will celebrate any moment when more of it exists in the world than in the moment before.

Shaken Faith

A few days ago, someone asked me: how do we deal with shaken faith when hard stuff happens?

A timely question.

January was a rough one -- disorienting tragedy + hard losses + collective turmoil. I know I’m still wandering through a haze of grief + overwhelm, trying to find a way through it + carry it well.

So how do we deal?

I think first by defining faith in a way that works for us.

I see faith as the thing that anchors us in what matters -- and the place we go to summon the strength + depth + tenacity to continue on.

And I see the function of faith not so much as holding a worldview together with the strength of belief, but as grounding us into who we are + why we’re here + what matters most -- all in ways that deepen our capacity for the hard stuff.

In other words, faith doesn’t make everything okay.

It doesn’t make our belief unshakable, bring resolution to the chaos, or resolve our grief.

It connects us to what makes it all worth it.

And grounds us in our power to choose + create + connect.

So faith is precisely *for* moments like these -- moments of tragedy + overwhelm + pain + disorientation.

Faith is meant to be shaken. Because it’s meant to hold us in our shakiest moments.

So we deepen faith by inviting it into the shakiness with us.

We let it show us where we need to deepen our capacity for grief, rage, and fear -- and where we need to stretch + move so that we can shake better.

We practice holding what matters most in our line of vision always -- and continuing to let things matter to us, even when we feel lost in doubt + defeated by loss.

We remember what we want for the world + for each other + for ourselves -- and anchor ourselves there.

We let our faith shake -- and we let ourselves shake right along with it. Because our faith is built for it. And so are we.

Obedience to Authority + Claiming our Power

In high school, one of my teachers showed us footage from Milgram’s experiments around obedience to authority -- the ones where subjects were asked to give high voltage electric shocks to a person they thought was a fellow subject in an experiment on memory + learning but was actually in on it.

The subjects can’t see the other person they think is receiving the (fake) shock but they can hear their (very realistic + disturbing) screams, pleas to stop, and eventual silence.

More than half of the subjects continued to the end, delivering the final shock with highest voltage, to a person they believed was unconscious at that point, prompted by simple phrases like: “please continue” and “you must go on.”

As a 16 year-old, this absolutely shook me.

Not only because it illuminated a dark + terrifying truth about human nature.

But also because I honestly didn’t know what I would have done if I had been a subject in that study.

So I promised myself from that moment onward, I would know -- and that I would develop the skills I needed around self-determination + power to make it so.

Up to that point, my life was largely about making the authority figures in my life happy.

And I was really fucking good at it.

Which was mostly okay. I had great parents, teachers, and adults in my life who were supportive, wanted good things for me, and mentored me well.

But as we all do, I also encountered people who abused their power with me.

And when that happened, I wish I’d had a more developed core of self-trust + self-determination.

I wish I’d known it was okay to push back, say no, or just trust my inner knowing that the dynamic or behavior was fucked up in ways that weren’t my fault.

I wish I'd known that niceness isn’t a virtue to aspire to.

I wish I'd known that kindness can look + sound like fire + rage, a resounding NO, or an invitation to get fucked -- and that it can be loud + fierce + even frightening to witness.

I wish I'd known that compliance, obedience, and silence do nothing to make me a good person.

I wish someone had taught me how to be a bitch.

There are so many ways in which people and systems try to pressure, disorient, manipulate, and shame us into compliance.

Media and advertising. Systems of oppression. Institutions that seek to maintain the status quo at all costs. Abusive interpersonal relationships.

In my domestic violence advocacy, it’s a pattern I’ve witnessed again and again: abusive and dangerous situations beginning with the abuser testing the waters: How does this person respond to shame, manipulation, and pressure? How successful are my attempts to confuse and disorient this person?

This is a hard thing. And to be clear: it’s never the survivor’s fault.

And when things like this happen -- when we bump up against abusive systems, patterns, and dynamics -- it’s super useful to have a solid + developed core of bone-knowing, self-trust, + power to lean on.

Because in a moment of stress, trauma, or disorientation, it’s hard to summon that from scratch.

All of this to say: our efforts to develop a solid foundation of power + self-trust + self-determination matter. Not only for ourselves, but for the world we’re creating + the evils we’re resisting + the humans we’re becoming together.

And I’m cheering hard for all of us as we do that.

Connecting with Self

Earlier this week, I was on the phone with someone I trust, crying and spinning in a spiral of disconnection + lostness + shame.

This is what this person DIDN’T do:

They didn’t give me a step-by-step guide to feeling better.

They didn’t help me find the negative thoughts that were making me sad + tell me to think better ones.

They didn’t give instructions or outline action steps for how to fix it.

This is what they DID do:

They helped me plug back into my body, feel what was real, and tell the truth.

And this was everything.

Because I had temporarily lost my connection to me.

I was looking for the answers elsewhere and forgot to trust myself.

(Because even though I know better, I sometimes still seek out the comfort of someone else telling me what to do.)

All of this reminded me that self-trust is gritty + deep work.

Self-trust asks us to reckon with the truth that everything is always changing (including our own selves),

That there are no rules or “shoulds” we can lean on indefinitely,

That the truth is only ever true right now,

That knowing is a minute-by-minute thing,

That we need to always be in conversation with ourselves — feeling our feelings + plugging into our bodies — to know what the next right thing it.

So this week, I’m doing a reset. I’m not coaching myself or using my tools to Get Stuff Done or paying much attention to the voices of others.

I’m plugging back into me + mending that gap.

I’m sinking into my body and asking:

What do I feel?
What do I know?
What’s real now?

And then I’m letting myself feel + know those things.

There’s value in looking elsewhere + learning from others’ wisdom + ideas.

But never at the expense of our own authority. Never in ways that undermine our foundations of self-trust.

Because connection with self comes first.

New Vows

About two years ago, a psychic told me I was a nun in a past life.

She told me my soul was still holding on to the religious vows I made in that lifetime and that it was time for me to release them in this one.

She encouraged me to write my own - new vows to guide my life, support my work, and create the self I am becoming now.

So I did.

And I remembered this a couple days ago when some friends and I started chatting about reincarnation and past lives. So I went to dig them up.

This is what I wrote:

I will be faithful to the path my heart has set before me.

I will follow where my truth-quest leads.

I will name, honor, and trust the truth and goodness of my body, desire, and inner knowing.

I will live my life worshipping the god that is my deepest self, the life force around me, and the mystery beyond me.

I will remember who I am and who we are together: goodness, love, and divinity.

I choose myself first and always.

These vows seemed heretical and dangerous when I wrote them two years ago, so I hid them away.

But now they feel real and lived into.

So I guess they did their job.

Magical Spaces

When I was little, I loved building forts.

I loved any tiny space that was cozy + contained.

Tents, forts, closets, a cramped cupboard, the crawl space under the stairs -- all of it felt like a magical portal + holy container + a door into Narnia.

A space that was Other, entirely separate from ordinary reality.

And while Adult Me can’t fit into those same tiny spaces anymore, I still try to create spaces of magic + mini sanctuaries for myself wherever I go.

It struck me recently I could do this not only with space but also with time.

I often give myself solid chunks of time - whole mornings or afternoons when I can - to create, think, do magic, meditate, feel for the deeper thing, and/or just be + feel + absorb.

But I’ve often found it challenging to sink into the treasure of that time.

Because I think I should be doing something else. Something more productive + useful + profitable.

But what if I thought of this time like a fort I was building: a sacred space + cozy container for the magic + treasures + adventures?

What if I could just designate certain spaces + blocks of time as entirely Other? Totally exempt from the rules of ordinary reality? Designated for magical + imaginative + mythical + otherworldly purposes only?

What if I remembered that I can make any space holy just with the intention I bring to it + the boundaries I create around it?

So when my brain tells me I should be doing something else, I’m going to practice saying: "Sorry, I’ve stepped into my fort -- a numinous space where the rules governing normal life don’t apply. This space is reserved for magic only, so you’ll just have to come back later."

When I practiced this yesterday, it transformed my whole day.

Instead of putting pressure on that time, I simply enjoyed it. I sank into the goodness.

Because a space that like that isn’t built for anything productive or practical. It’s only purpose is to catch the magic.

What might this space be for you? And what would it mean to give yourself that gift?

Empty Space

Empty space matters.

I forget this sometimes.

Like earlier today, for example, when I was spinning my wheels.

I felt anxious + ungrounded. I felt like I wasn’t *doing* enough.

Because I was buying into the lie that my action + effort + emotional activation are the only ways anything ever happens. So I have to fill every empty space with action to get what I want.

But I’ve been through this enough to know that this sort of anxiety is my cue to do less.

To exhale.

To wait.

To sit in the space of not knowing what’s next.

To remember that process + creation + magic need empty space to do their work.

To trust the in-between emptiness of not-doing (as a nonnegotiable companion to doing).

One of the beautiful things about being an organic + alive creature on an organic + alive planet is that we’re connected to forces of nature that make things happen with no effort on our part.

Our bodies grow + heal on their own.

The seasons change.

Life happens.

Creation continues, unstoppable.

So we plant the seeds + then leave them alone.

We bandage our wounds + let our bodies handle the rest.

We go to bed + trust we’ll feel better in the morning.

Because it’s not all up to us.

Life + creativity + progress + magic have a call + response dynamic.

We throw something out into the world + then we let the world respond.

We do a thing + then we trust the empty space to hold it.

We remember that we’re in charge of some things, sure, but definitely not everything.

Because for better or worse, we're part of a larger web of organic process + magic + death + rebirth + transformation + aliveness that sometimes just takes us along for the ride.

And allowing empty space is part of how we participate in this mystery.

So what might it mean to trust the empty spaces in your own life + self, and maybe even invite + cultivate that emptiness in your life + work + creativity?

What to Do When it Feels Hard

I’m not always sure what to do with the sad + scary stuff happening in the world.

I got sucked into a vortex of bad news last night + woke up this morning with the energy of my nightmares still sparking in my nervous system.

The only thing I know to do in moments like these is try to come back + come down -- to the ground, to my body, to an immediate experience + direct encounter with life + self + truth.

So I climbed the stairs to my attic (when I would have preferred to stay in bed + scroll through my phone + generally numb out) to hang out with the ancestors, sit with my feelings, light some candles, and feel my body breathing.

Later, I sat in silence with a human I trust + remembered what it feels like to not be alone -- to be present + connected + in it with another person, just sharing space on the planet together.

There have been a lot of what-the-fuck-is-happening moments in recent history. Lots of moments when I felt devastated + terrified + lost. Lots of moments when I saw depths of rage + hatred inside me I didn’t know I was capable of.

And in those moments, I try to turn to the stuff that reminds me who I am, why I’m here, and what life is for.

I move my body + remember what aliveness feels like.

I blast good music + feel it pull me somewhere good.

I look at art + remember that humans are capable of beauty + creativity + weirdness that can take your breath away.

I take extra care to look people in the eye + smile, let cars into traffic, and generally bring whatever measure of goodness + grace + kindness I can muster that day.

I reach for magic + mystery.

I treasure awe + remember that it’s my spiritual oxygen.

I learn something new (because as long as I’m alive on this planet, it’s my job to keep exploring + growing + discovering).

I cry + laugh + dance.

I remember that it’s normal + okay to have hard days. I remember that grief + rage are necessary. I remember that I’m not alone. I remember that what I do matters.

I remember that I’m still here, we’re still here, and that’s a wonderful thing.

The Wisdom of my Past Self

I have this tendency of judging my past self - holding her mistakes against her, blaming her for not being further along, shaming her for not knowing things sooner, and criticizing her choices, worldview, and way of being (while also smugly believing I’m way more evolved than she was).

I can be super condescending to my past self.

But a week ago, I was looking at some photos of my younger self (like the two below), and I felt her jump up and out of these photos to push back and take me on.

She got a little sharp with me.

She said: No actually, I’m amazing, and you need an attitude adjustment. Did you forget how hard I worked to figure all this out? How much adversity I overcame? For you? How much I sacrificed and risked to create the groundwork for what you’re doing and who you’re becoming now? How about a little gratitude?

She told me that she knew what she was doing, and that she thought she did most of it pretty damn well and that maybe I should mind my own business, worry about myself, and do the work that’s mine to do now rather than futuresplaining at her.

It shook me.

She was absolutely right, and I made a commitment to her in that moment to work with rather than against her and give her the respect her deserved.

Because my past selves are beloved ancestors, not shameful, lesser versions of me.

It made me think: how might I extend grace and hospitality to all of my selves, all parts of me? And what might it mean to be in solidarity and partnership with myself? To be on my own side and have my own back - not just now, but across all dimensions of time and space?

Because, as with anything (and as I’m learning over and over again), love just works better than judgement.

Tiny Steps Past the Impossible

There’s power in doing things our brains told us we could never do.

But these impossible things don’t have to be immense, gargantuan tasks! They can be tiny.

Here's a tiny impossible thing I did yesterday, for instance:

I edited a video to include a graphic with some theme music.

That’s right, y'all.

I hope you are super impressed by my ingenuitive talent and technological virtuosity.

It was an important lesson, though, in noticing that this tiny step did basically the same thing in my brain as much larger and scarier leaps I've taken in the past.

So this is what happened.

Someone challenged me to polish up the videos I'm making for my free storytelling training next week.

Immediately, I was like, no I am absolutely not doing this.

Because I would have to learn a new thing and spend all this time and energy figuring it out. And what if after all of that, I couldn't even get it how I wanted. And then I'd feel like a failure. Plus, it’s such a small thing; would it even matter?

But I could see it pretty much right away: all of these thoughts were just automatic responses from my brain as it tried to fortify the walls of impossibility that were starting to shake in the rumblings of newfound creativity, curiosity, and possibility.

And this is why it mattered that I spent two hours figuring out how to add 5 second of music and a graphic to my videos:

Because it put a crack in the solid, stone wall of “nope, not possible” that lives in my brain.

Doing impossible things is like guerrilla warfare (or nonviolent direct action) for the liberation of possibility and freedom of movement in my own self.

If I can interrupt my brain before it automatically shuts down a new, scary, unknown thing, I can start to change everything about how I live my life, step into the world, and create what I want.

And low-stakes situations are perfect ways to do this.

So what impossible thing could you do today? What possibility has your brain written off as an automatic “no” that you might reclaim?

Doing this impossible thing might not "matter" in a linear sense, but I will tell you: it's a delicious and deeply satisfying thing to feel walls of impossibility crumble to the ground in your own self.

Letting Go of Stories

More and more, I’m seeing how much my growth is determined by my willingness to allow my stories to grow and change with me.

There are the stories that are (and were always) just trash and need to go (“I’m not good enough”; “this is impossible”; etc.).

And then there are the stories that at one time inspired forward motion and expanded possibility but are now hindering growth and maintaining a not-so-great status quo.

I’ve witnessed the clearest, most profound examples of this in my domestic violence advocacy work.

Often, when I first connected with a new client, they felt confused and murky about what was happening and disconnected from their inner knowing and embodied truth.

They knew something was wrong but didn’t have language for it. They believed the abuse was their fault or that they could have done something to prevent the violence. They blamed themselves.

And in that space, a big part of my job was gently helping them see what was actually happening (talking through cycles of abuse, gaslighting, abusive tactics and mentality, etc.) and then getting them to a place of believing some version of this thought:

I’m a victim of domestic violence.

Because this is a thought that - together with hope, strategy, and support - saves lives.

I’ve seen this story bring explosive clarity and immense relief, motivate people to get to safety, light fires of catalytic change, and break open new worlds of possibility.

And…

It’s also a story that has a limited shelf life in terms of usefulness.

Because if a story like this settles into a conclusion or hardens into an identity - rather than continues to evolve - the results usually aren’t so great.

(This is one reason why ongoing healing work is often so essential after abuse or trauma - because the stories that - perhaps literally - saved our lives aren’t always so helpful on the other side).

The new, more useful story might be something like: I’m a survivor and thriver; I have the power to heal; my story is just beginning; and I get to decide what I create next.

In a space of safety and healing, these thoughts can grow deep roots to create a flourishing garden of new possibility.

All to say, sometimes our helpful stories are helpful forever. Awesome.

And sometimes, they’re not.

Just because a story was helpful, supportive, or even life-saving doesn’t mean it needs to be a once-and-for-all conclusion.

Sometimes, stories expire. And that’s okay.

We can thank them for their service and then let them go.

Stories that saved you a year ago might now be preventing you from growing.

Stories that once launched you to new horizons of possibility might need some editing or an added chapter today.

A story that gave you hope and propelled you forward a decade ago might now be killing parts of your soul.

So what are those stories for you?

Which ones are ready to be released, and which ones are calling you to new horizons?

Where will your story lead you next?

Living from the Future

When I look back on the goals I’ve reached and the dreams I’ve actualized, I see a pattern:

They all required me to inhabit the present and the future simultaneously.

When I was studying Spanish, I had to completely immerse myself in the process of learning the impossible (and surrendering to the accompanying brain strain), while also holding to the bright magic of connection and possibility I knew existed on the other side.

When I was an athlete, I had to feel the thrill of strength, power, and speed in my body that didn’t exist yet, while also pushing through exhaustion in practice and giving my energy and focus to the set in front of me.

When I was learning to coach, it was the beautiful vision of my future self - competent, powerful, and magical - that motivated me to volunteer to practice in front of the whole class and risk failing spectacularly.

My dreams require me to be in two places at once.

They ask me to work from the both-and space where the present touches the future.

They pull me toward the imperative of the humble, practical, day-to-day work in front of me now, just as they ask me to do magic and travel through time to feel what is already real in my imagination.

And when I follow these instructions, it starts to feel like I’m not only walking toward the future, but the future is walking toward me, and we’ll meet somewhere in the middle - in that space where grit, presence, groundedness, imagination, and vision all converge into the magic of actualized possibility

Showing up in the World

Two years ago, I was afraid to show up in the world.

I was afraid to take up space. I was afraid to be seen as my real self. I was afraid to tell my story.

I felt the longing, but I was hiding - mostly behind the story that I was just a private, shy person - so why would I even want to bother with stuff like that anyway?

Except that I did want to.

I wanted to be creative and share that creativity with the world.

I wanted to be known as my real self and build relationships and create community from that space.

I knew I had something to say, and I wanted to say it.

And I’d sort of forgotten how I've come with this - until today when someone reflected it back to me. She said: “When I first knew you, I kept confusing you with someone else and didn’t feel like I could get to know you. Today, it’s like you’re a completely different person.”

But it’s not that I’m a different person.

It’s that I’ve deepened my capacity and cultivated the courage to, more and more, show up in the world as I *actually* am - in all my bigness, brilliance, complexity, and truth.

And the world is better for it.

I believe this is true for all of us. When we show up as our real selves, when we tell our stories, when we shine our light - we are bringing something sacred to the world.

And I’m here to tell you that if this feels impossible, it’s not.

We can decide to make a change and then steer our energies in that direction, step by step, in ways that lead to staggering transformation.

And I’m cheering for each and every one of you on that journey.

Because the world needs your light, truth, and brilliance.

Telling Our Stories

Last week, I shared my story about where I’ve landed (for now) in my relationship with Christianity.

Someone reached out to me privately in response and, among other things, asked me why I felt the need to share this story publicly.

There was a brief moment when I felt shame and doubt (maybe it would have been safer to stay hidden, quiet, and small?), but I was relieved to notice this was just a tiny ping inside the bigness of my clarity, knowing, and self-trust.

The answer was obvious and clear. I knew exactly why I needed to share this story.

...Because I believe my story (and stories in general) are worth telling.

...Because I believe I'm entitled to tell the truth about myself and my life. And even deeper, I feel the imperative to do just that.

...Because I knew this particular story had nuance, complexity, and beauty worthy of taking up space in the public sphere. I also guessed it would be useful and resonant to others, which it has been.

...Because I want to be known as my deepest, truest self. I want to live and speak with freedom and openness. I want those who would reject my real self to self-select out of my orbit.

...Because I want someone going through something similar to feel less alone and more empowered to speak and live into *their* truth.

...Because it matters to me that I show up free, deep, brave, and real. That’s a soul imperative.

Know this, friends: your stories change the world, and they are worth telling.

Stories create connection, spark resonance, summon power, and expand imagination.

For the common good, please tell the stories your soul is asking you to share.

I get the discomfort.

Stories are personal and vulnerable.

Sometimes, their power is destabilizing or even shattering.

They spark change, and change is not easy.

But our stories are able to communicate truth, create connection, and catalyze possibility unlike anything else.

So I would encourage you to remember the stories that have done that for you and then challenge yourself to pay it forward by doing the same.

Self-Trust and Devotion

I used to be as Christian as they come.

One of my parents is a pastor. (They say that pastors’ children either go one of two ways: all-out rebel or perfect angel, and I was definitely in the latter category). I went to Bible camp every summer, worked at Bible camp in college, majored in religion, did a Lutheran volunteer year, got an MA in theology, and married a pastor.

I was all in.

It seemed my spiritual destiny was settled.

Until one day, it didn’t make sense anymore.

The best way I can describe it is that Christianity just stopped resonating in my body - like there was no place to plug into it anymore.

It was like Christianity said, “okay, enough; I love you, but you’re done now,” and gently released me.

Often, in stories like these, there’s some great religious trauma or injustice to prompt the exit. Not so much for me.

(I mean you can’t be a Christian as long as I was and never have any run-in’s with heterosexist, patriarchal bullshit - so that definitely happened, but it wasn’t the reason I left).

No, I truly believe I experienced the best Christianity has to offer. And it had a lot to offer.

I loved growing up in the church and having a parent for a pastor. I loved the rhythm of the liturgical calendar. Bible camp was a space of so much magic and mysticism that I got married there. In my academic work, I studied cutting edges of feminist and queer theology (that are rad AF.)

Christianity was a space of deep spiritual connection, love, and growth. It was a place where I was radicalized into justice. And there were so many times I felt alive and on purpose in that space.

Today, I see Christianity as a spiritual ancestor that I continue to love and respect.

And even in my departure, I feel the need to defend it - to say that some of the most devoted and radical progressives I know are Christians (including my favorite borderline biblical fundamentalist rabble-rouser: Jonathan Barker) and that there is so much movement around justice and liberation happening in Christian spaces.

But ultimately, I’m sharing all of this to say:

It’s okay for love and devotion to change.

You can love something and leave it. There doesn’t have to be a deep or dramatic reason. It can be a gentle letting-go.

Sometimes (and for some people), the right thing is devotion to one thing, one path, one destiny forever, and other times (for other people), it’s not.

Sometimes, it’s the right thing to move on. Sometimes, new things call us forward, and we feel the imperative to answer them.

Life is dynamic and unfolding and unpredictable, and so are we.

So trust yourself. Your life is for you, and I truly believe you know best how to live it.

Hope, Capacity, and Possibility

{Thoughts on dealing with climate grief and anxiety in the spirit of sharing hope, discussing strategy, cultivating camaraderie, and imagining possibility}

When grief and anxiety flare, my first step is always grounded presence.

I ask myself: How can I be with myself right now? How can I climb back into my body? How can I not abandon myself when the waves of grief and anxiety come?

This reliably makes me feel better, but it also has the practical benefit of getting me back in touch with my intuition and inner knowing/wisdom so I can take grounded action if/when needed.

Deepening my relationship with death and grief has also helped immensely.

When I remember that death is and will be part of my story, our story, the earth’s story and make peace with that (which I would have had to do anyway, even with a perfectly healthy planet), I feel a little less panicked about the future and more grounded when it comes to my place in the universe.

And when it comes to grief: I’ve noticed that letting it move and do its work in me has this shattering function that opens up empty, liminal space.

And that’s a space I can work with.

I can bring intentionality and agency to that space. I can decide how to use it and what to put inside it (I try to opt for groundedness, possibility, and maybe even hope and magic if I can get there.)

I also remember that uncertainty is my friend.

Because where there is uncertainty, there is mystery and possibility.

So maybe the apocalyptic hellscapes my mind is conjuring don’t quite capture the whole truth.

I try to make mystery a space where my mind can rest in the in-between of not knowing everything and hold space for other possibilities.

And finally, I invest in magic, look for goodness everywhere, and practice feeling awe.

Not to bypass or ignore the hard stuff but to *deepen my capacity for it*.

This is our collective challenge: how can we find a depth of magic that matches the depth of horror?

Seeking the answer to this question is the quest of my life, and whether I succeed or not, it sure feels good and grounding to try.

What Else is True?

One of my best tools for working with problems or thoughts that feel impossible to overcome is the question:

What else is true?

My fears and doubts like to absorb all the oxygen and energy in the room, and rather than arguing with them (which can backfire by taking even more energy), I often look for some other true thing I can give my energy and attention to instead.

It’s a simple discipline of investing in the truths and thoughts that are most life-affirming and practically useful, while divesting from those that are not.

It’s a practice of giving energy to truths, possibilities, and thoughts that inspire some measure of magic, goodness, and possibility.

Not as a way of bypassing or shielding myself from the hard stuff, but as a way of *deepening my capacity* for it.

I practiced this with a client recently. They felt stuck on a problem in their life and kept saying: I’m so bad at this thing. I’ve never succeeded at that thing, and I’m not sure I ever will.

Now, this person is an absolute rockstar, and when I pointed out all of the other truths at play here - all the things they’ve achieved and all the gifts they bring to the table - I felt the energy start to shift.

That problem was still a thing to be dealt with, sure, but in the presence of all of those other *very real* assets and accomplishments, it looked a whole lot smaller and felt a lot less scary.

I also think about the hard stuff happening in the collective. I’m not willing to look away or pretend it’s not happening/doesn’t matter that our government is doing harm or that the climate is changing in catastrophic ways.

*And* what else is true?

It’s also true that people are helping, that love and magic exist, that what we do matters, that there is always more than I can see, that there are things worth living and fighting for...

And when I can focus my energies here, I’m not only happier and more grounded, I’m more helpful, responsive, and present to what’s real around me.

Because energies of magic and possibility (that we can create with our own minds, just by welcoming the *whole* truth) offer a creative, dynamic space.

And it’s a space where we’re far more likely to find unexpected solutions and creative ways forward.

So what else is true? Where does the realness of beauty, magic, and possibility exist for you? And how might you take one small step in its direction?

The Magic in Failure

I was a competitive swimmer in college, and I absolutely loved it.

My first year, I qualified for the national swim meet as part of a relay, and each year that followed, it was my goal to qualify for nationals again.

It didn’t happen the next year or the year after that. And then I arrived at my senior year.

This was my last chance.

I wondered: would I be crushed if I didn’t reach my goal?

I considered this carefully. I wanted the season ahead to be the best one yet, and I also wanted to end this 10-year swimming adventure in a way that felt satisfying and solid.

So maybe I should just forget about my goal? (so that my swimming career wouldn’t end in disappointment.)

But no, the goal was an essential part of my experience, and to fully wring all the goodness out of this last season, I knew I had to embrace the goal more than I ever had.

I had to lean in 100%

And to do this, I had to be willing to fail. I had to open myself to the experience and how much it mattered to me. I had to feel the vulnerability of love, desire, and wanting. I had to give it everything I had and accept the results and feelings that followed.

Now, some of you know how this all turned out. I did fail. I didn’t qualify for the national swim meet.

And that was a hard thing.

But it wasn’t a devastating thing.

Because I had made the decision ahead of time that I would risk this very outcome in order to have the experience I wanted.

And this decision to step forward into possibility, uncertainty, and desire opened up so much space.

It made swimming something more than it ever was, and it changed me forever.

This is the magic of failure - of risking it, welcoming it, and willingly stepping into spaces where it might exist.

It expands our edges, makes us bigger, and deepens our lives.

Only you can know if risking failure is worth it and right for you in any given situation, but if your fear is always and immediately telling you it’s not, I’d encourage you to take another look.

There’s probably magic that’s waiting for you to say yes, take that risk, and step forward.

Imagination and Possibility

I believe that one of the most powerful and important things we can do in our lifetimes is widen our imaginations and expand our sense of possibility.

Imagination is how we make impossible things happen.

It’s how we create, lean into, and have experiences of what doesn’t exist yet (in this dimension of time and space, at least).

It’s a simple practice of pushing the edges - of what we think we know, what we believe we can do, what we assume is possible, and who we think we are.

It’s the process of stepping into mystery and choosing to see possibility rather than impossibility, of being in uncertainty and saying “maybe so” rather than “probably not”.

It’s a space of creation, curiosity, and magic.

One thing I’m learning about imagination is that it requires me to be in active, deep conversation with my fear.

Because my fear lets me know (real quick) where my edges are. It tells me what I believe is impossible, out of reach, and not for me.

So one of the most effective ways to deepen imagination and widen possibility is to walk toward that fear and then see who we become and what we find in the process.

And this could be anything that simultaneously scares you and calls to you: sharing your writing or art with others, dancing in public, walking into a social space where you don’t know anyone, risking rejection, investing in yourself, having real, hard conversations, learning a skill that will require you to fail repeatedly (these are all some of mine).

And the beautiful bonus to all of this is that imagination is contagious, inspiring, and catalytic. When you imagine hard, you’re doing a public service.

So dream big and imagine hard, lovely humans.