remembering safety

Today, I woke up early, fully intending to jump into my morning routine + fill my day with creative productivity.

But then I read my book + watched part of a movie, and by the time I made it upstairs to my meditation chair two hours later, I was feeling anxious, restless, and uneasy.

Like I'd done something wrong and needed to rush to make up for the lost time + atone for my unproductive, distracted morning.

As I was sitting there in this familiar pattern, feeling frustrated with this ongoing struggle around productivity + perfectionism, I had an awareness that I was simply feeling unsafe.

I was speaking to myself in a way that was making me feel afraid, activated, and ungrounded.

And in response to that, I was spinning in figure-it-out mode, searching for the answer that would make it all okay.

I was thinking: what went wrong this morning, and how do I fix it?

But there was no way I was going to come up with any useful or insightful response to that question from an activated nervous system.

So instead, I remembered safety.

That it existed + that I could create an experience of it for myself right then.

So I took a breath and sank into my body, into the moment.

And remembered that I create safety on a nervous-system level by feeling, connecting, grounding, and intentionally directing attention.

Rather than looking outside of myself for safety, rather than asking my productivity or a completed list of tasks to make me feel okay, I can find it inside right now.

I can tend to this foundation of inner safety + make that my starting point.

(Which ultimately supports my creativity way more than forced productivity -- because it’s a lot more manageable to take risks, try new things, and bounce back from failure if I have a deeper foundation of safety to lean on -- if I’m not making my action responsible for my okayness.)

I get to love myself and have my own back no matter what.

I get to decide that I’m okay just as I am + enjoy that experience of safety right now.

This is the work:

Returning to awareness + presence, tracking what's happening in my nervous system + attending to what's needed there, and remembering to love myself through it all.

What might it look like to do the same?

being kind to our past selves

I deleted about 15,000 emails over the past few days to clear up space in my inbox, and wow, was that a journey into the deep recesses of my past.

The process was essentially a review of what I was paying attention to at different moments of life -- what I was working on + thinking about, what mattered to me, what I was prioritizing.

And an experience of wandering through a graveyard of my past selves.

It wasn’t entirely easy to look back, and there were lots of cringe-worthy artifacts: the stodgy, convoluted language in emails from my academic days, the weird collection of newsletters I’d accumulated over the years, old conflicts + faded dreams + forgotten memories.

As I went, I was tempted to judge my past selves, waving at me through the computer screen.

Because it’s easy to look back on all of it + cringe.

To be mean to our younger selves.

To turn away + shrink with embarrassment.

But I owe her everything.

As I was looking through this catalogue of past selves, I saw -- again + again -- a human who was fighting for herself + her life in the ways that were available to her at the time.

She was the one making the mistakes + feeling the hard feelings + wandering around in the dark + trying to find her way.

All so I could be who I am now -- and have what I have now.

She worked so hard to figure out this whole life thing.

And she’s the reason I’m here.

So please, be kind to your past selves.

They were the ones who learned the hard way on your behalf (with far fewer resources than you have now) -- and went through some really tough stuff + hard moments + painful fuck-ups to get you this far.

We’re meant to grow beyond ourselves -- to keep learning + growing + becoming -- but that doesn’t mean our past selves aren’t perfect as they are.

So how might you show all of you (your past + present + future selves) some love + care today?

ambiguous grief

The world around us often minimizes loss + encourages us to push grief away.

To downplay our pain, look on the bright side, to tell ourselves “it wasn’t that bad.”

Especially when the grief is ambiguous or the loss isn’t so obvious to others.

Maybe we got cancer but survived. Or lost a close friendship but still have other loved ones to lean on. Or were diagnosed with a chronic health condition that will change things but isn’t life-threatening.

When it comes to losses like these, we’re often not given a lot of room + permission for grief.

Because we made it through, or it could have been worse, or we have so much to be thankful for, or we survived when so many others didn’t.

And so we “should” be okay + grateful + happy. Because we’re the lucky ones.

But even in the relief it wasn’t worse than it was, or in the gratitude for what we still have, or in the triumph + relief of surviving something really hard -- there are, of course, still real losses to grieve: life changes, losses in identity, uncertain futures, shattered senses of safety + security, and more.

And making room for this grief matters.

Because grief is the medicine that supports us in tending to the injuries, alchemizing the losses, navigating the changes, and stepping into the new possibilities waiting for us on the other side.

And that grief is real + necessary + healing, even if it shows up together with gratitude, joy, and the relief of making it through.

So how might you claim your grief, remember it belongs, invite it closer, and give it room to do its healing work in your life?

finding enoughness

I sometimes tell myself I’m not doing enough.

And that the solution is to do more + push harder.

That I would be a better person + have everything I wanted if I could just find a way to get to that magical place of "enoughness" that’s always out of reach.

My practice with this has been to pause + notice the pattern + not beat myself up for thinking this way sometimes.

And then gently shift to another pattern rooted in presence + enoughness + sufficiency.

One of the questions I’ve been asking from this space is:

What if everything I do matters?

What it's all a piece of a mosaic? A step on a journey?

What if there’s infinite possibility + magic in what we already have? In what we’re already doing?

These are questions that plug me into curiosity (rather than judgement + scarcity) + remind me there’s something deeper at work.

And that the efforts we make, the failures we experience, the experiments we try, the steps we take all matter in ways we see + in ways we don’t -- in ways we understand, and in ways that are a complete mystery.

So rather than being guided by the questions of: Is this enough? Will this get me the result I want?

I’m trying to ask: Why does this matter + why is it worth it, regardless of whether or not it feels like enough?

These questions keep me in the game, continuing to show up for myself, my dreams, my healing, and my art through the fear + uncertainty.

How about you? What matters most to you? And why is it worth it to keep going + keep trying?

trusting ourselves through grief

Grief asks us to trust ourselves.

Because with grief, there are no rules.

Just this wild energy showing up making demands + moving us through a non-linear process in ways that are entirely mystifying + weird + unpredictable.

And when our world collapses around us -- when we lose our external systems of guidance + orientation (as is often the case in grief) -- we’re invited to trust ourselves more.

To look inside + listen hard + feel deeply.

To lean on our own inner knowing as we feel around in the dark, trying to figure out where we even are + find a sturdy bit of floorboard to take our next step -- all while trying to dodge the shards of shattered glass on the floor.

Moving through grief can feel incredibly counterintuitive.

It asks us to let go when we want to hold on,

To feel when we want to run,

To rest when we want to keep going,

To step away when we can’t afford to,

To embrace the mess + mystery + chaos when all we want is something solid + clear + guaranteed.

And we usually have no idea how to do any of this before we actually do it.

Which means that all we can really do is trust ourselves + the energy of our grief as best we can.

To stay connected to ourselves -- even though that’s where the pain is happening.

With the hope that it’s all taking us somewhere true + right + ultimately healing.

What might that trust + hope + connectedness look like for you today?

the magic of art

One of the things I love about art is that it’s a way to speak when I don’t have the words.

It’s a way to make something with the jumbled mess of energy inside I can’t seem to wrangle with language.

It’s a way to make meaning out of what I’m feeling deeply but can’t channel into a coherent thought.

So when the words feel out of reach, I play with images.

Instead of letters, words, and phrases, I use shapes, colors, and lines to say what I need to say.

This process of speaking + exploring + expressing through art has been especially healing in moments of grief + uncertainty.

In the times when the feelings are bigger than the words can hold.

I've found that turning to art in these moments is a way to connect with an ancient lineage + primal power + deep story.

Because before there were words, humans were making art + painting images on cave walls.

Art reminds me that there are lots of ways to take what’s alive inside of us to make something real, necessary, and meaningful.

Lots of ways to share our stories, communicate + connect, tell the truth, be fully alive, and make beautiful things.

What might that look like for you today?

radical permission

As I’ve been in my own process of grief this week, there are two words that have come up in my awareness again + again:

Radical Permission.

They’ve helped me remember that I’m free to be in this experience + work with this energy + move through this process however I want.

There’s no one right way.

It’s okay for the process to surprise me or contradict itself or take more (or less) than I think it should.

It’s okay to find support in the traditions + customs + rituals that have guided folks through grief for generations -- just as it’s okay to set any of that aside to seek support + care for ourselves in other ways.

So I’ve been giving myself radical permission this week.

To share + connect *and* withdraw + be alone.

To create + move *and* rest + do nothing.

To journey into the raw emotions, feeling it all *and* distract myself + numb out.

To step up + find the right words + hold the space for myself + others *and* be a chaotic whirlwind of emotion + bundle of raw nerve endings.

To feel + appreciate the sacredness of grief (+ all the ways it pulls me into a deeper + truer experience of life) *and* push against it because it feels too hard.

Giving myself radical permission + space + freedom through this process has helped immensely.

Because grief is hard enough without pushing, constricting, or shaming ourselves through it.

And why not make this hard thing an opportunity to love myself even more?

To refuse to make myself wrong?

To have my own back when it all feels like too much?

And to remember that I can trust myself (we all can) to feel + know + take the one right next step toward whatever's most needed now?

making room

The first step in healing the injury of loss is to make room for grief + listen to what it has to say.

To give it space. A seat at the table. Our full attention.

Because grief is the healing energy that rises up in response to loss.

But there’s often lots of pressure to minimize our grief.

Because we live in a world where we’re often asked to justify our pain.

To explain its realness + validity.

To convince others that it’s real beyond a reasonable doubt.

Because so many of the systems + structures we live in can’t handle the simple thing of us saying: this is what happened to me + it hurts.

So when folks come to work with me, this is often the first step:

Claiming the bigness + realness + power of the loss, the pain, and the grief as a matter of fact.

Interrupting the stories that tell us we’re not allowed to truly feel our grief because what happened to us “wasn’t that bad” or because “we should be over it by now.”

And exploring what it might mean to give ourselves full permission to simply feel what’s alive inside of us in any given moment.

Because when we deny, minimize, or villainize grief, we’re interrupting its deep, holy, and important work.

We’re pushing away the healing, life-force energy that’s showing up to help.

So however the grief is showing up for you today, I invite you to give it space and notice what happens + moves + awakens when you do.

creating freedom

There are lots of systems + power structures at work in the world that try to impose their agendas on our lives.

That try to interrupt our aliveness + reroute our life-force to fit those agendas,

impose “shoulds” that are often at odds with our healthy human needs + rhythms + instincts + knowings + desires,

and shame us when we push back.

A few examples that come to mind are cultures of capitalism + the protestant work ethic that make rest + play a moral failure -- and condition us to believe we’re only okay if we’re working, producing, or creating,

systems of unethical mass advertising that manipulate our longings, push on our pain, and work to convince us we’re not enough -- all in an effort to maximize profit + make us more pliable consumers.

certain systems of religiosity that employ abusive tactics like teaching people they’re inherently bad, demanding obedience to authority, and using shame as a means of control while pretending that’s love.

I believe our work in such a world is to create freedom.

For ourselves + for each other.

By looking closely at what we see + feel + experience as we move through the world,

By asking the deep + real questions,

By naming + acknowledging the harm + the ways it gets in us,

By working gently with our nervous systems to unwind the tangles of these internalized messages that feel like our own,

By dismantling + recreating bits of those systems when + how we can,

By taking care not to replicate patterns of shame, control, and force in our work of liberation, healing, and meaning-making,

By giving ourselves extra care + gentleness when it’s hard,

By learning to live in an imperfect world where hurtful powers + pressures exist -- and doing our best to connect + enjoy life + create beauty anyway,

And by remembering that liberation is not only something that belongs to us -- it's what our souls are made of.

What's your next step toward a deeper + more expansive freedom?

sitting with the hard feelings

This morning, I noticed I had a tummy ache.

I guessed it was some combination of grief I was processing the day before, nerves about upcoming happenings, and all-around heaviness around hard stuff in the world.

But I didn’t try to figure it out.

I just sat with the feelings.

And with the impulse to push them away.

And with the old stories that often rise up in moments like these: that something is wrong or that I would never have to have feelings like this again if I were just more evolved so I should probably work on that.

I slowed down + made room.

Because this is how we build trust with ourselves over time.

By not making our feelings a problem.

By allowing the realness inside to simply exist.

By not treating our pain, lostness, or emotion as an equation to solve or a dilemma to figure out.

By not making ourselves wrong for having real + complex + uncomfortable human emotions.

After 20 minutes of this, I noticed the feelings beginning to change as the energy opened, deepened, and expanded to become something else.

Which is usually what happens.

But the best thing that happens, no matter how the energy moves or not, is that I create a moment of telling the truth + building trust + showing up for myself in a hard moment.

What might such a moment look like for you?

showing up for ourselves in hard moments

More + more, I’m measuring success not in terms of the wins I collect,

but by how I show up for myself in the hard moments:

...the permission I give myself to feel afraid + unsure + disappointed,

...the care I extend to my body + my heart, even when I feel like I haven’t done enough to earn it,

...the rest I allow, even when I think I “should” be doing something more productive,

...the space I give myself to be a human with real needs + feelings + desires -- not the robot that capitalism expects me to be,

Because this is what matters most.

This is what deepens + expands my life in the ways I want:

The simple decisions that I make again + again in all sorts of ordinary + difficult + unsexy ways to be kind to myself no matter what.

To remember that the self-doubt, negative spirals, and long stretches of frustration are just part of the human experience + not evidence that I’m bad, failing, or doing it wrong.

So these are the questions I ask myself to check in about this (that you can use too).

Was I willing to feel the hard feelings today?

Did I have my own back when things got hard?

Was I kind to myself, especially through the hard moments?

Because it matters that we anchor ourselves in kindness,

show up for ourselves in the hard moments,

and remember that who we are right now is exactly who we need to be.

aliveness in stagnation

I’m an impatient person by nature.

I hate waiting. I struggle with slowness. I get really frustrated when I feel stuck or stagnant.

Activity is my preferred state. I want to be flowing + moving + creating.

So when I felt stuck this morning, I felt annoyed.

But I took a moment to tune into that feeling of stuckness anyway.

I felt it in my throat and noticed it that looked + felt like a swamp: stagnant water.

Not exactly appealing + inviting, but as I sat with it, I began to notice how alive it felt.

And how that aliveness was buzzing with energy -- a different kind of movement + flow.

Which makes sense.

Because things have room to come alive in stillness + stagnant spaces.

When the energy is always rushing, there’s little room + space for seedlings to take root, for nourishment to be absorbed, for an ecosystem to emerge.

I saw that the stagnant water, which initially made me feel constricted + trapped, is actually a source of deep + magical fertility -- and a condition that makes aliveness possible.

It reminded me that stillness, stuckness, and stagnation aren’t necessarily a problem.

Maybe they’re simply invitations to slow down + allow aliveness to happen another way.

Maybe the energy doesn’t always need to flow.

Maybe we don’t always need to be on the move.

Maybe it’s perfectly normal + okay for our energy to pool + stagnate for a bit -- to just exist as it is.

And maybe -- like I experienced today -- the feelings + experiences we find most frustrating are actually showing up to help us come alive in a deeper way.

What might it look like to step toward them to find out?

treasure in the sidewalk cracks

In kindergarten, my friends + I would look for bits of broken glass in the sidewalk cracks during recess.

We would collect these tiny fragments like jewels.

It was the best feeling in the world to find one, especially one that was colorful or a bit larger than usual.

It was the adventure in searching for treasure + the elation of finding it out in the world.

Eventually, our teacher caught on to what we were doing, and like any responsible adult would, she firmly instructed us to stop picking up broken glass we found on the street.

This memory came up recently as I was connecting with my little self -- asking her how she’s doing + if she needs anything from me + what would make her feel safer + freer with me.

I expected to explore memories of times she felt anxious, alone, and afraid.

But she gave me this memory instead:

The life-affirming delight of finding treasure + seeking beauty in the world,

The intensity of desire that animated my quest,

The feelings of rage + rebellion when my teacher told me no,

That knowing that beauty was worth the risk, even if it was a little bit dangerous.

She was inviting me to see my curiosity + intensity + instinct for beauty that's been there since the beginning.

Like she was saying: you have so much power now. You are completely free to collect the glass you find in the sidewalk cracks -- to seek out the dangerous beauty I wasn’t allowed to have.

What are you doing with that freedom + power?

How are you stewarding the fire within you?

Are you still listening to the voice of that teacher, still following the rules that no longer apply, or are you stepping out into the world to seek the treasure you want more than anything?

So I'm listening + remembering,

and following her instructions to take this freedom + desire + power seriously,

and dreaming - in a deeper way - of all the beautiful things I might make with it.

claiming aliveness + feeling emotion

Not allowing ourselves to feel our feelings is internalized capitalism.

Here’s what I mean:

When I talk with folks about their emotions + why they’re unwilling to allow + feel them, it’s usually less about the discomfort of the feelings themselves + more about their disruptive + inconvenient quality.

People don’t tell me they’re afraid to feel the ache of sadness, the twistiness of anxiety, or the pain of shame.

They tell me they’re afraid the feelings will overwhelm, paralyze, or distract them.

They describe their feelings as inconvenient + out of control + too much + impossible to handle.

Because those feelings -- those wild + real + intense energies moving through us -- threaten the linear progress of productivity + the efficiency of our work.

They violate society’s expectations for how we “should” be in the world at all times: productive, rational, and in control.

But not allowing the organic (+ sometimes chaotic) unfolding of our aliveness is internalized capitalism.

Believing we can only ever allow emotion (a core + healthy facet of our humanity) if it’s convenient or if we have a “good enough” reason (as if our feelings can be plugged into a linear + analytical formula) is internalized capitalism.

I understand the fear + reluctance.

When our survival depends on being able to make it in capitalism, it makes sense that we would fear anything that interrupts our productivity or threatens our work.

But there are so many ways in which this external system has hijacked our nervous systems + made us believe that its values are our own + simply the “right” way to be in the world.

And I believe it’s important to find ways to push back + unwind this programming.

For our own wellbeing + for the future we hope to create.

In my mind, this is about claiming our aliveness in a system that tries to disconnect us from our energy, commodify our life-force, extract what's precious, and convince us we’re never enough -- all for profit (that the vast majority of us will never see).

And one way we claim our aliveness is by feeling our emotions.

(Because emotion is one way our aliveness expresses itself.)

Which means that feeling deeply is an act of power + resistance that helps us build a better world, catalyze imagination, be fully alive, and claim what's always been ours.

Your emotions can change the world.

What might it mean to let them flow + do their work + unleash their power?

Feeling Anxiety + Boredom in Grief

Grief is a process, not a singular emotion.

So there are usually lots of feelings + experiences in the mix (not just sadness).

Two that I see a lot of in my grief work are anxiety + boredom.

This sometimes confuses folks.

They might even feel disappointed or frustrated that the cathartic flow of deep sorrow feels out of reach.

But whatever we’re feeling is always the next step.

What’s real now is always the way in.

Even if that’s something like anxiety or boredom.

And to me, it actually makes a lot of sense that anxiety + boredom come up so often in grief.

Because these are the feelings that tend to rise up when we’re approaching the deep questions + big feelings + murky spaces + painful hurts.

They're what happens when the space we’re walking into feels too deep, too real, too much, or too scary.

And they usually come with urges to distract ourselves -- to step away + avoid the painful, overwhelming, confusing, or deeper thing.

But like any emotion, boredom + anxiety are simply invitations into presence + realness.

So what do we do with them?

Sit with them awhile. Feel them in the body. Notice the uncomfortable thing under the surface. Remember nothing has gone wrong.

This is simply where grief or life or being human is taking us today.

And important + beautiful things happen when we let our feelings exist as they are (+ when we let ourselves exist as we are, whatever we're feeling).

What might that look like for you today?

grief is an ally

As I’ve been talking with folks about grief over the past few weeks, I’ve been tracking the different ways people see + experience their grief.

Some describe it as a prison cell or a deep, impossible-to-escape pit.

Or as a haunting presence that’s trying to suck the life out of them.

Or as a wall that’s impossible to climb or scale.

But each time we’ve slowed down enough to tune in to the grief and listen for what it has to say, we find something very different.

We find that grief often has simple + straightforward messages to share.

Messages like:

I’m here to get your attention + help you see the truth,

...to exhaust you so that you get the rest you need,

...to invite you to ground so that the healing can do its work,

...to anchor you in what matters most + what’s still here, even through the loss.

We find that grief is just trying to help us through devastating losses + hard changes as best it can.

That grief is an ally, not an adversary.

It's simply the healing + grounding energy that rises up in response to loss to catalyze flow, move feeling, orient us to what’s needed, and help us tell the truth.

It’s a source of support we can work with intentionally + strategically to go deeper, come alive, and find healing when the time is right.

So how might you begin to relate to your grief as an ally? As a benevolent force that's simply trying to help you come home to yourself?

you're grieving, not failing

Someone recently shared with me that they felt like a failure.

They had experienced a significant loss a while back, and life was still feeling extra challenging.

They said it felt like they were failing at work + at home -- and like it was harder to get through the day + try new things + shake off hard moments.

Which often happens in the aftermath of loss + change.

Grief can make us feel like we’re failing.

Not because we’re failures.

But because, in grief, the world so often fails us.

By not allowing room + spaciousness for what grief truly requires.

The fact that we’re so often expected to function normally, be productive, and “get back to normal” as soon as possible when we’re grieving, reckoning with loss, and sorting through deep, identity-shattering changes, speaks to the ways our dominant culture is not well.

It’s okay to need a lot + move through the world differently when things are hard.

Because grief + healing ask a lot.

So this is what I asked this person (+ what I try to remember to ask myself when I have these moments):

What might it mean to let yourself fail a little + break the rules of a culture that emphasizes doing + producing + continuing on, no matter the cost?

To allow the grief (+ your heart, soul, and nervous system) to move at the speed that feels right?

To measure your okayness not against an unwell culture's definition of success + failure but with the truth + knowing you find within?

divesting from capitalism at a nervous system level

Capitalism affects us on a nervous system level.

It ties our safety + survival to work + production.

It teaches us to always be doing + making + producing (because that’s the pathway to security, worthiness, and belonging inside the logic of the system).

And for most of us, this work requires more than physical effort + stamina.

It also requires emotional + mental presence, creativity, and focus.

Which means there’s often a pull + a pressure to stay in a space of mental stimulation + emotional activation -- because this emotional + creative energy is what fuels our work.

Which also means that an activated nervous system often feels productive.

And that a calm nervous system often feels unproductive (+ therefore unsettling, uncomfortable, and/or unsafe).

I think this is especially true for those of us who make money with our art, our emotional labor, and our creative ideas.

This is a lesson I’m learning for myself.

That divesting from capitalism isn’t just about resting, taking space from work, and building belief that I’m worthy no matter what I produce.

It’s also about resetting + rewiring my nervous system,

finding safety outside of states of activity or activation,

seeing value not just in terms of the energy I give + internal resources I spend,

And remembering that my energy + creativity + emotionality are not commodities to be mechanized or assets I can force into linear projections of growth.

Divesting from capitalism is so much a practice of feeling + finding okayness when our nervous systems aren't activated.

When our inner space isn’t buzzing with creativity, deep emotional processing, or problem-solving.

When we're not feeling stimulated, full of energy, or on the edge of mania.

It’s about remembering that there are parts of us that are sacred + just for us.

What might it look like to practice believing + living into that?

River of Life

I see life as a river of emotion.

Feelings happen + then pass away.

Energy peaks + falls + rests.

Aliveness moves through us, taking all sorts of forms along the way before cresting like a wave + dissolving back into the flow of life.

I’ve been trying to be in this river.

Which means allowing the feelings as they come up.

And not just the ones that make sense, feel cathartic, or bring comfort.

But also the doubt I can’t pin down,

The vague sense of shame that makes me want to hide,

The boredom I want to escape,

The random wave of anxiety that twists in my stomach.

I’ve been experimenting with allowing all of this to be part of the river.

To feel + let the current flow.

As I’ve been practicing this, I've noticed how often I instinctively flinch away from my feelings.

How often I try to stop the river or outrun the current.

But despite the discomfort, I’m finding that it feels so much better to let the river flow.

To not run away or push down or reject the way aliveness is showing up in the moment.

To let the feelings just be sensations in my body, energy moving through me.

To remember that I’m here to participate in something powerful + real + alive,

That this is available to me in each + every moment,

And that I'm big + brave enough to meet it.

Tiny + Brave Steps

In the conversations I’ve been having with folks around grief, every single person has described grieving more than one thing at once.

There’s often a whole pile of losses, changes, and transitions to navigate + sort through.

Which means the grief is layered + complex.

And that it often feels really big + overwhelming + confusing.

But the good news is that grief only ever asks us to start where we are.

To tell the truth as it’s happening in our bodies now.

To take the one right next step toward allowing the feelings + meeting our aliveness where it is.

To let the energy move, settle, flow, and be exactly as it is -- and allow ourselves to move, settle, flow, and be exactly as we are.

Because grief isn’t an impossible problem we’re trying to solve.

It’s a collection of brave + tiny steps into the truth of our experience.

Exactly as it is right now.

So these are the questions I start with:

What’s real now?

What am I feeling now?

What do I need now?

And how can I bring presence, permission, and spaciousness to all of it and let that be enough?