It’s complicated. This relationship I have with myself. The work of healing and loving and releasing . . . and allowing for my humanity and my power and self awareness. It is this dance I do within the minefield of my wounds.
I am choosing today, the ceremony of Winter Solstice, to share this piece of myself with you. I know for many, they honor today by letting go of things past, releasing the struggles and pain of the previous year into the darkness while they look toward the light. For me this is less about letting go and more an act of loving acceptance. And also, a time to tuck in and embrace the winter and all that comes from looking inward.
I love the dark. I am drawn to the moon. The inky, dreary darkness of humanity is often my natural state of being and where I feel most comfortable.
And never has that been more true than in the story of my year. So on this winter solstice, I do not actually want to let go . . . I want to tenderly invite in. Invite myself in, and you as well.
Two months ago my dear friend offered to do a photo shoot for me. My website is grossly out of date and out of touch. Our home is in the middle of major repairs, and she thought it would be beautiful to capture the raw materials of the Humboldt House while also capturing the raw nature of me.
This wasn’t the photo shoot we intended, but I have made a commitment to allow the tears to come when they appear. They are moving through me frequently for a reason, and once they are released, I can see them for what they are: Fear. Sadness. Pain. Agony. Loss. Frustration. Release.
The day before, I received a text from a friend, full of joy and excitement around a profound career moment and her realization of her strengths and purpose. I was immediately overcome with emotion and couldn’t respond. I was equally so deeply proud and thrilled for her, while seeing a stark contrast to who I was, how I felt, and what my life currently looks like: Small. Lost. Wandering. Weak.
I sobbed with a gut ache that hurts your throat because you cry so hard. I couldn’t stop. I cried and poured out and sobbed and wailed. When it was over, I felt empty and still full of tears and emotions that were ready to take me down. I was distracted and distant, and when my husband asked me what was wrong later that night, before words came, the tears fell and I was sobbing again. Lost and hiccuping and trying to explain to him how broken I felt and how much shame came with being 40 and feeling like I did 20 years ago. Still. How could I still feel this way? How could I still be this lost? How could I still be this tormented?
He held me and allowed all the words and tears to fall from me. It released tension but did nothing to provide answers. And so sleep eventually came, and I knew when my friend showed up the next day for this photo shoot, I wouldn’t be able to do it.
I debated on canceling it. I was too raw, too vulnerable, too emotional. I was feeling too much, afraid of too much, terrified of being this exposed to a friend who ultimately knows me the most.
It was too much.
I felt too much as well as not enough.
And I knew. I knew I needed to lean into the fear and be exposed. I knew deep down that while I profess openness and communication and advocating for oneself, and I overshare, I don’t share these moments. I don’t share at this level. I don’t share what’s behind these doors and what lurks in these shadows. And without being able to explain it, I knew I needed to open myself up to this moment and allow it to move through me. To have a trusted friend bear witness to this terrified, tender, and raw side of who I am. Somehow I knew it was critical to my growth and understanding of myself and that if I was brave enough to do it, I would experience a sacred and holy acceptance and a divine transformation.
Even though this was not the intended photo shoot, I knew I couldn’t keep the pictures tucked away for myself. They are real, and the real moments are sacred. But I also knew I was struggling to share them . . . I realized that before I could be vulnerable with others, I needed to be brutally vulnerable with myself, and that was admitting that I didn’t really love all the pieces of me and the young girl I used to be.
For years I have struggled to hold it all together. I can see now that my obsessive need to be busy and live in high capacity was my way of avoiding and coping with unmet needs and unaddressed wounds. I have been running away for years, decades if I am honest, and I finally gave out. I am exhausted. I am weary of running, and trying so hard. I am tired of searching for my worth and value outside of myself and trying all the damn time to please and impress those around me. I. Am. So.Tired.
So. I stopped. I fell apart and released the shame I was carrying, and I think ~ for the first time ~ started to be gentle with myself. It’s not that I have/had actual hate for myself; it was more like a steady pulse of disappointment and frustration at who I was, how I showed up, choices I made, etc, etc, etc…
So I poured it all out on the dusty floor of our home while my friend silently stood by me, being there for me, making sure I was safe.
I have had these images for two months, not knowing what was holding me back in sharing them. I have written down what I wanted to say, hoping to describe what this spiritual journey has been for me and how by divine order, my friend captured ~ in these beautiful raw images ~ a moment when I was finally free. There is more to share, and I will over the next month, but for now, this is enough.
I will always live in a duplicity of broken and whole; I will live forever in the grey space of humanity. Tender and Strong. Soft and Brave. Open and Fearful.
Over the course of two days, my dear friend captured the rawest parts of me and how that freedom and acceptance made me feel. The very next day she asked me to dress so my outside would match my insides, and she captured that as well.
Both of these women live inside of me all the time. The truest acceptance of myself is to be honest and allow both of these versions of myself the freedom to live fully.
Thank you for being on this journey with me . . . and to you, my dear loved ones, I pray for your liberation and deep love of self to be returned to you. I hold you close and send love and peace to you from me.