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Your Future Self Needs This: Why Dark Seasons Are Important and How They Can Lead Us Home

5/29/2023

Nothing is wasted.

We cannot tell people things we do not know. They will sense that we are just trying to make them feel better and they will end up feeling worse. This week I sat beside someone I love and told him what I knew: this is potent and important, but we just don’t know what it means yet - you’re in the woods and you won’t know the answer until you get to the clearing.

In 2018 I was placed in a new dark place. One that I had never been to before and one that I would not have chosen for myself. It was a place born out of abandonment and rejection. Not the “I think you might be wrong” type but the “I think you’re wrong as a person” type of shame. I carried this dark place with me wherever I went. In the shower I’d think about it; walking alone I’d replay it through. Over and over I’d wonder what it all meant?

I wanted to fast-forward these lessons to leave the dark place. But, it seemed, these woods were meant for me; for the future me. When I was young, I’d play in the trees behind my childhood home. To this day you could drop me in and I’d know exactly where I stood and precisely how to get home. Time and time again it was a place where I could find myself and be found. The dark place of 2018 made me feel lost and unknown. I’d wonder repeatedly about who I was and if my people really knew me at all? Where had I failed? How had I been so blind?

Trying to find the path home was a long one. There were large limbs and thick manzanita blocking the way. To get through, I’d have to think and sweat. The journey would call for rest and nourishment. I would not get there in a day or even a year. It seemed to take so long, but I did find my way out. I wasn’t alone though. By the time I exited the dark woods, I was linked arm-in-arm with loved ones. People that saw me through. People that knew I’d remember my way home eventually.

This is where I find myself today: not fixing or telling, but reminding. Never would I have asked for the lessons that were delivered to me five years ago. Never. But my current day self is using those lessons to know myself more deeply. To understand humans more acutely and how we hurt each other sometimes. To open myself to the compassion of others and to receive love from those that surround me. It’s both of these things that I needed to learn to become who I am today. Nothing was wasted. Not a single word. I gathered up every pine needle that cradled my footsteps, each feather on my path, all of the lichen that got tangled up in my hair. I took them all and held them close. Each part of the way home is a piece of me now. A landscape elongated to encompass both the pain and the clarity.

Out of the darkness, I found my way home. You will, too. Today, I’m here to remind you of that. Your future self is waiting for you. Go to her.

With Love & Backbone,

Jen

Things they never told me...Lessons on Love, Grief, and Nostalgia

3/9/2023

Things are changing.

This is a season of closing chapters. Good ones that were well-lived and well-loved. I’m a person that holds onto books. Sometimes I read passages over and other times I just like knowing that they have a place on the shelf. The chapters that are wrapping up in this season are the sweetest. But maybe I always think it’s this way.

In my late twenties, my husband and I lived in a tiny condo in a small beach town. The galley kitchen held our washer and dryer as well as the stove and appliances. When I got pregnant with our first child, we both could not comfortably be in the kitchen at the same time. It was small and cozy and just right. I told myself I could stay there forever, because the season was so good. But we didn’t.

We’ve lived in other towns since. We’ve had jobs and left them. We’ve acquired pets, more rooms, and another child. It has been important to me to build something that is lasting and true. I’d spend hours watching my kids build lego structures that now remain intact and unplayed as they’ve aged out of that phase.

I think about my clients and the goodbyes that were said over the past two decades. In my early work as an in-home therapist for the foster care system, I can remember working with a surly red-haired teenager. It seemed like she merely tolerated my presence. Some kids embraced therapy and others observed from the sidelines until it felt safe to enter. When I was about to move away to the beach town where that tiny condo awaited us, I had to say goodbye to this fiery teen. I thought she’d shrug off my goodbye, but she sat across from me with her chin wobbling and cried hard about missing me. Even when we seem closed off to change, it happens anyway and it hurts just the same.

I think about the times my goodbyes with friends caused my throat to tighten up with words both said and unsaid. Tears welling up and an inner mix of both hurt and yearning. Relationships that were so fun and good while they were in that sparkling season. Then the new ache of driving away knowing things would never be the same again.

I never understood that to love someone fully meant to be constantly grieving. That’s why nostalgia is so appealing. It’s wanting the thing that you built in the past while simultaneously building the future. We’re always saying goodbye to something. We’re always moving towards something else.

Last month I stood in my kitchen making Valentine’s Day cookies for my daughter’s classroom. It struck me that this would be the very last time I made cookies for a school heart party. She is aging out and the chapter is closing. This is right and it’s also sad.

There are many chapters that are closing for me in this season. Some of them are closing at the same time and others will stretch themselves out. I cannot read them more slowly. This will not stop the process. I can only read the words as they come and let myself feel the weight of what they have to say.

I haven’t lived in that small beach town with the cute condo in over ten years. However, when I think of it now my heart gets all warmed up. About once a year I drive to that town, park my car, and walk to the beach. I feel my feet in the sand and I let the tears come, telling myself, “This was good. This was so good.”

These losses feel like aches because I lived those moments fully. I put my whole self into them. Letting love pour out of me and into creating a life that would shift and change. It’s always a season of grief and new beginnings - it’s both. It’s sad and exciting. Memories and hopes. Backwards and forwards. Holding and growing. Both.

They never told me that it would be this hard or that I would get choked up watching these “last” moments play out. They also never told me how rich and deep and wide my love could grow. I could only learn this by living the chapters and then letting them end.

All my love,

Jen

How to Heal from Friendships Ending: Understanding, Stories, and Acceptance

9/3/2022

But how do you let it go?

Let's talk about something that affects all of us, but is seldom talked about: friendships ending.

I met up with an old friend a few weeks ago. She wanted to share her heartbreak. Pain from friendships changed.

We all have friendships that have faded, that have ended dramatically, or sometimes halted without words or explanation. No friendship follows a specific story line and there is no guarantee that it will last.

It’s jarring when we lose someone we care about. A future planned out, that will never actually happen. The grief and confusion may cause us to wonder why we invest in friendships at all.

As a person who studies relationships, I think it’s the connection between humans that sustains us. The shared time with another person reminds us of why we’re here. It’s the mutual laughter and space held for us during dark periods of our lives. Even though there may be anger and loss at some point in the story, friendship is worth it.

I recently read, “Talking With Strangers,” by Malcom Gladwell. He writes about how we’re often terrible at spotting a liar. However, he makes a compelling argument that our species would suffer if we opted to be suspicious of others rather than open. He writes, “Those occasions when our trusting nature gets violated are tragic. But the alternative - to abandon trust as a defense against predation and deception - is worse“.

The loss of a friendship can take us down. It can make us wonder if we’ll ever trust again. Losing a treasured relationship can plunge us into the abyss. We might doubt ourselves. Question our words and replay every conversation. We can easily spend hours trying to understand.

Whenever something difficult happens, I always think I’ll feel better if I can just understand why. We’re meaning making people. We like to take fragments of information and compile whole stories. We think a beginning, middle, and end will soothe our anxious minds.

It doesn’t work.

It’s not understanding that we need, it’s acceptance. Whatever happened; happened. We can’t go back and change it. There’s nothing to fix. So much of our lives can be repaired through doing, but this part is more about being.

I’ve heard forgiveness being described as, “Accepting that the past could not have gone differently.” This idea has often aided in my healing. When I can let my mind rest, my heart can begin to restore.

With acceptance I can begin to hold the story a little lighter. I can remember the wholeness of the person and the relationship. No person is all-good or all-bad and neither is the story.

When I no longer push against what happened and the break, I can let love back in. I can tend to my heart and my body. Letting my wisdom show me what has been gained and what can be released.

How do we let go? Slowly. Healing can be a long journey. We need to feel what’s there and take our time. The winding road will eventually lead us back to ourselves. Acceptance is when peace returns.

If your heart is breaking and trying to understand why, trust that it will not always be this way. The midnight hour doesn’t last forever. The break is just one small part of your whole story. (And no matter how it ended, it was probably worth it).

With Love & Backbone,

Jen

You're Burned Out

2/26/2022

All that Self-Care and You’re Still Burned Out (of Course You Are).

It’s 2022 and I’m about to send a newsletter out to the Nice Girl Uprising community about burnout. As I was editing the newsletter, a blog that I had written in the Spring of 2021 popped up. I remembered that I had poured my heart into it then my laptop refused to connect to my printer. The devices had stopped communicating and it was just too much for me to handle. Instead of fixing it I took a nap on the couch in the middle of the afternoon. Sleeping…in the afternoon. Guess what the blog was about? Yep: burnout.

It makes me want to laugh-cry that almost one year later, burnout is still impacting me. But of course it is, right? How could we possibly be okay after making it through these impossible times? I read through my words from 2021 and they’re still true. So here it is: let’s talk about burnout.

I’ve been waiting to say the right thing. To have learned all of the good lessons and condense them down into something quick and memorable. 2021, however, has been a long year and it’s only May. About a month ago, I realized something was wrong. I was so tired. Tired, tired. For the first time in a long time I was having to motivate myself. Mini pep-talks to get through life. Basic things like work, little league baseball games, and dates with friends.

My energy was so low, I had to cup it with both hands so the flame wouldn’t burn out. Then I realized: I was, indeed, entering burnout.

So what is burnout? Jill Lepore from The New Yorker describes it like this, “To be burned out is to be used up, like a battery so depleted that it can’t be recharged. In people, unlike batteries, it is said to produce the defining symptoms of ‘burnout syndrome’: exhaustion, cynicism, and loss of efficacy.” Though burnout has historically been used to describe a response to workplace stress, it can be argued that burnout can be caused by other stressors too. Oh I’ll argue it, in fact. If you took care of anything in 2020 may it be a child, a dog, or a houseplant, you’re probably burned out.

2020 was a beast. We learned to live with uncertainty, constant changes, political divisiveness, fear and confusion about a virus, worked from home, became our kids’ teachers, and had severely limited social support. It was exhausting. My professional self would like to use the word “challenging” to sum it up, but I’m going to go ahead and call the year “grueling”.

In the book, “Burnt Out: The Exhasuted Person’s Six-Step Guide to Thriving in a Fast-Paced World,” Selina Barker lists the following symptoms of burnout:

Physical exhaustion
Trouble sleeping
Loss of compassion
Stopped caring about your job
Physical illness
Making mistakes you wouldn’t normally make
Loss of confidence
Fogginess
Loss of focus
Doubting your abilities
Cynicism
Procrastination
Pessimism
Crying
Inability to concentrate
Feeling unable to cope

The author differentiates full-blown burnout from a mini burnout (which I had) by the number and severity of symptoms and the amount of time it would take to recover. Full-blown burnout may keep you out of normal life functioning for several weeks whereas a mini-burnout could last a few days. When I noticed this started happening for me, I had to ask two very important questions. The first question was, “How do I differentiate burnout from depression?” This is a tricky question to answer because burnout can co-occur with depression and depression can look a lot like burnout. I think we need to look at our schedules, the triggers to our symptoms, and consult a mental health professional to gain clarity. I realized that I was over-doing for too long. I pushed hard and kept adding more to my plate. The extra busy-ness began to feel normal. I felt like I had the capacity for more. More was normal. Comfortably uncomfortable.

The second question I had was, “With all of this self-care how in the world am I burned out?” The quick answer: NO FREE TIME. I’m a self-care doer and be-er. I love my self-care. I say NO, I gua sha my face, I drink half of my body weight in ounces of water, I go on walks, I meditate, I read, I workout, I spend time with my family, I have coffee with good friends. I do the things. Every day. I tell other people to do the things. I’m self-care’s biggest fan.

But 2020 reduced our orbit. Some of us worked from home. We didn’t go out as much. We saw our extended friends and family less. The commute from work to home, teaching to making, cleaning to the next activity was short. We sort of just changed our hat and carried on without missing a beat. But we missed something really important: connecting with ourselves. We tune-in through free time. Time that is unscheduled and open. Time that we can use playing the guitar, watching Netflix, or swinging in the hammock with the sole purpose of connecting with ourselves. Free time. Time to do whatever we please. We don’t really have that anymore.

So I had to make it.

I had to set the brake. I made an agreement with myself to limit my work hours and caseload. I made the commitment and told others about it. Accountability is what I needed when the asks re-entered my world.

I had to say NO (a lot). If I found something to be too energetically taxing, I said no. If I had to squeeze the thing in or if it would cause me to rush, I said no. If the thing activated my anxiety or caused a sense of dread, it was a no. No, no, no. The duty of yes got me here so the love of no was going to help me get out.

Then I had to move beyond self-care. I needed free time. I started putting space in my day. I attempted to relax when the schedule didn’t call for a plan. I tried to be slower when I spoke, when I transitioned from one thing to the next, when I made decisions. Burnout is rushed and exhausted. Freedom is slow and full. I want freedom.

Why am I sharing my experience of burnout with you? Because I want to give a name to the experience that so many of us are having. I want to normalize it, validate it, and help you move through it. If you connect with any of the symptoms of burnout, I encourage you to learn more about it. Find articles, read books, contact a coach or a therapist. Most importantly, connect with yourself and choose the path of healing that feels right for you.

You might be experiencing burnout and that’s okay. You can make shifts in your life that will bring you peace. Trust me, there’s so much less to do.

Forgiveness as a Process: How We Move from Drowning to Flowing

4/6/2020

The water was asking me to Flow; to become just like it so that I could Forgive.

I was fighting against it. For a long time I pushed in opposition to the water. It took a year for me to realize that I was the water.

Two years ago some things in my life were upended. Things that I had come to know and depend on were no more. I strove to understand. Picked up each grain of sand to ask, “Is this it? The reason? Tell me why?” There was so much sand to sort through.

It was similar to feeling my way through the dark in an endless midnight hour. The answers would not come. I was alone. Alone and drowning in the dark.

Have you been to this place before?
If you’ve ever loved someone; I bet you have.

When we’re trying to stay afloat, we pretend that we’re swimming. Possibly, it looks like treading water but it feels like drowning. Deep panic. Dark water. No sign of the shore.

After I stopped collecting grains of sand, some of my breath returned. My heart didn’t race all the time. Instead of slapping the water, I opened my fingers and let the water glide through them.

Eventually, I saw other swimmers. They would wave and ask about the water. I thought they had just arrived to my part of the sea. But they hadn’t. They’d been there the whole time. I hadn’t noticed them. Maybe I saw glimpses of life, but it was easier to believe I was all alone.

When I finally chose to get close to these swimmers they told me that I had forgotten some very important things:

I was loved. Well loved. And I was never alone.
We are that which we seek.

Deep. Heavy. I know.

When we’re at the bottom of the sea, we feel alone. It’s too dark to even see our own hands, let alone the hand of a friend reaching out to us. This loneliness makes us afraid. It also makes us angry. We are never our best selves when we’re angry and afraid. Those states of being add to the darkness.

We have to stay there at the bottom for a while. It’s part of the process. But slowly, very slowly, we start to ascend. The light will sometimes seem like hope itself. Promising. New. Other times we will wonder if the light is playing tricks on us.

That’s when we start to catch glimpses of the swimmers. They can’t swim for us. No, the work is our own. But our friends can remind us to hold our breath, to open our palms, to trust our hearts.

Last year a friend advised me to, “Flow like water.” I loved those words. They guided me. Reminded me of the way when I felt like things were too hard.

When we’re fighting the water we tire easily.
The fatigue drives into our bones.
The struggle never ends.

I was seeking forgiveness, acceptance, understanding, and love. I was fighting for those things. Tiring myself out in search of them. I hadn’t realized that to receive them I had to become them.

I had to embrace forgiveness. I had to accept myself, the people who had hurt me, the hurt I had caused, the entire situation as it was. Instead of trying so hard to be understood, I offered understanding. Then love, oh love. The love had always been there. It had never left.

I was trying to get to this place by moving against the water. Pressing hard. Determined. I am not easily deterred.

To my benefit, the other swimmers reminded me of the truth. My faith whispered these essential words, “You are the water.”

I am that which I seek.
I receive that which I offer.

When our practices become our beliefs we can embrace who we really are. We’re not droplets in the sea. We’re not the bad weather. We’re the water. We’re the water that wraps around islands to keep them safe. We’re the tidal wave of emotion. We’re the rough storm swirling about. We’re the calm sea lapping against the shore. We’re all of it.

If it’s part of us then we can understand it. Accept it. Offer it.

Today I offer my love and forgiveness.
It’s a part of me. It’s a part of you.
We can receive what we offer.

On this Easter Sunday, I want you to remember that you are the water. Yes, it’s all of you.

Flow like water, Baby.

With Love & Backbone,

Jen

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Everything is New and It's Really Hard: How to Try Easy When Perfectionism Wants More

3/23/2020

We want to be good at everything. We don't want to be beginners. It's too vulnerable.

On their own new things are really hard. We’re beginners trying to master the new thing. When it’s just one thing it can be overwhelming. COVID-19 is like that grinning captain that calls, “Hey everybody! How about we change everything all at once? Like right now. Good luck!”

When I was in second grade I came home crying one day. My mom was puzzled. What had happened? I wasn’t being bullied. Nope. I hadn’t fallen down and gotten hurt. I wasn’t homesick.

Through tears, I told my mom, “We learned how to tell time today. We were using the face clocks. I’m upset because I didn’t already KNOW how to tell time by myself!”

My mom cocked her head and did one of those slow blinks. “So you expected to KNOW how to do something before your teacher taught it to you?”

I don’t know why this idea was a big deal. I like to know things. Certainty wants us to be the best at everything. What do you mean I need to be new at something before I can master it?

What a concept.

Maybe some of you are chuckling because you’re built like that, too. I have a friend who opted to turn down a job, because her daughter was starting preschool. She said, “We just can’t do two new things at once. We can adjust to one new thing at a time. Both of us trying hard things at the same time wouldn’t be good.”

We can see these parts of ourselves when we think about sharing our creative work or joining a gym. Something as small as showing up to a small group or going to a party where we know just one person.

It’s vulnerability.

Vulnerability is grueling. It offers a mixed-message right off the bat: Come try this new thing. It could be a disaster or it could be the best thing in your life. You have to try to know, though.

The mighty shield I like to use against vulnerability is perfectionism. If I can study and prepare really well then I’ll have outsmarted most disasters. This also makes way for tension, irritability, and black-and-white thinking. We love that quality in our friends, right? Ugh! It’s not our best look, but we use perfectionism to protect ourselves from vulnerability. It doesn’t work though. Why? Because control is an illusion. COVID-19 snapped its fingers at our hyper-busy over-controlled lives and made us beginners again.

We’re uncomfortable.
Very uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable, and possibly freaking out.
(You’re allowed to freak out).

I’m a therapist by day and also a coach. My therapy clients usually sit across from me in my office surrounded by soft blue walls, an essential oil diffuser that offers hints of peppermint + wild orange, and look out over the Arroyo Grande Creek to watch birds flit by as they talk. It’s lovely.

Now I’m also a homeschool mom. Overnight. Today my son had his first school-connected online google meeting for his class. Do you know what it’s like to teach a bunch of house-bound 4th graders? Let’s say a little prayer of gratitude for our children’s teachers and coaches. For the love. I wanted to mute the entire thing!

But now there’s all of these new things. New things for them to access. New ways for them to connect with their teachers. I was getting stressed out. Why? Because I wanted to know all of the things…like yesterday. I wanted it to be smooth. I wanted my kids to learn and to be happy. I’m setting the bar too high, I think.

Because I’m also working from home. Which means that sometimes I do telehealth in my car to keep confidentiality. We 100% cannot change or perfect that. It is what it is.

It’s new and it’s hard.
It’s a new way of living. A new way of working. A new way of learning. All new. All right now.

I figure I have a few options:

I can do nothing (freeze).
I can make this $%&#@ thing work perfectly.
I can try easy.

Do nothing or do everything (options 1 & 2):

In her audiobook, Rising Strong as a Spiritual Practice, Brené Brown talks about underfunctioners and overfunctioners. In times of crisis underfunctioners freeze and disappear. They get overwhelmed and shut down. They stop showing up to things. They allow other people to step in and take over. They just can’t deal.

Overfunctioners go into hyper drive. They take on too much and control the to-do list themselves. They have a hard time delegating, because they think if they can do it themselves then it will be done right. No one knows that they are having a hard time. It’s like they have capes on, but they’re shut off from their feelings. If they stay busy fixing the problem then they won’t have to acknowledge how the crisis is making them feel.

Neither way is good or bad. However, both options are ways to avoid vulnerability. When we under or over function we’re trying to outmaneuver pain. We don’t want to feel it so with either hide from it or attempt to fix it. In both ways, our people can’t reach us. We’re too well defended. The layers of each keep people out.

Try easy (option 3):

When I say “try easy” most people think I want them to slack off. The perfectionists look at me like I have two heads. I can feel the resistance telling me, “I can’t try easy. I have to get it right! The only way to get through this is to try my very best which means I have to try hard!” Well, I know you well enough by now to know that you aren’t a slacker. You won’t give up. You won’t give 50% effort ever. For anything. I know that.

Don’t change your work ethic, just change your attitude.

We can take anything and adopt a “try easy” attitude. Let’s start simple: a new dance move, throwing a baseball, putting together a building kit. If we “try hard” we have tension and forced effort. We’re super focused and want a clear result. However, if we “try easy” we’re more likely to have fun. We’re looser. Curious. Easy. We’re focused on the moment rather than getting it right. Same activity; different attitude.

Right now you are living through vulnerability. Everything is new and it has been a major adjustment. We’ve tried so hard to get it right.

Maybe it’s time to try easy.

Let’s do what we can. Try to help with the learning. Try to do good work. Try to cope with the new and sudden lifestyle change. We’ll do it all, but we’ll try easy.

You are important.
Your people are important.

Trying easy will create calm energy. It might even be fun. But for sure, it will be forgiving.
That’s what we want in our families, right? Calm energy, plus fun, with generous doses of forgiveness.

How about you give that to yourself, too.
Don’t try so hard. Try easy.

With Love and Backbone,

Jen

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Things Aren't Okay, But You're Okay: How to Manage Your Stress in Times of Crisis

3/15/2020

You're Okay.

Things Aren't Okay, But You're Okay.

*This blog post was originally created as a sort of love blast to my email list. These are hard times for all of us though. I felt compelled to share it here on the blog as well. We need more light everywhere. May these words spark the light within you.

I’m here today, because I want to remind you of who you are. Normally, I drop in every month, but these are some overwhelming times. To me, it seems like we’re getting new information every few hours. Plans are changing. We’re being called to pay attention. We’re being asked to look out and look within all at once.

You are here. Right now. Reading this. I’m here with you. Take a slow breath.

A few days ago, I could feel this mounting tension. Questions swirled in my brain. I was trying to understand. Trying to plan ahead.

On Friday we found out that schools would be closed. I’ve been figuring out what this means for my therapy practice and childcare. I’d been working really hard to force it all into place.

Maybe you have been feeling that way, too? Here’s a thought that helped me:

“This situation isn’t happening to me. These are just facts. I can choose my perspective.”

So this is what I’ve done:

1. I am creating a peaceful environment in my own home.

Even though the outside world is uncertain right now, I want my home to be a sanctuary. I want my family to feel safe, and loved, and cared for. I want them to learn how to handle hard things with softness.

I’m doing this by diffusing essential oils. Playing relaxing music. Making time to snuggle and watch movies.

Living in close quarters we’re prioritizing, “Excuse me. Good job. I love you.” We’re talking about having grace and patience and kindness for the next few weeks.

2. I’m prioritizing self-care.

This weekend my home was filled with the scent of homemade bone broth, chicken noodle soup, and citrus smoothies. I want to feel healthy during this time of fear. In crisis our numbing behaviors come knocking (overuse of social media, consuming excessive sugar, drinking too much, etc.). Numbing behaviors make us feel defeated and depleted. I choose to feel empowered so I’m taking in positivity instead.

I want my nervous system to calm down. Stress levels are so high in all of us. We can think more clearly when we’re calm. For me that means rolling out my yoga mat and tuning in. After my practice today, I felt like, “Oh hey, there you are, Love. Let’s spread this goodness around.”

If yoga is your thing or you’d like to start, here’s my advice: try easy.

Check out yoga classes on YouTube.
Download the app “Down Dog Yoga” since it’s customizable and free until April 1st (I tried it out this weekend and absolutely loved it).
Look into Spiritual Heart Yoga with Krissy Harb (me fellow yoga sister that I met in yoga teacher training) and purchase a drop-in, 5 or 10 class pack to participate in her new online classes.
Or sink into this calming & soothing restorative yoga sequence created by my dear friend, Lisa Story (also met this lovely soul in teacher training as well!).

3. I’m choosing where I place my energy and how I respond.

This might be the hardest thing so far. I have adopted the idea that this situation is not happening to me. This situation is happening and I can choose how I handle it. This means that I’m not diving deep into social media and letting fear take over. Nope. I’m being mindful about what I read and how long I spend on the topic. Sometimes too much information is too much.

I’m focusing my energy on being present. I’m putting lots of love into my family. I’m using this time to slow down. Time is our greatest gift. I want to use it well.

When my kids look back at this time, I want them to remember how safe and connected they felt. I don’t want their stomachs to drop every time someone mentions COVID-19 in the future. As the mama, I’m my family’s thermostat. I stay grounded so that they feel grounded. In order to do this I have to be mindful of my energy. I have to be careful to respond and not react. I have to be slow and soft.

This situation is really hard. We’re not sure when things will be okay again. But I believe and know that YOU WILL BE OKAY. You were made to handle hard things. You were built to lead. Be what you need right now so that you can be what your family needs.

Starting now:

Deep breath.
Add some love into your space.
Plan your self-care for the day.
Decide where and how you’ll spend your time.
Try easy with every step.

Lastly, I got such great feedback about the graphic I created for social media that reads, “You are safe. You are loved. You are cared for.” Earlier this year I printed off this message to hang in my kids’ rooms so that they are forever reminded of this truth. I want to remind you of this same truth today.

Slow it down. Do the things that are within your control. Seek helpful information. Use this time to set things in place so that you feel safe. Create a caring atmosphere in your home and trust that you will be cared for as well. Take time to love yourself so that you can share this love with your people.

Together we will lead with love. I’m taking care of myself so that I can support you. It’s time for you to take care of yourself so that you can offer your care to others.

With Love & Backbone,

Jen

P.S. Remember who you ARE and that you are SO LOVED. Also, if you want to get love blasts like these monthly, sign up here Nice Girl Uprising for the email list.

Why Are You So Mean? Insight into Why We’re Mean and What to Do about It

3/11/2020

If we don’t do the work, we’ll be mean.

Last summer my mom and I were walking along Lake Siskiyou in Mount Shasta, CA. We were working our ideas through; solving our little corner of the world one conversation at a time.

We were talking about women and the choices we make when things get hard. When we don’t know what to do. When our fear gets the better of us.

Sometimes we say hurtful things. We ignore people we love. We hide until we hope it’s all over.

My mom said, “You seem to think that people who do hurtful things are still nice girls. They’re not. I think they’re mean.”

My response? “We’re all mean. We all have the capacity to be mean. They are nice girls. Truly. Maybe they got scared or insecure or confused and they used their mean.”

As people who are always trying our best we don’t want to admit our flaws. Sometimes it’s easier to blame someone else. To shift the focus from our behavior to theirs.

Sometimes people do crappy things. I get it. I’m not excusing bad behavior. I do, however, think we could miss a valuable lesson if we don’t ask, “What role did I play in this?”

It’s like rewinding a game and re-watching it play-by-play. Watch, pause, reflect, play, stop, ask. Keep combing through the material until you find a missed step. A conversation gone wrong. A slight. Something you overlooked. A series of events that led to the meanness.

Very rarely is someone just plain mean for no good reason. Maybe it’s a bit Pollyanna of me, but I think people are mostly good. Believing that people are trying their best has allowed me to cultivate meaningful relationships. It has given me hope when I hear about darkness. So in my world it’s rare that people would be mean at their core.

We all have the capacity to act mean. We can have a mean thought. Say mean words. Use mean behavior. We’re not mean, but we can do mean things.

But why? Well…we get out of alignment when shame is all up in our faces.

Here’s what happens:

Someone sets a boundary and we feel like we’re wrong
Someone doesn’t choose us and we feel left out
Someone is doing something really well and we feel like we’ll never measure up

That’s shame’s game. Shame will get under your skin and tell you that you’re not good enough. It will pulse through your body and make you believe that you don’t belong.

Shame never wants us to be our best. It invites us to be our worst selves. Shame will flare our jealousy, our pain, our doubts. Shame pokes at our insecurities until they take over. Fear will spike. Everything will get too loud.

We’ll want to put the problem way over there away from us. So sometimes…we’re mean.

Here’s shame at work:

If you hurt me, then I hurt you back
If you take space from me, then I ignore you
If you succeed, then I throw shade

Yep, it’s ugly. But we’ve all done it.

When we live in a space where compassion, and questions, and love don’t come first then we make way for shame to dominate. How do we make sure it comes first? We DO THE WORK.

I probably say the phrase, “Do the work” at least once a week. I mean it. I live by it.

What does “do the work” mean? It means you ask questions. You look at your own behavior. Maybe you go to therapy. Get coaching. Reach out to people that know you well. Ask yourself, “What did I miss? What can I learn from this? How can this help me grow?”

Mean is not our default, but it’s a cheap and easy option. Are we cheap and easy? Um…NO. Absolutely not. So we do the work.

Doing the work is hard. The answers might not be easy to accept.

A long while ago, I took a problem I was having in another friendship to one of my dear friends. After a decade and a half of friendship this friend has earned the right to tell me straight. No fluff. She told me what I had missed. She pointed out what I could avoid repeating in the future. She helped connect the mean dots. To be clear, I didn’t necessarily enjoy hearing the truth. However, I want to grow and that’s the price.

Ask hard questions.
Get solid answers.
Grow.

The alternative is far harder to live through. When we go the cheap and easy route we become stagnant, or worse, we devolve. In relationships this means that we’ll assume the worst about others. We’ll blame them. We’ll ignore them. We’ll say hurtful things. When people do well we’ll let our insecurities control our perspective. We’ll feel jealous. We’ll roll our eyes. We’ll make fun of them. We’ll be mean.

Mean is lonely. It feels terrible. It lies.

If you believe the mean things are true it’s like inviting an ill-tempered dragon to live with you. You’ll burn through your relationships, your dreams, your self-esteem. Mean will invade your thoughts and change the way you see the world. Mean will eat your compassion away piece by piece.

Don’t be mean.
Instead, do the work.

When you are triggered by someone, take a moment to look within. Figure out what bothered you. Identify the story you are making up. Ask yourself what role you played. Be clear about your response.

This is a practice of softening. When a mean thought pops up we learn to hold it with curiosity. We ask better questions. We try out compassion. We learn. We grow.

When given the option; we do the work.

With Love & Backbone,

Jen

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Living through the In-Between Time: 3 Steps to Surviving the Midnight Hour

9/11/2019

You are in the in-between if something is no longer,
but the next thing has not yet become.

The in-between is a dark place. Sometimes we get there by our own choices. Other times it is handed to us. We are used to something being one way and then it changes. When this change is close to our heart it’s like losing something essential. Something that defined who we were. Something that marks the coming of a new season.

In a recent effort to simplify my life, I’ve started to sift through my belongings. I’ve read old journals and gazed at photos from the past. In some ways it felt like peeking into a past life. Images of people that are no longer in my world. Circles that I no longer circle. Much of the time it’s like a glowing ember of warmth. I can remember the concerts, the dinners, the resting on couches to discuss life’s most important topics. Then as I turn the page or scroll up on my phone I’m back to right now. The in-between.

I’d like to think that when we choose our changes they hurt less. They don’t. We are creatures of habit and we like the reliability of a stable routine. Until those routines don’t work for us anymore.

When we say no; no more; this must go – we mean it. But we can’t escape the severe stab of loss. It’s dizzying and lonely.

I call this time the midnight hour. For weeks and even months it feels like midnight. The darkness makes things blurry. We doubt our eyes and think ill-intention is everywhere. We rehearse. Ask questions. Beg the next step to reveal itself. The midnight hour does not pass quickly. It triples and quadruples in length. It doesn’t care that our feelings are hurt. The midnight hour invites us into the void.

We don’t always choose this path. Sometimes it is handed to us through diagnoses, deaths, and paths unseen. Life is moving on just fine and bam! We have a weird medical symptom, a loss, and new thing that takes over our every thought. It alters how we show up. It rewires what we know to be true and breaks it down piece by piece. It’s disorienting and painful.

The midnight hour is like a well of doubt. Anxiety deepens the space. Hurt makes it darker.

I am not a stranger to the midnight hour. When we are committed to growing we will have these seasons. Even when we know the midnight hour well, the vastness of it never ceases to pull us under.

If you are stuck between what was and what is yet to be, here’s a way through:

1.  Go inward.
Take this time to know yourself better. When the world seems like it’s swirling past you find a way to slow yourself down. If we’re not careful we’ll hook onto a story that fuels our fears. We’ll start to believe that midnight will last forever. This isn’t true. Take the time to ask good questions. Honor your feelings. Look at your problem with a softer focus. Wonder about how this issue can help you. Instead of being mad at it, ask, “What are you here to teach me?”

2.  Go outward.
You cannot do this alone. I repeat: you cannot do this alone. You need to go to your people. Ask them to listen to your story. At first you just need someone to hear your story over and over. When the sting begins to lessen you can ask for feedback. You can discuss, “What does this mean? What is my role? How can I hold this gently?” You get to share this story with people that you trust. This connection will be a reminder that dawn will come again.

3.  Seek the Wayfinders.
During the midnight hour we will do almost anything to receive the map. The get-me-out-of-here-now plan. The answers are everywhere. You will find your way through a random conversation, in a wise Instagram post, a line in a novel. You will get closer to the light through prayer and meditation. You will see things more clearly with the aid of therapists, healers, mentors, and dear friends. Your wayfinders are everywhere. Be open to them. Everything is designed to help you.

This process of simplifying my life has been good in many ways. I’m a bit of a “keeper”. I like to store items that remind me of a previous time. After a while though they stack up and become just another pile of papers that were once important to me. In my decluttering process I found old pay stubs, movie tickets, trinkets, and notes (from decades ago, people!). In this pile of memories, I saw old problems. Jobs that weren’t a good fit. People that were once central to me and eventually moved out of orbit.

In this pile of things from the past I remembered my old midnight hours. I wasn’t sure if I’d make it through some of those midnights. The dark seemed so dark. I remember praying for answers. Wishing for crystal balls. Wanting the map to present itself. When I re-read old notes and looked at photos I was reminded of the intense ache. The anxiety. The distress of not knowing when the long-awaited daylight hours would return.

But I’m here now. So midnight didn’t, in fact, last forever.

I ask you now: what was your midnight hour three midnights ago? When I asked myself this question it felt like my brain had to stretch itself to reconnect to old problems. Problems that I thought would overtake me. Would pull me under. Would undo me and make my life unrecognizable. But now? Now I have to work to remember them.

The midnight hour is a tricky place. It bends shapes and messes with our sense of time. Hours and minutes get mixed up. Darkness has a way of making us forget what lives at its edges. There will be a night that feels like the hour got stuck at 12:00 a.m., but more is yet to be revealed. At the edge of this hour is dawn. Lines will sharpen as the sunlight slips through our shades to brighten the room. Like a slow yawn, we will be released from the grip of night to begin again. A new way always shows itself. It just takes longer than we’d like.

To your midnight or future midnights & to new beginnings.

With Love and Backbone,

Jen

P.S. Check out this Chai Talk Podcast, Don’t Bypass Your Anger, to learn more about healing and moving through hard emotions.

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Forgiveness Is Too Hard: Ideas For Self-Care While You're In The Depths Of Loss

5/4/2019

Forgiveness Is Too Hard When You're Drowning In Grief

On the day of Forgiveness I’m not feeling very forgiving.

It’s been a long season. Last year I was pulled down into the muck. I’m still finding mud footprints all over my mind.

You see, loss is a tricky thing. One day you’re riding the wave and feeling all Zen-like and the next moment you’re seething with anger or crying or rehearsing conversations.

In her book, Rising Strong, Dr. Brené Brown describes how her research participants recounted losses that were difficult to identify or describe because they weren’t necessarily deaths or separations. She writes, “These included the loss of normality, the loss of what could be, the loss of what we thought we knew or understood about something or someone.”

This long season has included losses. Today (of all days) is Easter. The revered forgiveness holiday of the year. It’s the day when the betrayers, backstabbers, haters, and false friends are set free. So maybe I’m still stuck on the darker part of the story, yeah? I’m decidedly in the midnight of my loss today.

The day started out bursting with love. We enjoyed candy-filled Easter baskets, homemade lemon pound cake donuts, and morning snuggles. We danced in the kitchen and sang hip-hop songs. All of the love was bubbling up to the top. Good energy filled our home and our hearts.

Then we got in the car and my body had time to settle. You know those moments of stillness where your mind tells you exactly what’s going on with your heart? Yep, that’s what happened. I began driving and finally had time to feel what was going on. I started rehearsing conversations. It went something like, “Well, if she says this then I can list my ten thousand (correct/right/absolute) reasons for doing what I did. And then if she says that then I can remind her of this. Yadda, yadda, yadda.” I noticed the story, because my heart was racing and my jaw was clenched tight.

Rehearsing future conversations that will likely never happen is not helpful. Stressing myself out over imaginary conversations is not wise.

I reminded myself to stop the story.
I breathed in through my nose and out my mouth.
I sent the story and person away with love and peace.

But I’m still mad.

To tell you the truth, I’m brokenhearted. I’m deep in the loss of something that I thought I knew and understood. I’ve been deeply misunderstood. Stories have been made up about me. I have no control over any of it. I’m upset that I can’t direct the narrative. I’m shaken by having loved someone that doesn’t know me or chooses not to see me. It’s a loss of the oddest sort. Perhaps I’m even grieving something that was never there? I don’t know. My heart is telling me that it’s tired, and overworked, and sad.

So this is where I’m at today. I’m in heartache. The deep, dark, pulsing heart of grief. I’m stuck in the whirlpool of frustration, anger, sadness, forgiveness, and love. I’ve touched on all of those emotions today and they just keep cycling through.

I’m not sure that forgiveness is an actual state that we reach. For me, it’s been more of a process. I keep lovingly releasing the person until my relationship with them or the story changes. Time is always a magical factor in letting things go. At some point new routines and relationships become strengthened and the loss becomes less piercing. Distance from the experience also changes my relationship with the story. I begin to see the lessons, the wisdom, and all of the love that lived within the story.

In Rising Strong, Brené Brown writes, “Forgiveness is so difficult because it involves death and grief…The death or ending that forgiveness necessitates comes in many shapes and forms. We may need to bury our expectations or dreams. We may need to relinquish the power that comes with “being right” or put to rest the idea that we can do what’s in our hearts and still retain the support or approval of others.”

Last year, I made a clear decision. I trusted myself and acted from a place of self-care. I have scrutinized this decision and my communication around it. I’ve had to look closely because it caused a tsunami of loss. Loss with such gravity that I felt pulled under the ocean waves. Disoriented. Lost. Pure darkness.

Now I find myself gripping and bracing for impact. I can almost predict when another wave will hit and I’m trying to be ready for it. Ready for the flood of anxiety. Waiting for the pain. Predicting the anger that will surge up.

Grief is a lonely place. Even though I know that I have a team of swimmers by my side, the loss still pinches me at unexpected times. I might be totally in my joy and a brief moment too close to the loss will pull me down.

I want to be on top of the water. I want to be riding the wave. If it were sunny with clear blue skies for a while that would be awesome, too.

Right now I want to be driving my car to see my favorite person with my kids giggling and talking in the back seat. I want to be all peace and love on this glorious day. But I’m not. One foot is still in the murky water.

I’m imagining myself facing the ocean as a torrent of waves prepare to knock me down. I’m resisting getting hurt. I’m pushing against any potential for softness or love to get through. I’m armoring up to avoid feeling vulnerable. I’m trying to be tough, because inside I feel so broken. One giant wave could crack me open.

I think I could do this differently.

I could be softer.

More understanding of myself.

Instead of resisting this grief I could be open to it. Instead of rushing through it or diving over it, I could wade slowly. I could let the water lap against my thighs. I could float along with the waves. I could be present to what grief is teaching me.

I could let myself be angry. Sad. Upset. Lost. Loved.

I could move with my grief instead of charging against it.

I could be like the water instead of fighting it.

Recently, my cousin passed along some wisdom to me. She said, “Flow like water, Baby.” Yep, I think that’s the key to my healing. Maybe it will be a part of yours, too.

We’re all after the resurrection. We want a peek at what our lives will be like once time has washed away our wounds. But we can’t skip the hard part. The darkness is speaking to us about love and loss and growth. It’s showing us why forgiveness has so much value. It’s not because it’s easy to come by, it’s because it’s incredibly challenging to get to. Getting to forgiveness will cost us our peace, our righteousness, our precious time. But when we get through the darkest part of it (and I know I will), we will be reminded of all of the light that exists in the world. We will deepen our capacity to love. We will become stronger and softer in all of the best ways.

If you’re in the well of loss right now, here are some gentle reminders:

You don’t have to be right. It takes so much effort to prove yourself.

You don’t have to get better quickly. The heart takes it’s time.

You don’t need to forget the good stuff. Love is at the center of it all.

And lastly, “Flow like water, Baby.”

With Love & Backbone,

Jen

P.S. Check out the Chai Talk Podcast, “Let it Go” for more support on healing from loss.

P.P.S. Sign-up here to get the podcast, blogs, and free videos delivered directly to your inbox.

<<Previous

Nothing is wasted.

Things are changing.

But how do you let it go?

All that Self-Care and You’re Still Burned Out (of Course You Are).

​The water was asking me to Flow; to become just like it so that I could Forgive.

​We want to be good at everything. We don't want to be beginners. It's too vulnerable.

You're Okay.​Things Aren't Okay, But You're Okay.

​If we don’t do the work, we’ll be mean.

​​You are in the in-between if something is no longer,​but the next thing has not yet become.