Being with all of it
Making space for the parts of us we'd rather hide from, the parts we'd rather push away, the parts we'd rather not admit to being there at all
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A song I’ve been listening to lately:
My shoulders are held up to my ears by an imaginary string. They won’t drop. I’m consciously telling myself to drop my shoulders. Drop your shoulders! Just let them fall! They won’t. I stop forcing. I close my eyes, take a breath, feel my feet on the floor, feel the chair holding my lower back. My shoulders slowly start to inch downward. Another breath. Another noticing of feet on floor. They slide down even more. One more breath. Feeling my butt on the seat. There they go. They’ve made their descent back to their rightful place. I wouldn’t say they are quite relaxed yet, but they’re in place to receive relief when the rest of me is ready.
Does it ever feel like this for you — trying to relax? Insisting on calm? Pushing for ease? It sounds so simple: drop your shoulders. Yet our shoulders are often used to being closer to our ears than our heart, aren’t they? So used to being tight, wound-up, unable to let go. Even barking orders at them doesn’t work (does it ever?).
Instead, we have to slowly remind ourselves we’re safe. We have to gently allow the letting go, invite the release, and awaken to the surrender required just to let our damn shoulders fall. Over and over again. It sounds easier than it is. And it’s worthy of our ongoing devotion, even when it isn’t easy.
Everything has taken a bit more effort lately — like there’s an extra invisible brick tied to my shoe, or maybe to my brain. Remembering to drink enough water only seems to happen when my mouth becomes a desert in summer, begging for hydration. Knowing when to ask for support isn’t feeling as easy. I’ve dropped the ball several times this week. I’m forgetful and sluggish and feeling like I shouldn’t be — like I should be “better” because, no matter how many times I practice otherwise, tapped capacity tends to mean tapped ability to remember how okay it is to experience the full spectrum of being human. It hurts to know there are certain wounds I’ll never stop circling back to. It’s hard to admit I’m as exposed to the harshness of being alive as everyone else. It’s scary to notice just how much is out of my control. It’s overwhelming to look at all the things waiting to be worked on, tended to, figured out. I know I’m not the only one moving through the bigness of it all — and the part of me that wants to feel embarrassed or ashamed about my “normal” self feeling sort of distant these days is trying to take over — and sharing this is part of not letting it.
That’s such a big component of the struggle though, isn’t it? That harsh response we always have to it — the judgment we throw at it — the shame we coat ourselves in every time we notice the struggle returning again — the belief that it should be a secret. The struggle itself is challenging… and the added cruelty we pile on top even more so. The grief, the tiredness, the confusion, the loneliness… all of it is heavy enough, yet because we’ve been conditioned to believe we’re supposed to somehow be above all that, we add brick by brick of shame to the weight until we’re nearly toppling over. It’s a vicious cycle that started outside of us but quickly finds a home within.
Something I’ve found to be deeply necessary in my own life and process is the notion of being with myself and my own tenderness, rather than always trying to optimize or alchemize or change it. Being with myself means being with the part of me that doesn’t want to admit I need extra support right now. It means being with the parts that feel like hiding. It means being with the judgmental part, the afraid part, the overwhelmed part, the part that needs validation, the part that wants to blame others or project or assume. It means being with the part that knows what to do, the part that knows who to turn to, the part that knows what is true and right and good for me, the part that trusts and allows and awakens to what’s needed. And it means being with the part that doesn’t want to listen so I can choose to listen anyway.
Truly being with myself long felt impossible because I only wanted to be with the good parts. I only wanted to show the parts deemed acceptable or worthy or enough. I only wanted to admit to the parts I was proud of, all the while leaving behind the parts that actually needed my own tending, which are so often the ones we wish weren’t there. Being with those parts is hard. It’s frustrating as hell. It’s embarrassing at times, and sloppy, and exposing. It might hurt or feel crushing or remind us of younger versions we wish we could go back and save.
But I’ve learned the importance, and difficulty, in befriending the parts of us we’re told to be ashamed of. There is deep power in choosing to see the whole of ourselves as worthy of being heard, understood, and held — in not leaving any of ourselves behind just because we aren’t always who we want to be — in not trying to pretend our hurts or wounds or tender parts away.
There is beauty in reaching a hand toward the parts of us we’re taught to hate and instead saying, “I don’t want to hate you; I want to see and know you more so I can understand and help you."
What befriending these edgier, harder parts of us does is it pries us from their grip. It gives us some wiggle room to notice what else could be possible, what else could be true, what else could be. It invites us to re-center what matters, re-imagine what’s available to us, and to really, truly understand what it is we’re moving through.
Being with the exhausted part of me has allowed me to ask what it is in my life that is adding to the exhaustion and, if anything, what can be changed or shifted.
Being with the lonely part of me has allowed me to notice where I’m withdrawing, where I’m missing opportunities to connect, and where I may want to re-connect.
Being with the confused part of me has allowed me to recognize where I need clarity, feel the discomfort of being honest about what’s no longer working, and choose to take aligned action in ways that will support my future self.
These are just a few examples of what becomes possible when we turn toward ourselves instead of away: we see what’s there and through that seeing, we create an opportunity to be good stewards of our own aliveness. A gift. A miracle. A representation of the cycle of being an ever-changing, ever-evolving human.
I’m still in a muddy spot, so to speak — still sitting in the questions and not yet to the clarity — still feeling the extra brick weighing me down. My shoulders still take a while to drop. But choosing to meet myself there instead of make myself bad is what creates a different momentum. Choosing to acknowledge what’s hurting instead of being desperate for it to immediately change is what creates a different energy. Choosing to let myself contain harder, more tender, more disorganized parts instead of wishing every part of me was perfectly put-together is what creates a different experience to orient myself toward. And trusting that change is not only possible but inevitable is what creates a different way of holding it all.
If you find yourself in the midst of the mud, with an extra brick tied to your shoe or brain, know you aren’t alone. Know you, and it, and everything, will change. Know how okay it is to doubt that. Know how human it is to try to pin yourself down into something much smaller than the whole of you. Know those parts you hope no one sees matter, too, and might need to be seen by you. Know you can always change your mind, change your pace, change your approach, change. Know there might be another option, another way, another possibility waiting right around the next bend. Know none of it erases your inherent enoughness or deservedness of delight, right now.
Know you’re awake.
Know you’re alive.
Know you can practice being with yourself in all of your humanity and rawness and complexity, over and over again, forever.
△ I’m looking forward to watching this over the next few days
△ Who’s Keeping Whom Safe? on Roxane Gay’s Substack
△ Engage your creativity with a 100-Day Project
△ My postpartum body has been slow to heal. I am getting back to movement and Yoga With Adriene has been a longtime favorite of mine (& of many, for good reason!).
△ Grieving His Mother's Death, Ocean Vuong Learned to Write for Himself
△ I loved reading this piece about Charo in the NYT
△ A sweet interview from Emma Gannon about the power of newsletters:
△ Aloneness, Belonging, and the Paradox of Vulnerability, in Love and Creative Work
△ Make your Instagram feed chronological again! It's like 2015 all over.
△ This poem from Joy Sullivan
△ Maggie Rogers announcing her new album release in July!
△ Meditations for Uncertain Times
△ Ending with another poem since it's National Poetry Month:
“Praying
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.”
― Mary Oliver, from Thirst△ And if you need a reminder of how okay it is to not be thriving 100% of the time, read this post.
With care,
Lisa
PS. Paid Subscribers: I’ll be sharing my first audio recording and q&a later this month and there’s still time to submit a question if you’d like to!
thank you so so much for writing these newsletters. i feel seen, heard and most importantly reading you words make me feel grounded. thank you.and what was the 1st one u've attached ? hbo max isnt available here so im unable to view it
Thank you for your words, helpful as always. The idea of making friends with old wounds is hard but the only way to live with them. Still trying.