Obliterating the inner hierarchy

and five things

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A song I’m loving:

A swirly path, 35mm film

One //
Once, my “truest self” was a fourth grader who had surgery to remove the gap between her two front teeth. She was tired of being self-conscious about it. She wore rainbow-striped pants to school and the group of popular girls encircled her and called her a lesbian, cackling like hyenas. She traded stickers on the hill by the basketball court and wrote poems about flowers. That version of me was desperate to fit in, and she was true.

Once, my “truest self” was a high school girl who had bleached straight-across bangs and a bowl-cut done with a Flowbee. That version of me called into Live 105.3 every Sunday night (indie night) to try and win concert tickets; she swayed to her favorite bands and brought them a CD with a handmade cover full of songs she wrote. She used safety pins and scissors to scratch her arms until they bled. That version of me wanted to escape, and she was true.

Once, my “truest self” was a 19 year old riding the bus from San Rafael to Richmond. That version of me took BART to MarArthur Station in Oakland and walked alone at night to my boyfriend at the time’s co-op on Apgar Street. She took pills and acid to try to blend in with the other punks and went to house shows and once scrounged her boyfriend’s room for enough change to buy a to-go box of spaghetti from the cheap take-out place by UC Berkeley. That version of me was wildly lost, and she was true.

Once, my “truest self” was a 24 year old who walked through the redwoods at UC Santa Cruz to get to classes. She had to re-take calculus the summer after graduation because she failed her final. She went through a break-up that catapulted her into self-responsibility. She listened to For Emma, Forever Ago on repeat while driving up and down West Cliff Drive, watching the surfers and wondering when something would finally click. That version of me ached for more, and she was true.

Once, my “truest self” was a graduate student who worked full shifts at Trader Joe’s before going to night classes until 10pm. She read Jung and Rogers and gulped up anything related to human growth and potential, all while not quite feeling her own. She wanted to be seen as helpful, as altruistic, as caring. She was desperate to make a difference as proof of worthiness, but also because it’s what her heart was always called toward. That version of me was confused, and she was true.

Once, my “truest self” was a woman driving across the Golden Gate Bridge to meet her birth mother for the first time at the ferry building in the city. She wore a black polka-dot dress and shifted from side to side as she watched her first home walk out of her Uber and run toward her. She thought she needed a certain outcome or ending in order to be whole. She assumed reunion was the one thing that would bring true healing. That version was longing for belonging, and she was true.

For so long, I believed my “truest self” was an idealized version of myself, someone always out of reach. Maybe it is to some. Yet thinking about it this way gives me less compassion for all the versions who didn’t yet know how to remove the armor, come out of the turtle shell, be fully seen and known, move toward what she wanted — and the parts of me who are still practicing those very things. It feels like a disservice to call those versions of me less true, less real. Because they were and are so very real. They ushered me into who I’ve become, just by being who they were. I hold them in me like sacred kin, each version real in her own way and no less valid or deserving of respect than the wiser version of me that exists now. Naming each part and version of me as real feels like love. This is the way I want to treat all of my parts, all aspects of myself, including the ones I’d rather no one knew about. I can only hope in ten years, I’ll be holding the current version of me with similar care, with a depth of understanding that obliterates an inner hierarchy and allows for the whole.

I want to keep obliterating the inner hierarchy — keep allowing the whole.

All together, 35mm film

Two //
I’m realizing how much easier it feels to say I don’t know sometimes than it is to honor the clarity. I don’t know leads to indecision; I’m clear leads to deciding. I don’t know sounds softer than I’m certain. And sometimes, deciding is terrifying. Choosing is nerve-wracking. Claiming your knowing is intimidating… especially if non-action, stagnancy, and haziness feels more comfortable than Going For It.

I always wished I could relate to people who over-work, who are constantly busy, who have endless energy they’re trying to burn, who do The Most. It’s long been the opposite for me; living with depression usually made it hard to find energy for much outside the bare minimum. I regularly felt lazy compared to most of my peers. I at times grieve the living I’ve lost to the pain. Only now, in this season of life, do I feel that shifting — I feel this newfound life force within me that had been hiding there all along, and I’m having to navigate where to put it all, and it feels like such a gift but an overwhelming one. When the overwhelm arises, I feel an old version of myself creeping forward: the I don’t know version. I keep softly turning back toward the current version of me who actually does have some semblance of knowing, who actually is clear on certain things, and listening to her. It is teaching me something.

An entrance, 35mm film

Three //
There has been much happening behind the scenes the last year that I don’t share publicly, and it sometimes makes me feel like I’m lying or hiding. But the truth is that privacy has felt so good. Going places no one knows I went feels good. Sharing significantly less on social media the last year and staying logged off more and more feels good. Grieving without an audience feels good. Being in my life feels good. Tending to my longings and visions for the future feels good. Working on things that might be a surprise to many, including myself, feels good. Keeping most things just for me and those closest to me feels good. Re-centering being of service feels good. Spending a lot of time thinking deeply about what I want the next seasons of my life, my parenting, my work, my creativity, my free time, my energy, and my space to look like feels good. Getting less feedback and input feels good. Having more tender, intimate conversations with beloved people in my life feels good. Meeting new friends feels good. Finding a renewed sense of meaning and returning to long-held callings I thought I no longer had the capacity for feels good. Being clear on my values and morals feels good. Doing all of this in ways that don’t require sharing or showing or validation or even an external gaze feels good. I think doing what feels good is important, and sometimes hard, and we can practice it anyway.

Four //
We really do get to be containers for everything. We really do get to feel and experience and hold many contradictory parts. We really do get to change our minds and grow new beliefs and embody different ways of being. We really do get to be multidimensional, no matter how inconvenient it is in a world that wants us to brand/identify/sell/stay “ourselves.”, as though our Self is not ever-changing. To be human is so wildly inconvenient to so many of the structures we’ve been told to live within, and the continual practice of breaking out of them feels like courage.

Bending in wind, 35mm film

Five //
“One thing is certain, and I have always known it—the joys of my life have nothing to do with age. They do not change. Flowers, the morning and evening light, music, poetry, silence, the goldfinches darting about …” This is from May Sarton’s At Seventy and has me thinking about the joys of my life, how so many of them haven’t changed since middle and high school: Photography. Thrifting. Being in nature. Poetry. Music. Writing. Good listening. Solitude. The forest. Long drives. Flowers. There are so many that are so simple, so accessible. I imagine myself taking photos at age seventy and feel deep joy. I am asking myself, how can I center these joys more? How can I notice them more? How can I share them more? What would shift if I did? I hope we can all ask ourselves these questions, especially amid the chaos of the world, and let joy be a guidepost as much as the harder stuff is.

Thank you, as always, for being here.

△ Thinking about John & Yoko’s campaign for peace a lot these days

△ Accounting for taste, from

Haley Nahman

△ “Be careful of those who demand you remain neutral in the face of oppression.”

△ I loved this conversation between two incredible writers

△ Reading beloved May Sarton’s At Seventy: A Journal and so inspired

△ I’ve been loving this season of Off The Grid

△ For Keeps

△ The bounty of lemon balm that just re-emerged in on our yard—

a balm in many ways

With care,
Lisa