Integrative Medicine Specialist, Intuitive Coach
If I had you by my side
What would I do?
You would see me
I would see you
A thread as old as time itself
Connects us at the heart
There is no end
There is no start
Time, it passes
And yet stands still
One moment or a lifetime
I never get my fill
Your thoughts at times call out to me
They stir me to my soul
A dream, a whisper, a chance
The fleeting glance we stole
There are times when I feel like I’m failing, or not “good enough”. But lately, I have really come to the realization that I am doing exactly what I wanted to do.
Sometimes I would get frustrated with myself and think “If I’m so determined, diligent and hardworking, why don’t I have more clients or why am I not making more money?” for example. Or, not so much now, (not since I had my West Nile experience), I used to think, “I wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember and now that I am, I feel like I’m not good at it or I feel guilty for not enjoying it more?” More than what? What was I comparing it to?
When I was making money in a career, I was wishing to be a full-time mom. When I became a full-time mom and caretaker of my home, I felt guilty for not being more career focused and bringing in more money. What was going on here? The common denominator was my mindset and thinking I needed to be something more.
A dear friend of mine from my middle school years helped me realize a couple years ago that I am already doing exactly what I set out to do since I was young. He said “Look at everything you’ve done, you went to school, you got your education, you’ve had your career, you’re raising a beautiful family as an awesome wife and mother. You are exactly the way I knew you would be since we were kids!” I had to take a step back and realize he was right.
The thing is, I was so focused on the family I had lost (when my parents split up and my world came crashing down), and how I had always “messed everything up” and “gotten it all wrong”. I was just thinking about how I always had to be better and do better, I was so focused on fixing that I hadn’t even stopped to realize that I, along with my husband and God’s guidance, I had built the very thing I set out to––a family; a strong, beautiful family.
Then, yesterday, my husband took the day off work so we could take some time to celebrate my birthday together. We didn’t do anything extraordinarily special, we went grocery shopping together (something we used to do when we first married but hadn’t done in years just for practicality), and we had a long lunch together. I was telling him that I used to feel guilty for not “working harder” at something that brings in money, but that I have now realized that we have the life we have because I have deliberately created margin in our lives for peace. He has the ability to focus on his career and how it can bless us because he does not need to worry about what’s going on at home or the well-being of his children and the state of our family because I have the time and space to do that. And we were able to take this day off to do simple things with no pressure, just peace, because we have been deliberate about creating it in our lives.
And then, I remembered what I had in my heart, close to 5 years ago after our youngest was born––I was on the cusp of a career change because destiny was calling me. I told myself that I was going to spend the next 5 years learning everything I could about natural healing, and seeing whatever clients I had space for, while raising the kids so that when they were all in school full time, I’d be ready to step into this new career as a natural healer. And I realized I’m doing it.
Those moments when I feel like I’m not doing enough or not getting it right come when I compare myself to other people’s journeys. I remembered that promise in my heart and it looks and feels like success to me because I realized I am doing exactly what I said I was going to do, and I’m doing it well.
I feel like a lot of people misunderstand Jesus and why he came here (to Earth). The Bible has been kind of ruined by stuffy, religious people who get too focused on rules and lose sight of a relationship with God.
Jesus was a radical and, I have to believe, the most confident guy to ever walk the planet. He did not waste time trying to prove himself to anybody, ever. I think of the story of when He was talking to the woman at the well. If you don’t understand the customs of the day this may not seem like a big deal but this woman was a woman with a reputation and she was not allowed to access the well in the cooler morning hours with the women of good reputation; she was also a Samaritan. So, a triple whammy, a woman, a woman with a reputation, and a Samaritan––Jews and Samaritans did not associate, a man typically did not spend time talking to a woman that was not his wife, especially one that had a reputation as an adultress. And yet, when His disciples arrive and ask Him why he’s talking to this woman the Bible makes no reference to Him offering even one explanation as to why He was talking to her. Nothing about what is right or wrong, good or bad about it, the story basically leads to the woman finding salvation and telling everybody she knows about Jesus and His greatness.
This is what I love about Jesus, he is just so BadAss! He does not explain His motives. He does not answer out of compulsion or a need to show others why He is right. He doesn’t break the rules but rather shows us that there is more to life than just following rules. Like when the Pharisees accuse His disciples of “working” on the Sabbath because they are picking grains of wheat to eat when they are very hungry––He shows us that the Sabbath was made for us, not that we were made to follow the Sabbath. Yes, we are to rest but not out of a compulsion to follow the rules. Rather, the Sabbath was made for us to rest and to take time to feed our spirits with time and attention. Jesus shows us that the rules are meant to care for us, not to control us; they are meant to give us our best life. The woman at the well would not have experienced a changed life for the better if Jesus had stuck to following the rules and customs of the day by not associating with a Samaritan woman. The rules are meant for people, not the other way around.
The “rules” carve out a straight and easy path for us to follow be we are meant to be led down that path by The Spirit of our Creator. The rules are meant to make our way smooth so that we can focus on what really matters: our connection to Source that allows us to be in touch with Self, others and our environment. Mmm, my heart feels at peace just thinking about that.
For the longest time, I didn’t think I had a story. No major traumas, no near death experiences, no escaping from a cult or whatever else makes an “amazing” story. I thought I was too ordinary to have a story that anyone would want to know about. Ordinary compared to what?
That was the problem, I was comparing myself and my story to others. Trauma is relative, and because I had grown up under a veil of shame I don’t even think I realized I had traumas for the longest time. Living with that much shame is a trauma in itself I think, but I’ll get into that in another post.
Another aspect of my hesitancy is that I don’t want to be a victim. I don’t want to be seen or labeled as a victim by anyone else because I don’t feel like one, at least not anymore. Sometimes, when I think about telling my story, I imagine other moms reading it thinking “oh that poor girl, if only…” focusing on how tragically pathetic I was and how I needed to be saved. I don’t want anyone’s pity. I just want to be seen. I want others to be able to read my story and realize that the kid, teenage girl, or the young woman, they are secretly or not so secretly judging––assuming she knows she’s wasting her potential, or assuming she’s making stupid choices on purpose––is maybe just floundering around in life, feeling invisible and in need of some love and guidance. She doesn’t need your pity, she needs your authenticity.
I just believed that all the stuff that happened to me or the things I experienced in my life were a result of my own clueless naivete and that if I hadn’t been so stupid none of it would have happened. And maybe that’s true, but it doesn’t disqualify me from having a story and needing to tell it. After all, I’ve learned from it, maybe someone else can too.
It has become quite apparent to me within the past 6 that I need to write and share my story.
So, I took a brief, but very useful and encouraging, writing course online with Reid Tracy and Kelly Notaras. Then, I bought Kelly Notaras book, The Book You Were Born to Write. She says in order to be a writer all you really need to do is write; you need a writing practice. In the book, she acknowledges her hope that the reader would write something after each section.
The truth is, I had made my 100 Days commitment even before I’d take the writing course or started reading her book. And, I’ve already written probably two posts about how I’ve been slacking off on this commitment. It’s probably not realistic to write everyday when you have small children around-–that was probably the most common excuse I was telling myself. And although it’s valid, it’s still an excuse. Then I was procrastinating my writing because the things I have to say are not always the easiest to write about––but who cares? No one is reading this blog right now, no one but me! “Stop making excuses!” I tell myself.
But then I remind myself about the physics of progress; and knowing the way I am, I need to establish a writing habit first and then get into the nitty gritty stuff, while allowing space for the nitty gritty to flow naturally whenever that is the case.
So, here I go, practising: Today I read about the difference between traditional publishing and self-publishing and what’s involved in each avenue. Regardless of which avenue I pursue, it’s evident to me that I need to begin, or rather resume, building my audience. Though, with self-publishing this is less of a deterrent as I can start and publish without having a large audience; traditional publishers, because of the way the business works now, they basically won’t even look in your direction if you don’t bring a large audience to the table.
Given that I feel pretty shy about telling my story, I would probably prefer writing it without a huge audience at first, I really like to process my own thoughts before sharing them. Either way, it’s a beast. Writing a book, is a big undertaking. It’s also a path of self-discovery and that is what I’m most looking forward to. That, and all the people I will meet and get to know along the way!
I have a lot to say. Typically it’s deep stuff, not your first-date kind of conversation. I’ve noticed a lot of people don’t like this or can’t handle it; I get it, it’s not comfortable looking at stuff that challenges your belief systems. I’m not saying this to imply that I’m better than anyone or that I’ve got it all figured out, but I’ve learned how to lean in. To lean in and look at what’s behind that discomfort.
This morning, a lot of great stuff came up during my morning exercise/meditation routine that I wanted to write about and I was going to get to that as soon as the kids were off to school. But then, I started cleaning my kitchen. “Just quickly get the dishes into the dishwasher and clear the sink,” I told myself. But that turned into washing all the dishes that couldn’t go into the dishwasher, wiping down all the countertops, stove and table and sweeping, etc. I noticed I was procrastinating. I was putting off writing about all those things that are so important to me. Why? Because looking at stuff that challenges your belief systems is uncomfortable and I’ve struggled nearly all my life to believe that I matter.
Putting my thoughts down in writing makes them more tangible and real and only people who are smart enough or qualified enough (compared to who?) deserve to have a voice. At least that’s what I’ve struggled with: believing in myself; believing that I’m enough.
What if I fail miserably? What if I’m misunderstood? What if nobody even notices? So many what if’s, but the bottom line is this: the only thing that’s going to help me overcome the fear of not being good enough is to do the very thing I’m afraid I’m not good enough to do.
Even if, as I write these posts, no one else is reading them, there will come a day when others do see it. That is, after all, why I’m doing this, teaching myself how to tell my story and how to talk about it in a way that might benefit others or save them from going through the same crap. I have learned and been impacted by other people’s stories, and so it matters––my story is important.
I was using my clean house as a way to feel as though I’d accomplished something. Instead what I noticed is that I would have a cleaner house but I would still feel unaccomplished at the end of the day because I wasn’t doing the things that really matter; what I came here to do. I’d have a cleaner house but my heart would feel cluttered and weighed down with all the dreams I’ve left there tangled amongst the weeds of everyday life. And now I’m realizing I’d rather have a messy house and a clean heart. And, as I begin to cultivate those dreams and coax them out of my heart and into reality, the rest will follow.
No sooner do I write a post about how much I hate hypocrisy than do I catch myself in it. Perhaps this is why I hate it so much. It is a sneaky, slippery slope, and easy to fall into.
My sister was coming to visit yesterday, which the kids always get really excited about, and I found myself making a secret phone call to her ahead of time asking her to smuggle in some Sour Patch Kids candies to replace the ones that I told the kids I’d share with them. I did share with them when we first opened the bag, but then over the course of the next week or so, I polished off the rest. (Insert *eek face*. I rarely buy sour gummies and this is why!)
The kids have probably forgotten about those candies already, but rather than face the prospect of telling them that I’d eaten the rest without them, I was trying to pull of a scam. I could hear my inner voice accusing me, pointing a finger and demanding me to remember what I had just posted about. I could feel the familiar grasp of shame starting to creep in, so I looked at that. What was I worried about? What was I trying to avoid? It was more than likely that the kids wouldn’t even ask about those candies and I wouldn’t have to face it. But more importantly, what lessons was I robbing them of if I just pulled off my scam and replaced the candies? What would I be doing to myself by bringing yet another bag of those delicious temptations into the house again?
Wouldn’t it be better to be honest with them? I know, as a kid, it didn’t help me at all to try and believe that my parents were perfect when I could clearly see they weren’t––nobody is.
I didn’t go through with the candy smuggling. And if the kids ask about the candies at some point, I will tell them they got eaten and that one day we can buy more. And it will probably be a good opportunity to talk with them about self-control, and even some strategies to help us with our self-control.; like not buying a lot of candy and keeping it in the house.
Rather than save my pride, I decided to give my kids the gift of this opportunity to learn about how not perfect their mother is, so that they too can be relieved of that incredible pressure to be perfect.
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s hypocrisy. I don’t like being told what to do on a good day, (I know, this is a flaw of mine, I’m working on it), but I hate being told what to do or not do by someone who will or won’t do those very same things. Even worse, those who make demands of others and in their manner of doing so contradict the very demands they are making.
I remember one time, when I was finishing up my last year of high school, I had arrived slightly late after lunch to my afternoon class. I was walking down the hall toward the classroom, still had my headphones in so I didn’t hear the principal when he called me. I was the only person in the hallway and I was steps away from my classroom door when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Excuse me, I was calling you. Why are you ignoring me?” “I’m not ignoring you, I had my headphones in and I didn’t hear you.” “Come to my office please.” So I followed him to his office. “I’d like to know why you’re late to class.” “Umm… because you stopped me from going into my classroom and brought me here to your office.” That probably would have been enough, but I wanted to make my point, so I continued, “What you need to know about me, is that I’m 18, I’m an adult. I’m a year behind because I have a baby already, so I’m not here to mess around. If I’m a few minutes late, it’s because I have things to do. I was only two minutes late before, now I’m going to be 10 minutes late because rather than letting me go to class you have me here wasting your time and my time.” What could he possibly say to that? I went to class.
That was 20 years ago but it stuck out for me because it was just so ridiculous to me––even if I told him nothing about my situation, how does he justify making me later to a class I was about to step into just to ask me why I’m late??? What did he think he was accomplishing there?
Because I had my first baby at 17, I lived with my dad for the first year. That was a frustrating year, because my dad wanted to tell me how to do everything, or rather how not to do everything. Don’t do this and don’t do that, even though those were all things that he either almost always did with me (where else did I learn them?), or rarely did with me growing up.
I had a friend who offered to help me out with my social media at a “discounted friend rate”. They never gave me a proposal nor a plan for their services but then took the liberty to criticize and critique the content I started putting out after hiring someone else. Sorry buddy, but you had your chance to contribute to my message. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind receiving some criticism, but show me that you’re in a position to do so and I’m all ears.
I don’t care who you are, if you’re going to tell me what to do, at least make sure you are doing the same things yourself otherwise I’m not interested in what you have to say about it.
I noticed this a lot about 6-7 years ago when people were speaking out against being “fat shamed”. I saw a lot of angry posts online about how no one has the right to call them fat, or “yelling” at the proverbial bullies about how they have to love them (fat people) exactly as they are. Now, that’s just one example, and I’m not advocating or condemning any body type or size here, I’m merely using this example to point out that yelling at someone else to accept you exactly as you are and to shove it with their opinion of you is basically the opposite of what you are asking for, isn’t it?
If you are truly happy with yourself and loving the skin you’re in, there is no need to force it upon anyone else. The emphasis is on the wrong party. If you want people to love you exactly as you are, you need to love you exactly as you are.
My disdain for hypocrisy a pretty big part of why I have such an issue with what’s going on right now in the world. A government can’t say it’s acting in the best interests of the people they supposedly represent if they completely ignore the plight of the majority of the citizens. If the mask is supposed to be a health measure, don’t expect me to wear it without knowing a single thing about my health and my own personal situation. If all the research for the past few decades has said the opposite of what your new “science” is telling us now, and yet the new “science” somehow doesn’t apply to the people enforcing it, yeah sorry, I’m not convinced. This quote George Orwell’s Animal Farm about sums up what’s going on these days: “But some animals are more equal than others…”
The thing about not being a hypocrite is that you actually have to live consciously. You can’t be lazy and keep your word all the time. It takes effort and paying attention to not be a hypocrite; you have to live on purpose, own your mistakes and take responsibility for your actions.
I am guided by what used to be common sense; it’s not so common anymore, but it still makes sense. I don’t need a doctor to tell me when I’m sick, or the news to tell me when there’s an actual pandemic out there––I can feel it and I can see it.
I’ve lived almost 40 years of my life, my mother and grandmother and great grandmother many years collectively before that. I’ve watched them and the wisdom that has carried our species for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Clean water and fresh air, sunshine and healthy, fresh foods, plenty of exercise, rest and laughter, and good old TLC is what has kept us going and going strong. If the fact that we are here as living proof of that isn’t enough, until 2020, it was common knowledge, backed up by decades of research, that the preceding list is what has always worked best.
When scurvy was an issue, what was the answer? Vitamin C from citrus fruit. When rickets was a problem, and also seasonal affective disorder (SAD), what was the solution? Vitamin D, through both sunshine and supplementation. Babies cared for in orphanages were shown to thrive when they were held and given affection in addition to the basic needs such as food, water and shelter. Research over the years has shown that children learn best through play and socialization, and school curricula were even adapted to account for this. I could go on. But now, suddenly in 2020-21 all the aforementioned findings seem to be moot according to the “new science”.
Do they really want us to believe that we have evolved so much from one year to the next, such to the point that now the opposite of what used to work in the past is what we really need? I wouldn’t even call that evolution, then. If we need to rely on even more crutches and “outside” solutions like masks and vaccines and curfews to keep us safe, I’d say we’ve devolved––that does not sound like a species that is getting smarter and more well adapted to its surroundings, if you ascribe to the theory of evolution.
No, I know what I know. My faith has been tested time and time again, and here is what I know: My God shall supply all my needs according to His riches, not my limited knowledge or experience, but according to the goodness and richness of His supply. I know that we are made in the image of God, little replicas, we are made to imitate and be like the Almighty God. The God who spoke and brought the Universe forth with the sheer power of His word. I know that when I read and listen to His Word, written for me full of promises from Him, my faith grows stronger and drowns out fear. I have learned that whether you want to take the Bible literally or figuratively, it works, it’s that powerful. I know that when I speak to mountains, they move––whether that mountain is called sickness, or lack, or fear or any other name you want to put on it.
I know that my body was made by the Divine Designer and therefore it is not flawed, but perfectly equipped to give and get what it needs to and from its environment. I do not need to inject toxins and extra chemicals and substances into my body in order for it to learn something. My body is a highly intelligent operating system that processes all kinds of information about my environment and surroundings. I know that my body interprets the collective wisdom from the Great Spirit and translates it in a way that is relevant to me, and that when I pay attention to what is needed at the time I will always have everything I need. And, that it comes from within.
When my youngest was a baby, in her first year of life, she was dealing with severe eczema. No big deal, you might say, if you know nothing about eczema–– before this trial, I knew nothing of eczema. I heard eczema and I thought dry skin on your knees and elbows, maybe a little itchy, whatever.
I learned that there are different types of eczema, that had varying symptoms of varying degrees caused by many different things. G had weeping eczema with an insatiable itch. This meant that she could scratch herself till she bled and still, scratching the itch would be the only thing that would satisfy it, even if she was cutting through her skin and bleeding, which she did.
I rarely slept as all of my waking hours were spent caring for her, being attentive, carrying her almost non-stop and watching her like a hawk when I couldn’t so she wouldn’t start scratching, because I knew she couldn’t stop once she started. I could barely sleep even when she slept because I was listening for any little stirring that would indicate she had woken up and would start scratching. I swaddled her, tightly, for longer than you would swaddle most babies, in attempts to keep her from scratching in the night. I kept her little nails trimmed at all times. I would put little mittens on her but she quickly learned how to remove them. More than once I would awake to find her sheets bloodied and her cheeks scratched raw. Her siblings all had to be more patient and settle for less attention. Our marriage required a lot of patience. Diets and activities were restricted. Everything revolved around trying to keep her safe and give her some sort of relief. Needless to say it was a trying time for all of us.
The 3:00 am feedings were spent researching everything I possibly could. One night I came across mitten sleeves! I couldn’t seem to find any stores that carried them in my city, but thankfully that week my dad happened to be in Chicago. I found a store there that carried them and asked him to bring me some. They were exactly what they sound like, a sleeve with mittens, made of silky satin, on either end. Because it was a sleeve, she couldn’t get them off; they did have openings that could be folded back during the day for play time or eating when I could be right there with her. Hallelujah!! I could finally take a shower that lasted longer than two seconds or put her down to cook dinner without worrying if her face would survive. My dad had brought me two pairs of mitten sleeves; it was what he could find, and they got non-stop use. It didn’t take long before they began to form holes from the constant use––she would still rub her face, which would give her some relief but also save her cheeks; they had to be washed and kept clean all the time. Thankfully, one of our wonderful neighbors made her two more pairs and a friend of mine was able to repair the originals. I can still remember how it felt, the relief of getting back some semblance of “normal” life when those sleeves came on the scene. I had already forgotten what it felt like to not live on edge, concerned all the time.
It hadn’t always been like that. Her first three months were amazing. She was the happiest little smiliest baby I’d ever seen. Always laughing and giggling. A very good sleeper, at about 8 weeks or so I could get a good 5-6 hours of sleep each night, but that didn’t last long. Right around her third month she began to develop eczema––I’ll talk about the whys and hows of this in another post; including why I believe those first 2-3 months were so great. From there, it was about 9 months before we would finally be able to start unravelling our tightly wound nerves from being on constant edge and alert.
I spent so much time with her, but I feel like I missed a lot of it––measuring progress on her recovery rather than growth milestones. (Thank goodness for the first-year baby calendar I kept for her, as well as a little journal; at least we can go back and read about the life we were living as opposed to the disease we were experiencing.)
One of the things that added to the difficulty of the whole situation, was that it was so visible, you could see it all over her face. All kinds of well-meaning people would approach me telling me the things they tried when their kid or grandkid had eczema. Others, would stare, some of them probably judging me with whatever reason they needed to tell themselves for why a parent would dare to leave the house with their kid suffering like that, wondering what I was doing wrong . Others I could see the pity in their eyes, and I just felt even more pitiful, because I felt there was nothing I could do and that I had already tried a million and one things.
I remember one time, while making supper, after having obtained the mitten sleeves, looking over at G in the Exersaucer where I had placed her, and my once jolly, smiley baby looked forlorn and depressed. I had never before seen a “depressed” baby. She just looked so sad and hopeless. It broke my heart. It was such a contrast from the happy, smiley baby she was in her first three months. Now, a few years later, G has beautiful skin. And, as the baby of the family is always goofing off and doing stuff to get a laugh out of us. She is a very happy, healthy little girl. (I will talk about the natural healing side of that journey in another post.) But I wondered at that moment, if I would ever see her smile again.
That’s how it is, isn’t it? When you’re in the eye of the storm, it can be very hard to see anything beyond. While I would never, ever wish to repeat this experience, nor wish it on anybody, I am grateful for the lessons I learned. Coming through this trial, and many others, has taught me to have faith in the gift on the other side.