Confessions From Within

I want to tell you about my life.

I want to tell you about my life. But in a way where it doesn’t have to make sense. I want to show you the messy, swirly parts that, at times, seep together in a hard-to-swallow, unidentifiable stew. I want to tell you about my dreams, but in a way where I get to discover them alongside you. I want to tell you about my fears, my longings, my endless search for wholeness in the moments where I feel like I can’t find myself, and how I am trying to accept the lostness as a part of the whole.

I want to tell you all of the ways that I am learning how to parent my son and reparent myself, and how even though I always knew this would happen — I never imagined it to feel like this. I never imagined the grief that I would touch, or the struggle of trying to see that what is happening inside me is an old truth, an old truth that is no longer true. An old truth that can relearn, can transform, can release; an old truth that I am trying to love instead of cast out to sea.

I want to tell you about the book that I finished last year, a book that I am returning to. I want to tell you that as I typed that last sentence, my hands stalled and shook a bit oddly, and that most of the sentence ended up with more spelling errors than actual words. And not because I don’t believe in the book, but because I believe in it so very much. I want to tell you that returning has not been easy, and that it has taken me all winter to hold it again in my hands. But now that I have, it feels like it is back where it belongs. I want to tell you the title because I love it. I want to tell you about Labor Land.

I want to tell you that so much feels like it is up in the air and that for the second time in my life I have been praying and looking to the stars for reassurance that what is being uprooted in me is a part of some beautiful cosmic plan. I want to tell you that the other time I turned to the stars was after my son was born, and that getting his chart read provided me with some of the deepest, unexpected healing after my traumatic birth. I want to tell you that after I spoke to that lovely and wise astrologer, I found peace in when and how he arrived because it made him who he is. I also want to tell you that I am very new to the cosmic world — well, should I say, it is new to my tongue.

I want to tell you all about my recent journeys in psychedelic-assisted psychotherapy. I want to tell you that when I write this, tears fill my eyes, and my heart warms. I want to tell you that I have finally found a way in. I want to tell you that I cannot stop learning, reading, studying, talking, and witnessing, and I am sure those around me, while they listen softly, are also batting their eyes in a tone of, we get it.  I want to tell you I am learning how to talk about it. I want to tell you that whatever happens in the body when you are falling in love is happening to me. I am awed, I am shocked, I am hopeful, I am healing.

I want to tell you that I connect with one of my dearest friends multiple times a day. I want to tell you that I never imagined a connection to be like this and that I am continuously in awe of how all types of relationships mend and heal. I want to tell you that there is great power in finding a friend with whom you can practice vulnerability, a friend whom you can ask for support, or share something that moved you, or randomly send overwhelmed messages about sick kids, identity crises, rainy days, dreams that haven’t reached the ground yet, heartbreaks, and heart-expansions, nature, or poems that have a way of melting the hardness that can stick around the heart. I want to tell you about my friend. I want to tell you how much I love being a friend.

I want to tell you about an experience that happened to me a few weeks ago. I want to tell you about a supposed-to-be chill Sunday morning. A planned morning of emptiness for me and my family to just be, no pressure, no plans, moving with the flow. I want to tell you that as much as I wanted all of that, that was not what came to be. Instead, I want to tell you that that morning, my son was struggling. His emotions and sensations so enormous and confusing — for all of us. I want to tell you that although I didn’t know what to exactly do, I felt what he was feeling. I felt the deepest unrest. I want to tell you about the restlessness that took over me. The restlessness that made me feel so unhinged and uncomfortable, like the feeling of an itchy sweater that you just can’t seem to get off. I want to tell you how thoughts were just not making sense, and I knew we had to get outside. I want to tell you how we found our way to one of my favorite parks. The park is laced with the Puget Sound. You can see the Olympics in the distance, a mountain range that holds the rainforest and magic — I am pretty sure. To get to the water, you walk through the forest filled with Ponderosa Pines, Coast Redwoods, White Oaks, Giant Sequoias, Douglas and Grand Firs, and Weeping Cypress — amongst many others. I want to tell you that when we arrived at the water, one of the strongest winds I had ever felt began to stir. The wind was so wild that my son, who was riding his scooter, was being taken places that he was not intending to go. I want to tell you that I had never seen the water so fiercely raging, and that the wind moving through the trees in the forest made such a sound that it was all that I could hear, everything else silenced. I want to tell you that it was one of the first times I felt truly seen. I want to tell you that my son and I were wide-eyed and overwhelmed by the beauty and the bigness of her force. I want to tell you that I felt pure joy in the chaos of it all, and so did he. I want to tell you that that Sunday chill morning ended up being one of the most profound spiritual experiences of my life.

I want to tell you about living. I want to tell you about the ways in which more is to be discovered than known. I want to tell you about the process of returning, of remembrance, of loving, of parenting, of dreaming. I want to tell you that I feel in it, not directionless, but also searching for direction. I want to tell you how moved I am by where I am, and also in this same breath, I have to keep reminding myself where I am. I want to tell you that awakening is uprooting in the best but not so comfortable of ways. I want to tell you that there appears to be a lot to weed through at the start of spring, and maybe that is just where things are right now. I want to tell you that I am grateful for this space and for you.

---

I also want to tell you about an event that I am hosting called Mother and The Mic. It has been something that I have been dreaming up for years. Here is a little blurb and some information about this dream.

When I think of one of my favorite things in the world - a thing that nourishes my heart and spirit and makes me feel more connected to others - I think of storytelling. I think of all the times in which I have witnessed others share their wisdom and the ways that their wisdom leaves me forever changed. I think of all the times I've heard someone else speak their truth and how deeply moved I've been, feeling tenderly touched by the remembrance that I am not alone and that we, in fact, need to hear that.

I have been dreaming up a space where we can come together to share our stories, our words, our poems, our journal entries, or wisdom from others that have touched us. I have been dreaming up Mother and the Mic.

This is a space where we will celebrate the essence of mother. All of your words are welcome. You do not have to be a mother to join, for we are all touched by mother. Whether you want to share about motherhood, about your ancestral lineage, your own mother, or the great mother, you are welcome and very much needed for this co-creation.

On Friday, May 10th, we will be gathering virtually, and then on Saturday, May 11th, I am hoping to offer an in-person gathering for all those in and near the Seattle area.

Click Here is the link to learn more or sign up to join.

Or you can visit https://www.leeshamonytherapy.com/workshops.