Extreme much? Here's another way...

I remember sitting in my therapist’s office several years ago (probably twelve).  Gail was her name and she’s everything a brilliant therapist is in my mind: accepting, compassionate, wise, firm, seasoned by her own broken story, and the kind of listener that makes you feel like you’re the only soul on the planet. 

I was in the chapter of my life I refer to as the “falling” stage.  Everything around me seemed to be crumbling and my job was to let it do so against every ounce of my will.  She held the sacred space for that painful season to unfold.  At every break, she simply wanted to better understand me, not try to fix me.  Gail saw me.

Have you ever been in that frustrating place where the best and safest thing to do is NOT break the fall?  I’ve often heard this with surfing and skydiving, for example (two pastimes I have zero experience with). In my understanding, there are actual ways we must learn to fall—to lean into the plummet. 

Resisting with tension, grit, and that secret stash of Xanax bars you snaked from your mama’s medicine cabinet aren’t included.

Gail patiently taught me how to fall, over time.  Something she said to me one day, in the vortex of my despair was, “Katie, it doesn’t have to look a certain way.  You get to choose.” 

Those words stuck with me perhaps more than anything else she ever said.  Funny how that works isn’t it?  We usually remember much more poignantly how people make us feel, not necessarily what they say.  However, these are some of the few words still glued on.

Much of my struggle was existing in a world of extremes—all-or-nothing thinking—you know,  “either-or.”  Either I would be alone and depressed my whole life with little hope for anything or I’d be Miss Perfect: married with kids, a clear cut path forward, an enviable career, oh, and liked by all.

Looking back, I’m so grateful that zipped up idea of success stayed just that, an idea.  

Falling for me meant moving from this dualistic, binary brand of extremes and living into the open relief that life, in fact, didn’t have to look a certain way.  It could be the messy middle, or, the “both-and.” 

I could feel striking depression and understand that hope was available.  I could feel lonely, longing for relationship and community and know that it very well may look different in several weeks time.  I could long for certainty and lean into the unknown.  Richard Rohr calls it “holding creative tensions.” 

Holding the tension between a longing and its unmet fulfillment is indeed a creative, tight space.  It looks a whole lot like faith.

Does your extreme thinking feel exhausting?  Do you find yourself awfulizing situations by projecting worst-case scenarios onto perfectly neutral possibilities? If so, I feel you. It’s a relentless crapshoot. 

I believe that old way of “either-or” is how we learned as kids to make sense of the world growing up.  However, as adults that rigid mindset needs some revising.  What if we could practice a softer, more curious approach? 

Next time you get stuck in either-or thinking, simply notice it, honor it, and let it be.  Then ask yourself what you’re needing in the moment.  Is it hope, acceptance, a friend, time, or provision? 

Find the space in that very moment that allows for the lack as well as the possibility.  “I’m overwhelmed with deadlines, and, I know there is light at the end of the tunnel.” Or “I’m so angry with my friend and how she’s treating me, and, she may be really struggling right now.”  

Let’s lean into the contemplative, creative space that invites more possibility, yes?    

Love & Gratitude,
Katie

How the Light Gets In

Last Tuesday I received some tough news—a beast of a horse pill to swallow.  I bet you can relate. Suddenly, your skin starts to feel cold, the room gets blurry, and the conversation in the room sounds like that droning “wah wah” teacher talk of Miss Othmar from Peanuts.  You’ve forgotten what you ate for breakfast and aren’t quite sure if words, tears, or laughter to mask the pain is appropriate in the moment.  The whole “adulting” thing seems entirely overrated.  

After a week to digest, readjust expectations, and lick the wounds of that blow, I’m feeling much better.  Time does provide the complex salve necessary to make sense of madness. However, inthe heat of the moment, I feel a primal need to find God, and fast—to run to that loving source of comfort.  I always sense that tangible power in nature.  Thankfully, the silver lining in that day was the gift of clear, crisp fall weather to temper the stormy disposition of my heart.  I did the only thing I knew to do: I hit the hiking trails at my favorite nearby park, Radnor Lake.  This is my high church.  For two solid hours, I got lost in her music.

There were no inspiring podcasts or feel good playlists on Spotify. I didn't even take my phone. Nor did I take pictures to later post on Instagram. I needed to be all in—immersed and undistracted by the false hit of social media’s temporary high.  I put one foot in front of the other, stared down creation, and looked for answers to my riddle.  I didn’t much find them.  

What I did find was far more literal if unsexy.  I noticed warning signs all throughout the park trail.  The warning signs kept barking, “Fragile Ecosystem,” followed by a slew of “don’ts” such as running, picnicking, dog walking, and the like.  In my 20’s, I’d scoff at these rules, reading them as light suggestions while running up and down the trails like a grinning, coked-up banshee.

Last Tuesday, in a more humble state, they made perfect sense.  If this nature’s trail was my Church, these warning signs had become the Ten Commandments.  

Now I’m all for mental toughness, make no mistake. The idea of training the mind to persevere in times of discouragement, and emotionally detach from circumstance in a healthy way so as not to fold under the deluge of emotion is a practice worthy of devotion.  That old victim mentality can sneak in the back door of our perspective and camp out indefinitely if we’re not careful!

Yet I do believe we must honor the fragile nature of our inner ecosystem.  We must do this by slowing down to honor our experience, feel the pain, and preserve our story with kindness and compassion.  Otherwise, we become proud, crusty iterations of humanity, bowing down to ego while abandoning true Presence.  We must stay soft—open.  

Therein lies the paradox, my friend.  It’s the constant toggling between bold action and bleeding vulnerability.  It’s the both-and, not the either-or.  When we lean into this tension, we build those tiny accessory muscles of resilience.  Resilience, over time, breeds a version of joy that outweighs happiness.  I believe true joy looks a lot more like equanimity than certainty.  

What broken pieces of your heart do you find yourself picking up off the kitchen floor these days? How did they get there? Your journey’s been arduous and I can imagine you’re weary—weathered.  No, you’ll never be able to fit all those pieces perfectly back together.  And for this you must grieve. But you must also take heart because God’s in the grieving and the healing.  He didn’t bring you all this way just to leave you.  As the brilliant Mr. Cohen says, “There’s a crack in everything.  That’s how the light gets in.”

Honor your story—your light—your pain.  It’s the only way you’ll find the courage to keep writing it.

Love & Gratitude,
Katie