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

The Hospitality of Emotion

I love hosting dinner parties– the planning, shopping, prepping, pairing, cooking, connecting, eating, lingering– hell, I don’t even mind the clean up so much.  I’m pretty sure my most domestic moments happen in the kitchen. (Laundry? Not my gig, much to my husband’s chagrin.)  For me, cooking has always been a creative as well as a therapeutic outlet for me.  For a hot minute in my mid-twenties, I toyed with the thought of culinary school.  In my short-lived career as a sous chef at a local wine bar/cafe, I found that cooking on someone else’s watch for people I couldn’t actually connect with was a deal breaker. It hijacked the joy for me. 

I eventually discovered two real driving passions behind my love for all things culinary: the connection that happens around it and the creativity had in the process (oh, and there is that eating thing as well).  Hence, this favorite past time of mine—throwing dinner parties.  I get a buzz just thinking about it.  

We live in a world on crack–a world jacked up and in a constant crazed state of busy, exhausted, immediacy, devices, and traffic–all set to repeat.  Hospitality has become a lost art because it forces us to slow down and do things that can't be automated and/or bypassed by hitting the nearest Chipotle or even the newest foodie hot spot on the scene.  As a result, we lose out on a beautiful process that facilitates good old-fashioned, real-time connection, intimacy, and laughter.

This past Saturday evening, myself and five other ladies hosted a wedding celebration at my house. Having an outdoor sit-down dinner party in the young days of November in Nashville is like betting your life savings at a craps table in Vegas. It’s risky, if not ludicrous. 

Much to our amazement, God flexed his creative muscles and painted the most magical fall scape one could possibly ask or pray for.  The wind, cold, and rain came to a precise halt.  The sun-drenched rolling hills popped with a smattering of brick, gold, and orange.  The burn your-eyes-out blue sky held on patiently all the way up to sunset.  Between the outdoor heaters, cozy blankets strewn on every other chair, and the roaring conversation and laughter, we stayed warm well into the night.  It was delicious and lovely complete with clinking glasses, a stained table runner, and hours of clean up the next morning.  Perhaps my favorite part of the evening was the interesting mix of friends who came, both new and old.  Stories were shared, intimate toasts given, and wild connections were made.  It was truly a magical evening.  

As I sat back contentedly and observed conversations happening across the table, glasses being filled, fall flavors offering up their glory, something occurred to me...something big.

Why can’t we learn to practice hospitality internally with our own full cast of emotions? What if, we welcomed them openly, leaning in to the complex story they are trying to tell instead of handing them the keys to our misery?  I’ve been intrigued by this idea ever since, playing around with it in my head and heart…and I like it.

Emotions are a gift if you can believe it.  I sure didn’t for long stretches of my existence.  I always thought emotions had all the power, dictating the success of any given day from the moment my eyeballs popped open in the morning.  I used to feel totally powerless over my emotions, especially anxiety, she was a loud and clumsy beast.  What I have come to learn and embrace with open arms, and a big fat sigh of relief, is that my emotions are not who I am.  I am not my anxiety, sadness, hurt, depression, etc. 

They are also not against me.  Of course, there are more enjoyable ones we feel such as glad and excited; we tend to coddle them like spoiled children.  Then there are negative feeling ones such as guilt and anger we attempt to avoid like loud, messy roommates. However, the truth is they all invite us to the greater wisdom of our needs and desires.  Our emotions are a gift nudging us towards a more colorful, expansive experience.  

Just as the generous practice of hospitality beckons deeper connection and understanding of our unique perspectives and experiences across a dinner table, the inner landscape of our feelings long for a space to be heard.  How will we host these voices, facilitating a curious exchange, an open conversation?  Here are a couple of questions to ask them when they chime in, with their often abrasive tone.

What am I feeling?  Sad, hurt, fear, anger, lonely, guilt, glad?  Naming it identifies and externalizes it.  

Where do I feel this feeling in my body?  (Our body’s center of intelligence houses emotions just as our heart’s center does.)

What is the story you are trying to tell me?  i.e “I am afraid I don’t have what it takes to succeed, I'm not enough”.  “I am guilty because I spoke harshly to my co-worker”.

What is the need attached to the emotion? i.e. “I need some encouragement and affirmation, ” or “I need to apologize for reacting at work. I was pretty fried and took it out on Sarah.”

How will I meet that need?  i.e. Reach out to a trusted friend or have a conversation to set the record straight, etc…

Emotional hospitality removes unnecessary shame from our internal experience by letting light and air into dingy, dusty corners of our beings.  It swings wide open the door of our heart and places a fresh mix of flowers on the table, welcoming deeper connection and cohesion.  It nourishes our beings to live with presence and generosity.  When we are willing to curiously experiment with each and every emotion, engaging it like we would a stranger at a dinner party, we gain new insight and perspective.  We hear a new story.  If we listen closely enough, we may even hear our own story.  

Love & Gratitude,
Katie

Do It Afraid

Halloween is one of those holidays that’s not hot on my radar.  I don’t have a problem with it, I just don’t have much buy in.  And here’s why: growing up, my siblings and I weren’t allowed to trick-or-treat, let alone decorate the yard with creepy hollow-faced ghouls and witches riding rickety broom sticks.  You may have had friends like me growing up whose conservative Christian upbringing left little room for Halloween hoopla.  Instead, we were dropped off at a youth-group “fall fest” wearing plaid flannel, with a bonfire, some s’mores, and a singalong in our very near future.  

I’ve got a confession to make: To this day on Halloween, I turn all the lights off in the house, build a fire, and watch something relatively scary on Netflix over my favorite frozen pizza and a handful of the choicest Halloween candy.  Yep, I’m that girl who pretends not to be home. Okay, okay, I do leave a huge plastic pumpkin full of the candy dregs I passed on out on the front porch for those sugar-crazed tricksters who come around.  I’m not apathetic and heartless.   

It’s very curious to me that we celebrate a holiday that actually capitalizes on the emotional response of fear. 

I actually love it.  

I love it because in a peculiar way, Halloween takes all those things we’re supposed to fear—grotesque monsters with missing eyeballs, zombies, skeletons with strange looking hats on, and the like—and brings them out of the mysterious dark corners of our bedroom at night, placing them smack dab on the front lawn in broad daylight.  Then, we take it a step further and slap on a sugar-buzz that carries us right on through to Thanksgiving.  Brilliant, don’t you think?

It’s an invitation to stare down, and even mimic, the things that scare us. 

Not only is it an invitation to engage our fear, it’s also a reminder that our biggest fears are, in actuality, about as imminent—and convincing—as that rubber mask you dressed up in as a kid.  
In fact, ninety-nine percent of our fears don’t even happen.  Sure, fear has kept us alive as a species for centuries, however, we don’t necessarily need it for survival anymore as our primal ancestors once did.  

As you know, I’ve been radio silent ever since my trip out to the “Enneagram Camp” in California this past August. My time away was simply transformational and quite honestly, I’ve been gun shy to unpack it fully here on the blog. In fact, the experience felt like holy ground—a sacred passageway I’ll never forget.  

Perhaps this is because it was such a safe and inspired space to explore the fears that keep me operating out of my ego-or Enneagram type Four structure.  I spent lots of time exploring the masks I hide behind in order to show up in the world as special or significant, because if I didn’t, I might be found out as simply inadequate or worse—ordinary—an Enneagram type four’s living hell.   

One day I’ll unpack the whole experience.  For now though, I want to invite you to join me in facing those very things we fear the most.  This could be a part of you that isn’t serving you well, or perhaps a creative endeavor you’ve been putting off for a long time because it’s simply “too big.” It’s time we embrace those fears for what they really are and see them up close in broad daylight.  You know what Fear stands for, right? 

False Evidence Appearing Real.  

This season, I’m excited to invite you into more opportunities to break through all those old narratives of fear.  Stay tuned for lots of exciting Enneagram as well as community opportunities to connect in powerful ways coming your way soon.    

In the mean time, it’s time to decide what the next courageous step in your journey of self-discovery and expansion is and say yes to it.  Sounds terrifying, right?  Perfect, you’re on the right track.  

Just Do it… afraid. 

Love & Gratitude,
Katie

{video} Back to School: A Little Announcement From Yours Truly

Happy Tuesday!  I hope your week is off to a fantastic start. I wanted to put a quick video together for you today because I have some really exciting news to share with you. And part of that news is that I will be stepping away from the blog for the month of August and won’t be writing a weekly post and connecting with you on that level which I will miss. However, the reason for that is I am going to be out in California immersed in an intensive Enneagram training and Certification which I am beyond thrilled about. I’m definitely geeking out on the inside. If you know me, or maybe we’ve worked together, you know just how passionate I am about this tool called the Enneagram, which in my mind is the most transformational tool for self-development and growth. So, I am excited to build on my existing knowledge base and be able to serve you in a more dynamic and robust way.

I’ve also got some more exciting opportunities planned for you this Fall.  I will be sharing more on those when I return in September so stay tuned. In the meantime, I’d love to stay connected with you.  I will be posting on Instagram sharing a bit more about what I’m doing and what I’m learning so I’d love for you to join me. If you’re on Instagram, feel free to follow me at @katiegustafsoncounseling. It will be quite an adventure. I have no idea what to expect but I’m truly grateful and excited. I hope you have an amazing month of August and I cannot wait to connect with you on the other side. So, take really good care and I will see you soon.

 
Love & Gratitude,
Katie

Victim Much? A Guidebook (Asking for a Friend Of Course)

Let’s get right to it. When was the last time you had a pity-party?  You know, somebody let you down (perhaps this person was you), you then wrote a compelling best-selling drama in that head of yours deeming it an unfair situation, then proceeded to peace out and sulk (slowly) in the coziness of your favorite chair—the victim seat.  For me, this was probably last Wednesday. 

In fact, why stop at victim? Victim, rescuer, and persecutor are all tempting roles we each play, albeit unconsciously. It’s even probable you’ve explored these three destructive relationship roles within a matter of days or hours.  Here’s a great example. 

You are having the vacation of your dreams.  You’ve spent the last ten days exploring, eating, and indulging your way through Italy and now you’re set to return home.  As you settle back into your daily routine, you notice an extra five pounds mysteriously came back with you.  You feel gross and beat yourself up a little (enter persecutor, stage right).  

You decide you’re going to remedy this situation so you cut out all carbs, eat mostly kale prepared in every which way, and work out like a maniac for the next week (now the rescuer joins you from stage left delivering her clever and very convincing monologue). However, two days in you’re starving and extremely irritable and just too tired to wake up at the crack for that grueling hour of Orange Theory.  A pepperoni and mushroom pizza followed by some Ben & Jerry’s would take the edge off just fine.  

Guilt-ridden and sensing some indigestion, you get under the covers and go to sleep.  Life is too hard and you’re quite simply a failure.  The world is a pistachio-flavored mess and you’re powerless in her grip. (Ah, the intoxicating voice of victim slowly lowers down from the rafters lulling you to tears with her gut-wrenching finale…literally). 

Can I get a witness?

Whether you’re currently stuck in the trappings of a similar triangle, or are the victim of a much more serious predicament, I believe it’s necessary to understand what’s happening and learn to choose something different.  We’ve all been called to something higher and, let’s face it, victim simply isn’t much fun if we’re really honest.

I’m convinced everything in life is relational; that’s why we must explore the toxicity and damage we fall prey to when we inhabit these three roles.  They are insidiously subtle, making it almost impossible to detect when we move into and through them.  Why?  Chances are we observed others modeling that behavior around us growing up—subconsciously building them into our relational structural DNA.  Quite simply, these roles may feel familiar yet undetectable.  No, I’m not blaming it on your mother, I’m merely saying she may not have had the best teacher either and was doing the best she could at the time.    

When we understand the cold hard facts behind victim, rescuer, and persecutor, we can easily recognize the payoff involved and bust their chops, making it easy to access a way out of those childlike corners and into our mature, adult selves.  

Today, I want to focus in on victim as it can often feel the trickiest to detect and get out of. 

There is always a payoff for this destructive spiraling behavior...always. Otherwise our wise adult-governed self would remain in the driver’s seat forcing that reactive monkey brain to ride shotgun (or better yet...hit the back seat). If there wasn’t a payoff, we simply wouldn’t bother.   

It’s indulgent yet also painful to sit in victim.  After all, legitimate hurt and/or harm have landed us squarely into this role and it feels horrible—powerless.  Yet oftentimes we stay in victim far longer than necessary.  Why? Those payoffs we talked about. 

Here’s a few of them:

-Avoiding responsibility (“it’s not my fault” or “look what they did to me”)

-Getting attention

-Collecting sympathy (Poor, pitiful me…)

-Getting to be “right” (in order to justify a resentment)

-Proving myself to be “wrong” (in order to justify low self-worth)

So what now?

The minute that old victim Lazy Boy starts to feel a bit too cozy, catering to one or more of those old payoffs, I invite you to ask yourself one simple question: What is my part in this and how can I own it?  At the core of that victim mentality is a need attached to a wound, a need that I must tend to.  If I’ve had a misunderstanding with someone and feel betrayal or judged, my need is self-compassion and perhaps an honest conversation for clarification and resolve.  I must own my part in making that happen instead of having a pity-party in the fetal position on my bedroom floor like a petulant child.   Yes, it’s totally unsexy, but it’s also completely responsible.

When we own our part, we create a new, powerful way out of victimhood.  We now assume the role of creator in our experience, cashing in the small but familiar payoff we grew accustomed to receiving.  This shift in behavior is incredibly simple, yet so empowering and life-giving in relationships.  Perhaps the most invigorating part of this shift is the creative freedom found in taking responsibility for your own happiness.  You’ve stepped out of the confines of co-dependency.  You’ve put your ego in its place.  You are rocking those big girl pants. 

Welcome to the next level—you’ve officially quit playing small. 

Love and Gratitude,

Katie