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I’ve been a musical theatre nerd since a very young age with a stint of fan sobriety for about a decade.1 In that decade, the musical Hadestown was finding its way into the world, making its debut on Broadway in 2019.

Because of my musical theatre moderation during those years, I missed the original Hadestown craze. Once I healed quite a bit and realized that I truly do want to do theatre, I spent a lot of time catching up on what I missed in the commercial theatre world all those years.

With the release of the Hadestown pro-shot this summer, I finally fell down the Hadestown rabbit hole and I can confidently say that it’s now one of my favorite musicals. The storytelling, the music, the humanity…

And Persephone is one of my favorite characters in musical theatre. Ever. Period.

When the movie ended and I got in the car, I said out loud, to myself, “I want to play Persephone someday.”2 That’s a bold statement since nothing in my external world shows any evidence of this happening. But I’m also not going to hinder myself by saying it’s not possible. So instead of telling myself that the reality of that desire isn’t likely to happen, I just focus on what’s in front of me, create what I feel called to create, and watch bootlegs of Hadestown to memorize Persephone’s blocking in case I get the call tomorrow that they need someone to step in because the principle, understudies, and swings are all out for emergencies. (I do watch and memorize because that’s the sort of stuff I do for fun in my spare time, but the last part was a joke)

Of course, I have ruminated on why I’m so obsessed with this character. And then I saw this meme.

I, too, contain multitudes of justified rage. From being raised and abused by a narcissistic mother that hated me3 to living in a body that has gone through different major illnesses that resulted in living on dialysis, brain surgery, and having a hysterectomy in my 30s. From religious indoctrination and spiritual abuse to being groomed and sexually assaulted as a teenager by clergy I trusted, I have had seasons where I felt I had to rebuild my body from the ground up and I have faced my emotional wounds and spent years doing the work to heal.

I have seen darkness and I have inhabited hell.

But through everything, I’ve held onto the spark of magic I knew was inside of me as if it were the canteen of water keeping me alive while trudging through a dessert of despair. Tapping into the whimsical magic lurking in the murkiness of my story has been part of what has kept me alive.

I kept writing, I made up silly characters, I made a documentary, I laughed at absurdity… It’s as if I kept a tether to that imaginative, whimsical child version of me. And that whimsy feels like the golden thread holding together all the past, present, and future versions of me to help me make it through this bizarre experience of being human.

I know that I am a whimsical delight but I have fought with my whole being to hold on to the softness and child-like whimsy I carry today. It’s the saying, “No one knows the violence it took to become this gentle.”

Capitalism and media have monetized whimsy for the sake of marketing, clicks, and commerce. Type “whimsy” or “whimsical” into Pinterest and you’ll be met with a grid of “whimsy-maxxing” visuals with links to buy yourself the latest whimsical trend. From quaint cottages covered in quirky wallpaper, to garden gnomes, and costumed porch geese. It’s a playground for the “whimsical aesthetic.”

And there’s nothing wrong with glimmers of whimsical magic. I’m the target audience. I’m one of the first people attracted to it. I’m an Enneagram 4 who, as I write this, is staring at a garland of fabric mushrooms that I made and hung over my office window. Next to me is my trinket and crystal collection organized on a letterpress drawer hanging from the wall. All of my house plants have names, I talk to the trees on our property, and I’m on a personal mission to befriend the crows in my neighborhood.

But much like hope is carried with bloodied hands and broken bones, whimsy is magic alchemised from internal bleeding sustained from the beatings of those you thought you could trust. Whimsy isn’t just fairy wings, bedazzled Stanleys, and ruffled boho dresses. It’s singing through sobs and dancing to regulate a body pushed to the abyssal depths of an emotional canyon. Whimsy isn’t only fairy gardens, but the dirt under the nails of the hands that made that garden who needed to feel the grounding of the earth, lest their mind slip away to despair.

I’m talking about some real, fucking whimsy. The kind that would have gotten us burned at the stake in a different century. The kind that yes, acknowledges the evil4 in the world, but refuses to succumb to hopelessness. This whimsy illuminates beauty with defiance that rages against systems and injustice with a hope and spirit of magic that some may think is stubborn, but is actually an incredibly brave thing a person can do.

That’s the kind of whimsy I’m talking about.

To me, being whimsical is living through the horrors, choosing not to bypass them, to face them head on, while also choosing to create something even when everything logical is pointing to that being foolish behavior. Being whimsical is maintaining a child-likeness while navigating life with the emotional maturity of an adult.

It’s the kind of creating that, even if it’s not a direct commentary on the horrors, the fact that a human created it in the midst of the horrors is, itself, what makes it whimsical. Because creation is magic. Evil only dements and destroys. It can’t create. So by creating, we’re doing something the evils in the world literally cannot do. That’s the kind of whimsical magic that’s rebellious.

It’s Persephone running a speakeasy in the Underworld to bring glimmers of earth to the individuals going through hell.

Creation can be as big as writing a musical based on Greek myths. Creation can also be as small as noticing a rock and placing it in your window sill because it brings you joy. Both of these acts of creation are whimsical.

If we incorporate whimsy into our lives as a means of sticking our heads in the ground or exploiting through our Pinterest affiliate links, then we’re positive bypassing systemic harm and unintentionally becoming a part of the problem.

Don’t be whimsical merely for the external aesthetic. Do it for how it moves, motivate, and changes you internally so that you can show up more authentically in the external world.

I know the cost I have paid to maintain my whimsical spirit.

Which endears me to Persephone and I empathize deeply with her. When she’s on earth, she brings life and joy. The half of the year she spends in hell, she keeps her spark of whimsy. She spends her time advocating for those in hell and brings them pleasures from the earth above. (The premise of her song, Our Lady of the Underground)

Granted, Persephone coped through drinking. I’ve had my coping mechanisms. Relationship patterns, disordered eating, and one I’ve talked about on the internet many times over the years is how I’ve struggled with trichotillomania since I was ten years old. Adopting mechanisms to cope with pain is part of what makes us distinctly human. Though alcohol can be damaging in many ways, Persephone’s need to cope with her circumstance through alcohol, endears me to her and I’m overwhelmed with empathy for the humanness of her struggle.

We are all light and shadow. Shallow and depth. Spring and winter. The earth above and hell below…

The bad things in life aren’t what define us. It’s how we react to the things that happen to us that make us who we are.

Some people, when wrong is done to them, they think everyone else should suffer like they did. But others, when wrong is done to them, they want to make sure no one else ever suffers like they did.

I’ve always wanted to be the latter. And holding on to my whimsy has kept my heart soft and open.

I’ve lived part of my life in hell and, because it’s the nature of human experience to live in cycles, I know some day I’ll be there again.

But through each trip into the underworld, may we always contain whimsical multitudes and bring life, love, and delight everywhere we go.

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On June 8th I woke up with a tickle in my chest.

“That’s kind of weird you remember something as small as the exact day you woke up with a tickle in your chest, Hannah.”

Our brains have the beautiful gift of neuroplasticity1 and I’ve done a lot of work to change certain things about the way my brain operates. You know, like healing old, negative patterns of thinking and harmful beliefs about myself. But there are some areas where it’s a losing battle and my brain’s going to work the way my brain’s going to work. I can’t remember what I just ate for lunch 30 minutes ago, but I can remember what color shirt you were wearing when we met 10 years ago and that I woke up at 7:13am on June 8th with a tickle in my chest. I had a voice lesson on June 9th that I had been looking forward to for over a month, so the date is logged into my prefrontal cortex.

I woke up that day feeling like bees were buzzing in my chest just from breathing. I knew I was going down, but festooned on DayQuil and denial so I didn’t have to postpone my voice lesson the next day. I still had a voice and could sleep and recover after.

Side note: In a delightful clusterfluff of events, our internet also went out that same afternoon of June 8th because, while tilling his yard to lay new sod, our neighbor accidentally cut the fiber cord that, we discovered, the internet company didn’t bury in the ground. My lessons are online and I had no internet. Cool. Cool cool cool cool.

So the next morning I found myself at my best friend’s house with her very confused orange cat wondering why the redheaded human that always scoops him into a ball and kisses him ferociously is in his guest bedroom singing Being Alive like Phyllis Diller.

I wasn’t TRYING to sound like Phyllis Diller, Nugget. I just DID.

Getting sick is an event for my nervous system. I get anxious when I start to feel a sickness come on. It may be a little cold to a lot of humans, but for me, a little cold in the past has turned into life-altering sagas. The Rotten Tomatoes summary of my dramatic medical history:

BIG DEAL #1: When I was a kid I had hemolytic uremic syndrome and had a long sleepover in the hospital. My kidneys stopped working, I lived on dialysis and my family was planning my funeral because they were told I wouldn’t survive. But I did. Because I’m a goddamn fighter and pretty fucking stubborn. My kidneys recovered and, besides a few infections and some fluctuating levels depending on what I put in my body, have done well over the years. But now, I don’t like taking meds unless I absolutely have to because I don’t want to stress out my kidneys. Because, you know, those fuckers almost killed me.

BIG DEAL #2: When our twins were infants, my body’s immune system forgot that it had a few decades of experience and also acted like an infant’s immune system. I swear I was on and off sick for a majority of their first year of life. Then I started hearing my heartbeat in my right ear really loudly and it would not go away. Then pressure started building in my head like a blood rush and over time, I was living 24/7 like I was hanging upside down. Over 2 years of this mystery illness and 12 different doctors telling me “it’s just something you have to live with,”2 a neurosurgeon figured out that the pressure and unrelenting pulse in my ear was from a blockage in my brain. It was keeping my cerebral spinal fluid in my head causing a buildup of pressure and keeping it from flowing around my spine, causing excruciating back pain. And the buildup of fluid was putting pressure on my optic nerve, causing my vision to fade. He came into the room with my MRI results and was like, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

And I was like, “Doc, I’m married.”

And he was like, “No, ma’am. It’s because you need to have brain surgery or you’ll have a stroke at any moment.”

A short while later I woke up in the Neuro ICU with a Harry Potter scar on my head from the hole he drilled into my skull to fix my brain.

Since I had been constantly sick before the brain shenanigans started, we placed our bets that some virus mutated into something more dangerous. Those bastards can do that. I have a friend who had heart failure from a virus and now lives with a pacemaker. All from a little cold.

So on June 9 (I remember random shit, remember?) I made it through my voice lesson and crashed after. The crashing lingered and I had to postpone my next lesson. By the time I made it to my postponed lesson almost two weeks after I first felt sick, my Phyllis Diller voice had turned into a Harvey Fierstein voice.

I did what I needed to stay safe singing in my second June lesson and practiced being in my body and figuring her out through abnormal circumstances while doing something that’s already vulnerable for me on a good day.

At the end of the lesson, my teacher encouraged me, pointing out how much I had grown over our time together. Nearly two years ago when we first started together, I was scared to make sound. But here I was making sound, playing around with my voice to figure it out even with the constraints I had from being sick.

When she said that, the overwhelming feeling that hit me was, “I’m safe.” Like, I could cry just writing those words.

I told her that my life now has a wide net of safety, allowing me to feel free to take risk, which includes playing with my voice. My marriage has always been a safe place. My family life now feels safe. The friends I surround myself with are safe. I’ve had to intentionally build safety in my life. Almost 9 years ago I cut off contact with my abusive mother and the family that perpetuated her abuse. I’ve deconstructed the faith I was born into and left abusive evangelical systems. Once external safety, was established, I’ve done a lot of healing over the years to feel safe in my body and with myself on the inside.

When our inner voice, our sense of self, and our freedom to figure out our own autonomous humanity is stolen from us, it takes a lot of work to heal, figure out who we are, and what our voice sounds like. Using my voice has always been too risky. There were consequences for using my voice in my home of origin and in the religion I was born into. I’ll be 40 next month and it’s taken this long to heal from those wounds. I continue to heal them every time I choose to show up and use my voice. And it gets incrementally easier every time I show up.

The goal in this lesson wasn’t perfection; it was a time to gather data about my voice, my body, and how they’re connected. Even though I was struggling in my lesson, my nervous system felt safe enough to show up sick and make mistakes to figure things out.

And when we feel a sense of safety - on the outside and inside - we build our capacity to do things that feel risky. For me, that’s been allowing myself to be seen, to be visible, to allow my thoughts to be heard, and to sing. I hadn’t even realized that was the case when I said it to her out loud, but I was playing around more with my voice — not just because I felt safe with her, but because I now feel safe in my body and in my life.

Creativity In Human History

Since that moment, I’ve been thinking about this idea of feeling safe enough to take creative risk versus creating from the energy of survival. I’m not a licensed mental health provider so I can’t speak from a professional stance. But I can speak from my own experience.

Human creativity has existed since we have. Creativity isn’t just about making art. Our creativity has kept us alive as a species. Our ancestors creatively figured out how to start and control fire. We figured out how to build sustainable shelter. We engineered systems to distribute water sources in order to grow food. We saw a problem and we creatively sought solutions to prolong our collective survival.

Once we created a baseline to guarantee some level of survival, we were able to create and invent from safety to bring convenience, beauty, and wonder to our lives. We created machines to write words and share thoughts more widely, and ways to store and cook food inside of our homes. We learned to build bridges to shorten the distance between two locations and invented more efficient modes of transportation. We designed variations in architecture, built stunning cathedrals and temples, and adorned spaces with detailed art created by human hands.

It’s part of our evolution and our beautiful brains to create. The energy from which we create is another story.

Creating from Survival

I finished my mid-June voice lesson and by early July, I was still feeling the effects of whatever sickness I came down with a month before. I had already taken one round of antibiotics and steroids from my GP and my voice returned to normal, except now, my right lymph nodes and throat hurt and my ear had a lot of pressure in it - similar to the very start of my brain surgery saga. I was nearly positive I would be ok, but my body was simmering with anxiety because my body remembered. I got a referral to see an ENT and they could see what was physically going on with me. I took a stronger round of antibiotics, started daily meds, and I got the all-clear in my follow up.

In the middle of all of this, trying not to spiral, I shared my brain surgery story on Instagram and remembered that I made a documentary about it.

I’m so far past that time, I forgot that I created a piece of art — a documentary — from the years I dealt with my brain. The only moments I think about it are when I get sick and I’m like, “please don’t happen again!!” Or when my Harry Potter scar tingles before a thunderstorm. “Is my brain breaking again or is The Dark Lord near?” I’ll ask (in a British accent of course) before the first crack of thunder in the distance confirms my scar’s weather prediction.

I documented most of the two years looking for answers for the progressively worsening chronic pain, my brain surgery, and my recovery afterward and I turned that footage into a documentary. For those two years with my Mystery Illness, I spent countless hours in Facebook groups and on subreddits reading others’ similar stories and their quest for answers, searching for my own. The desperation for relief in peoples’ stories was palpable. And I felt a tinge of guilt for finding reprieve from my pain while others were still suffering. I was new at filming and editing, but I wanted to tell my story in case it would help point anyone else going through the same thing toward their own personal path of figuring solutions out for themselves.

But I also had to literally do something creative with the trauma and pain I went through those years leading up to having brain surgery. I honestly think that having a creative outlet to tell my story is part of what helped me survive that time.

That time feels like a completely different life than the one I’m living now.

At this current stage of my life — turning 40 and married 18 years with two almost-teens — I’ve been saying that I feel like I’m coming into the creative version of me that’s always meant to exist. And part of that is true. I’m coming into the creative version of me that’s meant to exist at this moment in time as a result of what I’ve been through and all the work I’ve done over the past 40 years.

But I’ve been saying it as if I haven’t been creative my entire life. As if this is the only creative version of me that exists. As if being an artist hasn’t been part of the DNA of my soul and why I’m put on this planet. As if I haven’t always been made up of the same evolutionary resilience that existed in our ancestors that kept them alive and that allowed them to create works of art that move humanity toward deeper depths of wonder and awe.

I’ve forgotten the value of the creative iterations of me from the past that have helped me survive, that existed under the circumstances of my life at that point in time.

The 8 year old who put thumbtacks in the bottom of her church shoes to make her own tap shoes so she could teach herself Fred Astaire’s tap routines from Easter Parade in the privacy of her garage.

The 12 year old who spent her own money to buy every Judy Garland CD at her local music store so she could teach herself to sing like her.

The 16 year old who pretended to be at basketball practice for weeks but secretly auditioned for Grease at her community theatre and played a small part in the ensemble without telling anyone she knew.

The naive 22 year old who wrote a 30Rock spec script and submitted it to a random NBC email address because she thought the world worked like Lana Turner getting discovered at a drug store counter.

The desperate 29 year old who made a documentary about her brain surgery to persevere through the excruciating pain and the dismissal she experienced from a dozen doctors.

All of those past creative iterations of me have been creative in her own way of surviving. She did everything she could to hold her creativity above water to allow it to breathe while she was forced below the surface, left to drown. And because she couldn’t breathe, the energy of those creations were rooted in survival - in a desperation to be seen and for someone to validate her work, living in the anguish to be picked and for someone on the outside to direct the path of her life.

When we’re in survival mode, we’re operating from our brain’s amygdala, engaging our fight, flight, or freeze response. In the realm of creating art, one of the characteristics of survival mode is creating from a place of scarcity. That means thinking like…

“This one audition is my only shot to do anything with my life.” or

“I got rejected by this literary agent so my book proposal is dead and I’ll never be a published author.” or

“If no one wants to produce what I create, that means what I created is crap.”

I know these things feel true, but that’s scarcity lying to us. That’s the survival mechanism in our brains kicking in. The truth is that these moments are one point on the timeline of our creative lives. The more we heal our trauma and our nervous system, the more we build our capacity for seeing the bigger picture of our lives instead of just what’s immediately in front of us. We can begin to see every moment that doesn’t go our way as a lesson and every experience as a bridge that leads us to the next creative version of ourselves. Is it easy? Oh my god. I literally LOLed typing that! I’ve stood at the precipice of many bridges kicking and screaming in a tantrum. I even walked away from theatre for over 15 years kicking and screaming because I literally could not move forward. For fifteen years! I had a lot of inner work to do. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that’s what needed to happen. Once I was at a baseline threshold of healing, I could hear the faint whispers of my intuition beckoning me toward the creative work my soul came here to do and I chose to move forward to cross the next bridge into the next creative iteration of myself that was meant to come next.

And such is the process for the rest of our lives. Creating…listening…being beckoned…choosing to follow…creating…listening…being beckoned…choosing to follow…

And each point builds a creative life.

Regardless of their capacity and scarcity mindset, those past versions of us kept our creative spark from asphyxiating under the lapping waves of the world’s weight. They kept that spark from dipping below the water’s surface and extinguishing. You could say our present selves are doing the same for our future selves. Every version of us that exists on the timeline of our lives is the reason a present, more healed version of our creativity is able to show up in each present moment.

Creating from Safety

Now, I’m operating — not just from a stable baseline that has been built from the need for my survival — but from wholeness and safety that allows my nervous system to continue the work of expanding my capacity for growth and for what I feel is possible for my creative life. It actually allows me to work toward my dreams instead of feeling like I’m taking one step forward and two steps back. Or worse…abandoning those dreams altogether.

Healing can turn survival mechanisms into superpowers. Similar to how our ancestors had to first figure out how to build a home to withstand the wind before they could build something like the Empire State Building, I had to learn to survive before I could build my capacity for safety. Creating from the energy of safety doesn’t carry the weight of life and death. I had to learn how to heal my nervous system in order to allow my nervous system the capacity to hold more. This is a life-long process; We will always be in the midst of expansion, especially as artists, because no one creative work is the same.

Because I feel my creativity operating from deeper levels of safety now, the energy of creation feels much different. Safety doesn’t create from scarcity. It creates from abundance. I can play. I can explore with freedom instead of feeling like I have to land on perfection the first try. I can explore my voice without the looming dread and shame that hits when people hear me. I can show a first draft to a group of collaborators and receive feedback because my goal isn’t about external validation, but about telling the best story possible through the work. I can make creative mistakes and learn from them without feeling the desire to evaporate.

I’m working from the inside out, rather than the outside in. My creativity will exist whether or not anyone validates it and I’m going to continue working on my artistry regardless of how it’s received. Not from ego, but from having built my own internal sense of worth and belief in myself as an artist and creative human.

Creative risk can be big or small. It can be as big as being the lead in a professional musical and it can be as small as opening your mouth to sing in the privacy of a voice lesson with a trusted teacher. No one level of risk is universally correct. The level of risk is subjective based on the artist and their capacity at the moment.

Safety and Privilege

All the past versions of ourselves did what they could to allow that spark of creativity to survive, no matter what survival mechanism they were rooted in.

I can cringe that the college version of me who auditioned for shows and twisted herself into a pretzel to be what casting wanted her to be, was desperate for their affirmation. I can cringe that my editing for my brain surgery documentary isn’t as tight and clean as I would make it with the skill level I have now. But what I won’t do is shame those past versions of me. Our past selves still showed up in the creative capacity that they had at the time and that’s something that our present selves should hold with great respect. They were brave. Without those past iterations of our creativity, we wouldn’t be the artists we are now, able to hold a larger capacity of visibility, skill, and creative risk.

I’ve been incredibly privileged to have the time and space to heal — not just my brain from chronic illness — but my mind and my heart from so much psychological and emotional trauma over my life. That healing has provided me with stability and allows me to create from a place now rooted in safety.

Creating from safety isn’t a prescription because to be able to create from safety is a privilege.

Safety is a privileged position to be in, both in our bodies and with our resources. I’m a cis white woman in a hetero-presenting marriage with societal and class privilege. I have systemic privilege as a white woman. I’ve had the privilege of mental health resources, of distancing myself from my abusers, and to build my emotional support system through my spouse and my chosen family. Not everyone has the resources or privilege to create their art in the same capacity. They may be constantly creating and adapting through survival.

Let me be clear: creating from survival doesn’t make the work or the process less valuable than being able to create from safety. They’re two opposite banks of a river. Each of us are on our creative boats, and at different points of our lives our boats vacillate between the river bank of safety and the river bank of survival. For those of us with privilege, our river’s width is more narrow than those suffering in oppressive systems that have a much wider gap to travel between their bank of safety and their bank of privilege.3

Not everyone has access to safety. But yet, they still create. And that’s beautiful and something we should use our safety privilege to put our time and resources into supporting other artists. I want to be a safe witness to and staunch supporter of others’ creative endeavors, especially when they’ve created from a place of survival.

We’re a resilient species. And every iteration of our creative selves — no matter where they fall on the spectrum between safety and survival — is a brave act we should all honor in every artist.

Regardless of where our individual creative boats sail between the bank of safety and the bank of survival, no singular creative endeavor is what defines us; Creative is what we are. Versions of us will feel safe when we create and in other seasons those iterations may feel like we’re operating from survival. Life is a fluid journey, vacillating around a spectrum of experiences and emotions. We create art and share our stories, not just for us, but to hold up a mirror to reflect humanity. And the place we find ourselves when we’re creating that art, contributes to the greater collective, regardless of whether it’s created from survival or safety.

The act of creating is an adaptable, ever-evolving dance with whatever creation asks to be birthed from us over the course of our lives.

Thank you so much for being here! Your presence means so much to me!

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In her book, Writing Creativity and Soul, writer Sue Monk Kidd tells a devastating story about the first piece of writing she submitted for publication. She calls the vulnerable risk to send her short story a “radical act” for that moment in her life. A month later her manuscript was returned to her with only three words written across the front page: THIS IS USELESS!

She says this rejection, “decimated me with doubt.”1 There was no accompanied formal rejection letter or gratitude for the time and effort and thought it took to send in her work. Just a sharp, “THIS IS USELESS!” declaration on her work.2

I would have been decimated too.

A while later, she heard Maya Angelou give a lecture about writing. At this lecture she says, “Dr. Angelou made the clearest, simplest, most profound statement about writing I’ve ever heard...She said, ‘There are only three things you need in order to write. First, you need something to say. Second, you need the ability to say it. Finally, you need the courage to say it at all.”3

For Kidd, Dr. Angelou’s words made writing feel possible. Now, decades later, Sue Monk Kidd is an acclaimed, well-known, international best-selling author who has had her writing adapted into other forms. Her book, The Secret Life of Bees, was adapted into a movie and (what’s exciting for this theatre nerd) a stage musical.

It’s wild to me how moments show up in our lives like the moment for Kidd at Dr. Angelou’s lecture. These moments are the exact prescription we need to make something click inside of us to help us realize that the thing we feel called to is possible for us to do.

I’ve had moments like this over the years, even one within the last week (I shared on Instagram) that facilitated a breakthrough in learning to sing. This collection of moments have helped me realize that sometimes the only one holding me back is myself because I’m waiting for someone to give me permission to do what I want to do.

The older I get, the more fearless I become when it comes to my creative endeavors and the more confident I am in pursing them. Don’t hear me say I’m fearless. I’m still quaking in my Birkenstocks. But the more minutes I add to my life, the less I care about being trepidatious with creative risk. And I hope that fearlessness continues to grow with age. But even now, the measure of fearlessness I’ve embodied since my late teens and early twenties when I was an aspiring actor and writer, is gargantuan. And at almost 40, I’m more bold, more confident, and more sure of myself than I ever have been. (While also acknowledging that I have a long way to go, but celebrating where I am now and how far I’ve come.)

I’ve spent a lot of time putting off being present in the world with the fullness of my words, my voice, and my creative work because it has felt too risky. Too vulnerable. Too many things have stamped me with THIS IS USELESS! across the top page of my life.

Turning 40 this year has entered me into a bit of a midlife crisis of the good kind - the inspired kind.

If the average life-expectancy is 80 years, that means I’m halfway to the end of my life. And the question Mary Oliver asks in her poem The Summer Day, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” has played in my psyche every day of my 39th year.

Why the hell would I spend the next 40 years I have left - if I’m lucky enough to have them - waiting for permission to do the creative work I feel is meant to come through me and manifest into reality?

The boldness of that question doesn’t happen over night. It’s taken years of deep inner work and healing, deconstruction of faith and systems, and restructuring a framework that guides me in my existence to even ask myself, “Why the hell not?” But even though I’m asking myself that question, that’s only the first step. It’s all theory until you choose to take action. Action requires motion, no matter how small. It doesn’t mean I jump into projects frivolously. I have to gauge my energy and margin and what ideas are worth pursuing because I do have a family and children to support and bills to pay. And I still have to work through crippling perfectionism, self-doubt, and cringing at being a beginner at skills I’m learning that will help me be a better artist in the long run. The point is about taking action, even if it’s incremental.

And I’d like to think that any action I take toward my creative ideas would garner me some level of recognition. But just because we choose to stop waiting for permission and move forward in the work we feel called to do doesn’t mean we’re guaranteed fame, or accolades, or whatever external recognition it is that we desire.

I’ve learned that so often there are so many external variables outside of our control that contribute to how our work is received. There have been many movies, books, and Broadway shows that have flopped - not because the work wasn’t good or valuable - but because of timing, news cycles, oppressive structures, or societal events outside of the creators’ control. Our work can be at the whim of the same circumstances, in addition to algorithms and people’s short attention spans.

Choosing not to wait for permission to create is a journey with our internal self; it’s not dependent on the outside world.

If we’re creating simply for recognition then we’re still waiting for permission by handing over our agency to outside reception of our work. It’s not wrong to want external validation for the creative work we put in the world, especially when capital or other people are involved.

And there is this cyclical relationship our creative work has to an audience; If it’s a piece that we want to share publicly, we can’t create in an egotistical vacuum as a creative jerk-off with the expectation of positive public reception. Gross. We do need to honor an audience and keep them in mind in the midst of creation. It’s the same reason I will write and edit this piece with the reader in mind before I hit publish. Or as I’m writing a play, I try to be aware of anything that would interrupt an audience from their suspension of disbelief while watching the play.

Engaging an audience is part of the creative skill.

It is perfectly valid to want that audience to be larger rather than smaller, and to want what we make to entertain, engage, educate, or be lucrative enough to make a financial living from our creative work.

I, too, get discouraged when I put work out there I’ve labored over and it’s met with mostly crickets. At this point, that’s usually the case. Not to be self-deprecating, but it’s just my reality at this stage. I’m not a popular writer. I’m not a famous performer. But I am an artist with a deep passion for creative expression, writing, and performing who keeps choosing to show up where she can. And every time I show up, regardless of recognition, I grow my creative muscle for a day when my work is widely recognized.

If I stopped writing and creating every time I put something out there to the reception of silence, I’d stop creating. And then I would feel my soul shrivel up and die because I chose to give away my creative potential to the forces of external validation.

That sounds so sad.

To help readjust my attitude and discouragement when my work isn’t as publicly appreciated as I’d like, there’s a few mindset shifts that I’ve tried to implement when it comes to my creative work.

First, I try to look inward and ask myself what it is that I learned from creating the work. What changed in me in the process of its creation? What did I learn about myself? What did I learn about the art form that helped me grow into becoming a better artist? Nothing is wasted.

Second, I choose to continue moving forward to the next creative work I’m meant to bring into reality.

In his book, The Creative Act, Rick Rubin says that “every creative work is an entry in the diary of your creative life.” I made the creative entry, I honor it, now it’s time to move on to the next. It reminds me of characters I’ve seen in movies who have one moment of popularity and they try to ride that wave for the rest of their life because trying again and not having that same level of recognition feels too risky. I can be empathetic to that, but if we don’t move forward we’re stunting our growth, both personally and creatively.

I’m not talking about positive bypassing or ignoring the sadness or grief we feel when one piece isn’t praised. Plowing through our feelings only harms us in the long run. Feel your feelings, but we must also be aware of the scarcity mindset that tells us that we have nothing else valuable to create and give besides that one project. We are wells of artistic potential! Feel through the disappointment and get back on the creative horse to make the next piece of art meant to come through you.

Third, I try to remember that creative work is time travel.

I started this piece by referencing a story Sue Monk Kidd told in Creativity Writing and Soul about her experience with Dr. Maya Angelou. I can’t imagine that, when Dr. Angelou stood on that platform and spoke, she imagined me, miles away and decades later, being influenced by her words. But yet, here I am. And perhaps for Sue Monk Kidd, she might not have imagined how her words influenced this piece. And I might not imagine that someone reading my words years from now may be inspired by them.

We never know who in the future our creative work might reach. Artists are time travelers delivering messages to people in the future. I don’t want to be the one standing in the way of that person receiving what they need to receive by not doing my part and creating what I feel I need to create.

Fourth, I want to be interested in resonance more so than reach.

In this 1979 New York Times article, James Baldwin said, “You write in order to change the world, knowing perfectly well that you probably can’t…the world changes according to the way people see it, and if you alter, even by a millimeter, the way a person looks or people look at reality, then you can change it.”4

There’s this weird tension I’m constantly grappling with - and have for years - that cringes at the pursuit of numbers. But at the same time, I believe in the thing I’m creating that I would love for a wider audience to be exposed to it because I believe what I created has value.

The tension for me is between resting in the gift that is, like Baldwin said, “[altering] even by a millimeter, the way a person looks…at reality” and wanting a larger reach so that more people can have their reality shifted by a millimeter. There is a validity in one person’s reality being shifted by our work. There is validity in wanting many people’s reality being shifted by our work.

Baldwin acknowledged this tension: “You write in order to change the world, knowing perfectly well that you probably can’t.”

I want to rest in the resonance of one person being affected while also desiring to reach many people because I believe what I create is worthy of a wide audience…while also creating because I feel called to it and not with the goal alone of wide recognition.

What we create isn’t for everyone. And if that means my reach isn’t as far, I want to be ok with that. But the ones that it is for, I want what I made to resonate deeply.

The first step to any of this, is taking action to create something…and not waiting for anyone’s permission to do it.

I want to acknowledge that this mentality takes an enormous amount of privilege.

About 16 years ago I went to a book signing for a very popular blogger and writer who was touring with their book. I had admired the creative work they did on their blog, enjoyed reading their book, and was excited to meet them. When I got to the signing table, I told them how much I like what they were doing and hoped I could reach the same level in my work some day.

“Well, if I can do it, you can do it.” they said.

This person was swimming in generational wealth before they even started writing and had the resources to hire anyone to make their vision come to life.

I walked into the book signing excited and left complete deflated. No, I could not do it like they could. I was a one-woman shop with a point-and-shoot camera, a full time job, another part-time job, applying for a subsidized living. There was no professional photographer, social media manager, or personal assistant. Just a scrappy twenty-something, working tirelessly on her blog in hopes to become a professional writer someday. I know they had good intentions to inspire, but their statement came across as ignorant and made my artistic goals feel impossible. It was the first time I truly realized how much privilege plays a part in popularity or success.

We don’t all get the same 24 hours in a day. If a person has to work a full time job (or more) to pay the bills and support a family, the risk of the creative work not paying off comes at a higher cost because they have less time, energy, and resources to budget if their goal is to make a living with their creative work. It’s a higher risk.

But I also think not waiting for permission can apply regardless if creativity is your vocation. If you feel called to create a piece of work, you don’t need anyone’s permission to create it. What happens after the creation is made is a separate endeavor. Everything before external forces are involved, is a personal, internal journey between us and the work asking to be made through us.

Make the thing without worrying about what other people think.

Like, Dr. Angelou said: You need the courage to say it at all.

What have you been waiting for permission to create?

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A few updates about what creative things been going on with me…

I started a video series on social media called Learning to Play Again.

I’m showing up as my full-self, autistic quirks, no makeup, singing bad notes, and telling stories about how I’m learning to play again as a (almost) 40 year old woman. By the time I turn 40 in September, I want to look back at this season of life and know that I didn’t hold back. That I faced my fears of being perceived, of showing up in process, of making messy mistakes, and learning from everything that comes across my path.

I’m posting these videos on Instagram and TikTok if you’d like to follow over there. But you can also follow my YouTube channel where I made a playlist for these Learning to Play videos so you can find them all in one place.

The Dishes Can Wait Podcast is still going strong!

I’m really proud of this project Aaron and I have created and I think we have something special going, with more to come. There’s lots of laughs but also so many solid gold moments we hope help encourage people. Follow us on Youtube, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.

We’re also on Instagram and TikTok.

Thank you so much for being here! Your presence means so much to me!

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In our latest episode of The Dishes Can Wait podcast, Aaron asked me a question that both excited and terrified me to answer. He asked, “What is your creative process?”

If you watch the episode on Youtube, you’ll see my eyes pop out of my head like a cartoon when he asks this question. That’s because it’s a question that feels as existential and exciting to me to talk about as, “What’s the meaning of existence?”

I don’t have the answers, but I sure do like to meander around that field of thought, turning every stone and examining every wildflower and mushroom and creature that crosses my path.

There’s countless rocks and wildflowers and mushrooms and creatures to examine!

The metaphor is getting away from me. Back to the point…

Was I excited to try and articulately condense my creative process into a succinct answer? Heck yeah. If I could live inside of these kinds of conversations all day, every day, I would. But was I intimidated by this wonderful and gargantuan question? You bet your butts. It’s such an exciting question to me, I wanted to do my best to beautifully convey an answer.

Did I do that? Just a little bit.

I answered off the cuff to the best of my ability in the moment about one tiny aspect of my process that was on my mind at the time. But there’s so much more to excavate and processes are constantly evolving as time moves on, as projects come and go, and as I evolve as a person and an artist.

Hearing an artist’s creative process captivates me. I’m enamored whenever I get a glimpse into how creativity manifests in the lives and processes of artists across mediums. Do they move immediately when the seed of an idea is dropped into their laps or do they let it percolate to see if the idea sticks around? What tells them that this is an idea worth following? What routines and habits do they implement in order to pursue a creative idea? What beliefs about themselves or the world have to shift in order to make a creative idea come to fruition? How do they deal with the vulnerability of being seen? How do they regulate themselves in the middle of a creation? And specifically for performers: how do they regulate and ground themselves in the midst of performance?

Some of my favorite examples lately of artist’s creative processes:

I have a friend who wrote a spooky one-woman show last year but only worked on the script at night because it facilitated the mood of the piece she was working on.

When I took voice lessons with my last voice coach, I was working through my own performance psychology and how trauma has manifested in my psychology around my physical voice. So I’d spend time in our hour-long lessons asking her questions about the brain, body, and voice connection and her creative process for embodying all the mental factors that go into song performance.

One of my absolute favorite podcasts is Stages, first, because Stephanie and Marylee have a wonderful ability to facilitate conversations with depth and sincerity. But also because they interview creatives who often share a peek into the workshop of their creative brain.

Jenn Colella posted a Substack piece about how she speaks to herself and prepares her mind and body before performing.

Charlie Puth shared in detail on David Begnaud’s podcast about the sensory sensitivities that compel his art and how music helps him cope with his sensitive nervous system.

Recently I went to a performance of Mighty Acorn Production’s Red Maple at The MATCH where they were hosting a talkback with the playwright, David Bunce, after the performance. Though this was my first introduction to this playwright, I wanted to ask him about how his writing manifests in his creative workflow. He shared that the very first thing that drops into his brain is a moment of dialogue between characters. He will write out that dialogue, it snowballs, and before he knows it, he has a fifty page draft.

I’m captivated by the details all of these artists have shared. I love getting to witness, even if it’s just a peek, into the creative process of other artists and I hold it with reverence and respect.

One part of the creative process that has been at the forefront of my mind lately is nervous system regulation.

What is the nervous system and how does it manifest?

The nervous system is made up of two parts: the central nervous system and the peripheral nervous system. Our central nervous system consists of our brain and spinal cord that are safely tucked away in the skull and vertebral canal of the spine.1 All of the other nerves in the body are part of the peripheral nervous system that then send signals to our central nervous system which receives, integrates, and responds to sensory information and generates motor output to coordinate behavior and maintain a balanced internal environment despite changing external conditions.2

This physical component of our bodies not only affects us physically, it affects our entire being — from our emotions and psychology to our attachment and our relationships. Everything we experience in the world is being filtered through our nervous system.3

Our brain is constantly receiving information. All of the sensory information that we receive from the outside world — not just in the present moment, but also collected over the course of our lives — affect our ability to process information, regulate our bodies and brains, and engage with the world.

Incredibly simplified: It’s why a noisy, crowded space might make someone feel over-stimulated. It’s why someone yelling may trigger past events of a caregiver continually screaming in anger. It’s why visibility might feel unsafe or why we know how to perform, but when we’re under pressure we flail everything we’ve prepared.

A nervous system that is dysregulated has a greater potential to involuntarily activate the amygdala in our brain which is responsible for our flight, fight, freeze response. Amygdala stimulation causes intense emotion, including fear and aggression.4 If this happens, it takes a conscious effort to deactivate the amygdala and activate your frontal lobes - the part of your brain responsible for voluntary actions like reasoning, thinking, movement, decision-making, and planning. This takes recognizing when your amygdala has been activated and learning what grounding techniques work best for you to bring yourself back into regulation.

A regulated nervous system has the capacity to translate external information in a way that helps us to act with intention and purpose.

What does this mean for the creatives?

It takes conscious intention to work with the stories of our bodies that are experienced and remembered in our nervous system.

Our nervous system affects our creative process, from the inception of an idea to the execution of the technical skill that brings that idea into fruition.

There’s the technical skill and then there’s the ability to share the technical skill with the world. Both require some level of regulation. If we’re learning a creative skill, our brain and body needs regulation to receive and retain information and then to practice to a level of mastery. If our specific art form requires performance or sharing these skills with others, there’s a level of nervous system regulation we need in order to do this. If our nervous system is dysregulated and causes our amygdala to flip into flight, fight, or freeze mode, then our bodies cannot perform because our brain is seeking safety.

If we’re dysregulated, creating and sharing a piece of work feels like torture, almost impossible. But when we’ve paid attention, learned our triggers, and developed tools to help regulate our nervous system, the act of creating and sharing feels much more possible and…dare I say…enjoyable.

This is why I’m so interested in the creative process of artists. An artist’s nervous system is a part of how we exist in the world. What and how we create and share, gives a glimpse into our nervous system regulation. And vice versa: our nervous system gives a glimpse into how we create and share our work.

For the last year I’ve been dipping my toes back into theatre and performance spaces, first by taking voice lessons and then a playwriting class last year and writing a full-length play. This year so far, I’ve taken a scene study class and have even (GASP) gone out on auditions! The last time I did anything like this was in my early twenties drowning in dysregulation, steeped in high-control religion, with a self-esteem so low I was desperate for someone to tell me that I was good/pretty/talented enough because I couldn’t believe it for myself.

Now, besides working on the art form itself, I’ve been paying most of my attention to how theatre and performing feels in my body this go around, almost 20 years later.

And it feels really, really good. Tears came to my eyes as I typed those words.

I’ve come a long way in twenty years. I’m a different person, now grounded in my worth, untamable to high-control systems, and healed in ways I wouldn’t have even imagined twenty years ago. So stepping into theatre spaces feels familiar yet my brain and my body don’t exist in these spaces the way they used to because my nervous system has healed and is able to regulate. I’m able to enjoy the process. This makes for a completely new experience for me. I’m able to play more freely, make creative mistakes, and learn from them without it affecting my entire sense of self.

All because I’ve done so much trauma work that has given me more margin to be able to regulate my nervous system.5

All of us who consider ourselves creatives come with a past and with stories that live in our bodies. Every crevice of our lives affect our nervous system which, in turn, affects the ways in which we create and the ways in which we present those creations to the world.

Nervous system and Visibility

We don’t create in a vacuum. Part of the creative process is allowing ourselves to be seen in some capacity. Creative endeavors can result in sharing our work with others and, for emotionally healthy individuals, it takes a well-regulated nervous system to feel safe being seen.6

Back to the moment on the podcast when Aaron asked me “What is your creative process?”

Besides my eyes popping out of my head, you probably don’t know that this was a moment for me to practice regulating my nervous system.

I have a lot of trauma around using my voice, both metaphorically and physically and part of my healing is a lifetime of facing those wounds. That means speaking up even when my thoughts aren’t perfectly formed and articulately communicated with the level of perfection that I desire…especially when it’s something I’m actually passionate about and feel like I could talk about ad nauseam. Which was the case with my answer to his question.

I could have given my answer more thought had I known the question ahead of time. But in planning this particular podcast episode, I intentionally asked Aaron not to tell me what his opening question would be because I’m trying to publicly practice being in my discomfort of not having every word methodically planned out with articulate accuracy. Rather than hiding behind the time and space that writing provides, I’m trying to exist in a more public space where I speak up, allow myself to be seen, and my thoughts to be heard with my literal voice. I’m committed to work through my wounds because I want to accomplish the creative dreams I feel like I’m here to pursue. Hosting and producing a podcast is a practice for me to allow myself to be seen and heard without reading a script or performing. It’s a low-stakes way to give my nervous system opportunities to practice regulation in the midst of visibility.

Part of this healing is acknowledging my nervous system, how it shows up in action, giving myself opportunities for visibility, and being gentle in working with myself and my nervous system through every opportunity.

Please don’t hear me say that I’ve perfected my relationship to visibility. Dear GOD. Do we ever?!?! I’m still dry-heaving over a trashcan from a simple Substack post that only a few of you will read. By the time you’re reading this, I’ll be lying in my bed wanting to disappear like half the population at the end of Avengers Infinity War. I’ve just learned (and continue to learn) that visibility comes in and with cycles.

Any time I share something, I have a vulnerability hangover. This entails a moment of catastrophizing followed by a small wave of depression. I’ve had to recognize the pattern then build the space for this into my creative process in order to help my nervous system regulate. I create, I share, I have a moment to let the depressive wave from vulnerability wash over me, then I move on to create the next thing - not to avoid the feelings, but because I’m a vessel and I want to be ready for the next idea to come through me. As creatives, it’s not about one singular project; Every project is an entry in the diary of an artist’s creative life.7 I’ve learned that the less I fight the wave and allow the depression to wash over me, the faster I’m able to move through it to the next diary entry meant for my creative life. And this cycle changes shape over time, mediums, and levels of risk, but that’s the framework I’ve learned works for me.

We practice with the small opportunities so we’re able to better regulate our nervous system when the big opportunities cross our paths.

Art is a long game. It’s about the process. And part of the process is learning ourselves and the tools to regulate our nervous system as artists so that we’re able to present our creative work to the world.

The irony! What a paradox. The thing I love to do - write, perform, create - requires visibility which directly confronts my default desire to crawl under the covers and live like a hermit, never to be perceived.

But I’ve found that often the things we feel called to are the things that stretch us the most.

When we are intentional to examine ourselves and do the hard work of regulating our nervous system, we are able to endure the stretch a little better. From that, we are able to truly, more wholly step into creating the art we’re meant to create.

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Before I launch into today’s piece, I wanted to share an update with you: My husband, Aaron, and I launched a podcast! It’s called The Dishes Can Wait.

This podcast is what it’s like to sit down for a meal with us. It’s an invitation to join us at our table for thoughtful, funny, deep conversations that flow in such a way, you’ll forget to check the time. Our goal is to make you feel like a welcomed guest in our home, part of a circle of friends who linger for the stories, the laughter, and the kind of connection that make the hours slip away unnoticed.

In our introductory episode — Episode 0 — we talk in brief about doing a podcast together that ended nearly 8 years ago and what led us to starting fresh with The Dishes Can Wait. (In Episode 5 that comes out later in December, we go into even more detail about our transition from a faith-based podcast to our current podcast endeavor. So make sure you subscribe so you don’t miss that conversation.1) You can go to our website to find our links on YouTube (it’s a video podcast!) or good ‘ol Apple Podcasts and Spotify.

But one of my favorite aspects of this new podcast is our Substack. We wanted a place where we could engage in conversations with listeners. We publish a post with each episode that has the show notes and transcripts, of course. But also, my favorite part are the questions and conversations we can have with one another. So if you’d like, feel free to subscribe.

The Dishes Can Wait

A podcast for good company & conversation that lasts longer than dinner. Forget the clock, listen in, and linger longer at our table.

By Hannah B. Makes

Listen to the article here.

Our family had the opportunity to go to Greece a few years ago where we toured and visited numerous ancient sites. Unlike my American East Coast neighbors who are more likely living around some early American sites,2 as someone who was born, raised, and lives on the Gulf Coast of the United States, I’m barely exposed to things from the early 1900s, much less anything earlier. So being around architecture from thousands and thousands of years ago left me in a delicious existential mind warp because of their age and history. The most profound experience for me was visiting the Theatre of Epidaurus. As a theatre major I spent my undergrad years studying Greek theatre and theatre history so I felt a particular connection to this site.

As I stood at the very top of this ancient theatre, I wondered if the writers and artists creating works on that stage thousands of years ago could fathom that someone from several millennia in the future would have read their work and be looking down on the stage where they performed?

How mind-blowing and beautiful it is that this process of creativity and storytelling has been happening with us humans since our inception, and that we can experience today the creative wisdom and beauty that came out of our ancestors millennia ago.

I’ve been writing on the internet for over twenty years and for the majority of the time I’ve measured the success of my writing by metrics. Rather than being proud of the fact that I made something and shared it with the world, I’d gauge any success by how many eyes were on what I made.3 There were seasons — especially during the blogging boom of the early 2010s — where those metrics made me feel some semblance of personal success. I had eyes and attention on my writing. I had a hefty blog following. I was inches away from having a book deal.

I understand why people who get a taste of virality or fame are tempted to become a cog in the machine, taking every opportunity while they have the world’s attention to maintain that attention. It makes us feel valuable. Whether we do it because of ego, business, security…whatever it may be. One second everyone is listening and watching them, the next second they are yesterday’s news. It’s like the plot of Chicago, the musical; Roxie becomes famous for murdering Fred Casely and the second she feels public attention slipping, she fakes a pregnancy. In the end, Roxie is acquitted for Fred’s murder and is quickly forgotten as the public’s fascination turns toward the newest merry murderess of the Cook County Jail.

Sometimes I feel like social media acts like the plot of Chicago, manipulating us with the most captivating hook, enticing us not to look away. I’d like to think that most examples aren’t as macabre as Chicago, but you get the point; We have the tendency to measure worth and success by the attention given to us in the present moment.

But just because we didn’t achieve massive metrics at the time we offered our creative work to the world, doesn’t mean that it won’t be meaningful to someone out there at some point in time.

Think of a piece of art from the past - a movie, a piece of music, a poem, a show, a painting, a book - that has moved you. You are experiencing that piece of art like a time capsule. As the artist, we often look at the immediate results when a piece of work is released. Of course! Because we’re living in the present moment and we want to experience the recognition of our labor! But sometimes, appreciation for an artist’s work is collected over the years proceeding its release.

The 1946 Christmas classic, It’s A Wonderful Life, bankrupted its studio within a year of its release because it did not recoup its investment at the box office. Its cult following began 28 years later in 1974 when its copyright was released to the public domain, allowing it to be played on television without paying royalties.4

Van Gogh was burdened with mental illness and poverty while he was alive and his paintings only gained recognition posthumously.5

Johann Sebastian Bach’s music did not gain popularity until the early 19th century — almost 100 years after his death.

Henry David Thoreau was ignored by main stream press and rejected by publishers during his lifetime.6 His work was made popular over 40 years after his death, when his complete works were professionally published. His work influenced leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. and Ghandi, long after Thoreau took his last breath.

Emily Dickinson’s poetry was discovered and made popular posthumously.

Though it received critical acclaim when it was released in 1939, The Wizard of Oz was a financial flop at its initial release. It wasn’t until it premiered on television in 1956 that it began to gain the canon notoriety we understand today.

Creatives — artists, writers, painters, singers, performers…the list goes on — offer their gifts and talents to the world, not just as it exists in the present day, but to the people of the future.

Art, in its many forms, is a time capsule for those in the future.

Please don’t hear me say that we should want zero appreciation and attention for our creative work today. Of course, we do! It’s perfectly valid to want commercial success so our art can provide a living. It’s perfectly valid to have the desire to witness our creative work move people today.

What I’m talking about is the kind of desire for popularity that’s born from chaotic desperation, rather than grounded inspiration.7

Desperation can feel like what we do is never enough, that what we make is never good enough, and that there’s a state of lack when it comes to the source of our creativity.

But in inspirational creative energy, there’s peace and flow and abundance (that’s not just monetary). It’s not always easy, but it’s…inspired…which makes it feel like what we’re making is something worth creating.

There’s a duality to creation and being creative. We create because it serves something in us, as if something Bigger than our physical selves is calling us to the (I feel) divine act of creating something tangible out of the intangible. Creating can help us process the spectrum of our humanity - from trauma and grief to happiness and joy. We create because it fulfills something in us.

But then that overflow transitions into a collaboration with the people who experience what it is we’ve created and we give it away as an offering. We alchemize our human experience and our creation becomes in service of others.

In my two decades of on-and-off experience being creative on the internet, there’s been a type of Industrial Revolution in the attention economy thanks to social media and having access to it right in our pockets. I’ve realized I’m not meant for the kind of perpetual hustle that’s obsessed with numbers and growth and attention required to “maintain success” in that kind of economy. It creates a tornado of energy inside of me motivated by perfection, control, and obsession. My nervous system can’t maintain that kind of intensity without crashing out quickly. I can feel the negative buzz in my body and spirit when this chaotic energy takes over. It’s the kind of energy that lives in constant fear that if the metrics and attention start slipping away that my personal value and the value of my creative pursuits aren’t worthy of existence. Dramatic? Maybe. Or maybe a common symptom of creative types that we have to work through. Whatever the case, it’s helpful to learn the soul-deep lesson that metrics do not equal value and worth.

I’ve spiraled on that hamster wheel a couple of times to the point of detriment and stepped away from the internet for an extended season to recalibrate. Holding on to my own personal integrity and authenticity has been more important than spiraling for attention. If we’re creating simply for the sake of applause, we’ve abandoned ourselves. When I’ve come back from hiatus, I’ve felt like I was starting from scratch which was a good practice for me. So I feel like this is some karmic lesson I’m learning over and over and over again. I used to begrudge my inability to keep up with the attention economy, but after all these years writing in small spaces and taking creative risks in low-stakes spaces, those choices to step away and come back when I felt ready is what has brought me to the present moment with the skills and life-lessons under my belt. Every moment we work toward something is an opportunity to learn and grow, even when what we’re working toward doesn’t seem to go the way we hoped.

I’ve learned that, for my creative process, I prefer the process of slow creativity; the kind that slowly unfolds from our soulful depths, revealing itself over time to be the piece of art as it’s meant to exist in the world. I want to do whatever creative thing it is I’m called to do moment to moment, season to season —and share it without spinning the constant hamster wheel for attention.8

This slow unfolding of the artist’s creative process in the present can mirror the slow unfolding of their work in the public’s future. Meaning the same slow cultivation creating the work can be the same slowness with which is gains attention from others. Not always, but I think that’s a beautiful way to look at art.

What I’ve had to realized is that I need to be ok with that slowness. What I make isn’t about the attention it gives me right now; I want what I create to outlast me. Like Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote in Hamilton: Legacy? What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.

And my inner work is balancing my desire for instant gratification with service and legacy.

Make what you feel called to make and let time work its magic. We make art in service of humanity as a reflection of our existence.

I think often about my writing here on Substack; Just because I don’t get any recognizable attention on a Substack post doesn’t mean no one read it. And if only a few people did, there may be one thing I wrote that shifted the way someone thinks. And maybe that shift changed the way they approached life and their interactions with their fellow humans. And then those humans are impacted by the person who read what I wrote. But people who haven’t even read what I wrote can still be affected by my writing!

That feels magical.

Creating is not just about the present accolades and attention that we receive. If you feel called to create, create. Just like me standing at the very top of the Theatre of Epidaurus - I may not have been witnessing actors thousands of years ago perform their Greek tragedy, but in some way they were able to reach me far into the future.

Artists are time travelers, reaching people further in the future than we can imagine, leaving treasures for them to find through the things we create. Not only are we creating a time capsule for the future to understand our world today; we’re creating a mirror for future humans to understand themselves and one another.

We never know the timeless impact our creative work brings to the world.

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I spent 2023 and 2024 working on a non-fiction book about faith deconstruction. I wrote a proposal for the book and spent 2024 sending that proposal to literary agents. So. Many. Agents. I did the things authors (should) do and researched agents and what type of submissions they were accepting and made the prettiest, most detailed spreadsheet you’ve ever laid your eyes on where I kept track of all of these agent details, my submissions, dates, notes, feedback, etc.

Now listen. I might not be a published author (yet), but I’m not new to understanding what it takes for the stars to align for a non-fiction author to get a book published.1 I was also an actor and it’s the same concept with auditioning; The rejection isn’t personal and it’s not an indicator of your talent. There’s just a lot of variables on the other side that need to line up that have nothing to do with us and why we are/aren’t picked.

Submitting a book proposal (and auditioning) feels like throwing a handful of glitter in the air and trying to catch the one flake meant for you. That doesn’t mean we don’t throw the glitter and try.

So it was expected that most of the feedback on my proposal would be silence. And of the ones who said they would consider taking my project because they liked the content and the writing, they ultimately chose not to because publishers won’t even consider me because of my small social media following.

Honestly, I knew this was going to be a thing going into the non-fiction submission process. Publishing is a business and they want authors to have a platform of existing customers (followers) they can sell their product (book) to. But I didn’t want to spend all my creative energy building a platform before getting to work on the book. And honestly, I didn’t have the energetic margin to put my whole heart into doing both simultaneously. I wanted to use my energy to write the book and its proposal. I felt like it was the moment in time for that book to be written and I didn’t want to waste time chasing followers. So instead of obsessing about growing my social media metrics, I decided to focus on the content of the actual writing.

Writing a book proposal that lists 200 Instagram followers and 100 Substack subscribers feels laughable when you look at it through a business lens. But that wasn’t going to deter me from trying because I believed in the piece of work I was writing.

Followers and subscribers are a part of modern business, but often we forget that follower count equals real humans behind those numbers.2

Rather than viewing follower count as a total whole, I intentionally try to think of each individual number as a human on the other side of the screen with a life and a story who chose to invite into their life what it is I’m putting out into the world on social media. And that feels like an honor, no matter the number. It feels inauthentic to me to forget that each number is a real human and to build and view a collective of followers merely because it provides me with opportunities. If the numbers and the opportunities come organically, that’s great. But I’m not intentionally setting out on a mission to grow my social media as a prerequisite for other creative opportunities I choose to pursue.

This humanizing and gratitude has not only helped me from becoming bitter about the ‘no's’ I’ve received because I focused on the creative work rather than social media growth, but it has developed a skill in me to think before I speak, to steward an audience no matter the size, to hone my creative skills in a low-stakes space, and to build trust in my voice and what I choose to say and express in the world.

In Dan Blank’s article that I referenced in my last post, Blank helped me put this in perspective, changing the way I engage my own psychology around social media numbers.

He encouraged his readers to view their audience as if they are in the room with them. In doing so, he pointed out that we need to be trusted with 10 people in an audience before we can be trusted with 100. We need to be trusted with 100 before we can be trusted with 1000. We need to be trusted with 1000 before 10,000…and so on and so on.

That made things click for me. Imagining online followers in the room with me, not only helps me humanize them, it makes me realize the limitations of my nervous system, and it humbles me to keep developing my skills to be able to put out creative work that can hold an audience’s attention. And that is incredibly humbling. It makes me realize that deep, creative work is a slow, disciplined process. Yet, social media attention economy has conditioned us creatives to sacrifice this process for the sake of speed and attention. Imagining my subscribers in the room with me, talking to them, reinforces the value I’ve felt for myself for years that I want to do the creative work and I don’t want to live on the perpetual hamster wheel of chasing a social media following for attention. I want to be trusted with the numbers I have in each present moment. And as I develop the skills to hold an audience, my nervous system will find safety with each stage of growth.

So if you’re discouraged with the amount of subscribers you have, imagine if those people were in a room watching or listening to you.3 Say that you have 100 subscribers. The number 100 seems small on a computer screen but if 100 people were sitting in a room listening to what you have to say, that’s significant.

Today’s world of instant technological gratification has desensitized us to what follower numbers actually mean.

The value of an online audience has decreased with more instant accessibility we have to one another through the ever-growing amount of online platforms. Algorithmic games that reward click bait and perpetual content creation have decreased the value of followers/subscribers in today’s attention economy.

Rather than followers, let’s use money as an example. The value of subscriber numbers is similar to how the value of money has changed over time. For my 39th birthday this year, I received $150 from family members. When my grandmother turned 39 years old, $150 was worth $1250 to her.4

When I wrote a non-fiction proposal and pitched my first book (that never got published) to agents in the early 2010s I was told that I needed at least 2000 followers on social media and 1000 newsletter subscribers. That felt enormous fifteen years ago.

Last year (2024) when I pitched my proposal for my faith deconstruction book to agents, I was told I needed a bare minimum of 20k followers on social media and 10k subscribers to my newsletter for publishers to maybe look at me. You might as well have told me I needed a million dollars to follow my dreams.

Now listen, I don’t feel sorry for myself and I’m not telling you this to garner sympathy. I knew what I was getting into. But I felt called to write that specific book and proposal at that point on the timeline, so that’s what I did. And in a sequence of synchronicitous events, through conversations with one generous literary agent and a few other writers, it’s what led me to write my full-length play that is now out on submission. The book was the bridge to get me to this aligned moment in time as a playwright.5

In choosing to spend my creative energy this year writing my play, there were approximately ZERO times I had to list my social media metrics when submitting it. That’s not the case with a non-fiction proposal. They want all that shit plus a business plan of how you’re going to sell it to your followers. The focus in submitting my play is on the work of the play itself. And it has been a freaking breath of fresh air.6

I can’t keep up with the never-ending cycle of content creation as a consumer, much less a creator. Nor do I want to. I want to view the small subscriber base I do have right now as humans rather than metrics to hoard. I want to spend my time creating and doing the work I’m called to do rather than making content about creating and doing the work I’m called to do. Doing so feels inauthentic to me. Or rather, I haven’t found a rhythm of sharing my work on social media that feels authentic to me that also doesn’t take away from the work of creating an actual piece of art.

More succinctly: I don’t want all my creative margin to go into making content about writing, striving for virality at the whims of an algorithm, rather than actually writing.

Creating content about the work you do is an entirely different skill than actually creating the work. Godspeed to the people who can do both without sacrificing quality in either area. But for me, personally, using all of my margin hustling to gain followers feels inauthentic to who I am. I feel like I’m dehumanizing people, including myself. And it drains a large portion of my creative energy that I would rather use to focus doing the work to hone my creative skills in the real world.

We’ve devalued our followers to merely a number within a collected total displayed on our social media profiles. But these are actual human beings. And I think that once we see them as actual people in an audience instead of a cog in a never-ending social media system, we’ll be able to see ourselves as humans again, too.

And when we see ourselves as humans, open to experiencing life without the pressure of content and metrics, we make space for our creativity to flourish.

Want to stick around for more life-lessons on creativity that have changed my creative life as a creative person (Working Title)? Or if you want to support my work, please consider sharing this article, subscribing, or upgrading to a paid subscription.

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I spent the last four months in a playwriting intensive, writing a full length play, ending in a workshop of that play in early September. Then I spent the rest of September working on a second draft to see where the Universe decides to take this piece of work.

It feels like it was just April when I signed up for this class. I wrote about the events leading me to this class and writing this play in this article, in case you’re interested in the backstory. All of my brain cells the past four months were concentrated into doing this work. I feel like my brain was a soaking wet sponge and I twisted it as tight as possible at every angle, removing every last drop of moisture that could exist in the sponge that is my brain.

Here’s a short vlog I made about the class and this playwriting experience.

This isn’t my first experience zoning in on a big, creative undertaking. But it’s my first time in a while. Like I’ve written in previous articles1, I’m coming back into a specific creative part of myself that has always existed, that loves storytelling through performance, but stepped away for a long time to heal.

This year, not only did I set my intentions and actions toward this big creative goal of writing a play, but it’s felt like all the creative lessons I've been working through, trying to learn for the last fifteen years, finally landed in my body. Like my nervous system was finally in a place that allowed me to embody and ground those lessons into my reality through this deeply creative season, integrating them moving forward into even more creative territory.

It’s been life-changing.

Now, listen. I just used the phrase “life-changing” and I need you to know how hard that was for me because “life-changing” is over-used nowadays; I saw an Instagram reel of a woman claiming that a sweater she found was life-changing. I’ve also heard about a life-changing pair of pants on Amazon. And a life-changing toothbrush. And a life-changing purse. I don’t want to sound like a curmudgeon, but it seems a bit hyperbolic to claim that these things actually change your life when those life-changing items can be found through an affiliate link. Yaknowwhatimsayin? It’s like when someone says, “I literally died.” But yet they’re standing there telling me.

I know, I know. I hate how pretentious I sound. But I get tripped up on words and their meaning. It’s a symptom of this field of work. I want to let people just say things without being all, “Well aCkShUallY…” BUT Y’ALL: Words begin to lose their meaning when we use them outside of their intended weight. And to claim that a salad spinner (link in bio) is life-changing, well, I feel we’ve lost the plot about what life-changing means.

There are no affiliate links to the details surrounding these creative lessons that have landed in my life. They landed in the exact season they were meant to land and that timing really did make them life-changing for me.

I want to share them with you. I don’t expect them to change your life right now, if at all; these lessons have been custom-curated by the Universe just for me. But I do feel that there is some universal value to them so I feel some responsibility to share them in case it speaks to someone out there. Take what serves you, leave the rest. Though, sometimes it’s all about the timing of the things put in front of us. You could read this today and it means nothing. But fifteen years down the road,2 something could finally click and something you read in this ‘lil Substack will hit you like a ton of bricks. My apologies for that, but also, you’re welcome?

Anyway.

Here we are. Welcome to my continuing series where I share some life-lessons on creativity that have changed my creative life as a creative person. (Working title)

First up:

Develop your creative skills in low-stakes spaces

I read an article back in February by Dan Blank called, “Would You Write for Just One Reader?” Blank asked the question, “If you don’t learn how to engage one person, how can you develop the skills to engage 10…100…1000…10,000 people?”

A humbling truth that kicked me in the butt, if I’m being honest.

It’s not just about counting numbers in an audience; it’s about honing your ability to share a craft and learning how your unique creative voice can truly reach your ideal audience.

But it took it even further for me. It’s one thing to write for ten people. It’s an entirely different energy and drain on the nervous system to write for 10,000 people. There’s so much more at stake with more eyes on you.

As creatives — especially creatives in today’s social media landscape that facilitates immediate gratification — we focus on the desire to create work in large spaces where there’s more chances for praise, money, and opportunities. But large spaces come with high stakes. Stakes like thousands of eyes on us, pressure from investors, others’ jobs dependent on our skill and success, etc. And I get it; that’s how society defines success. We tend to define success based on reaching an elite status, rather than success being found in the millions of choices to show up over time to hone our creative skills in “low-stakes” spaces.3

This realization landed firmly in my body while taking voices lessons the last year. It’s a space with just me and my voice coach where I’m free to make ugly sounds to figure out my voice and explore how it feels in my body to sing a song. There’s nothing to lose. I get to work on my skills and stretch myself into the next phase of my singing in a low-stakes environment where there’s room to explore who I am as a singer.

Imagine a person who loves to sing, sharing their singing on TikTok, going viral, and because of their virality and commercial appeal on the internet, they’re given the opportunity to step into a Broadway show. It sounds like the exaggerated plot of a movie. And I did exaggerate for sake of the example, but it’s also not completely unheard of. Stunt casting is real.

This singer has gone from singing in their room on TikTok — or maybe at their church or at karaoke or small community theatre — to the largest stage platform in the United States. And sure, they may have a good voice. But the stakes are incredibly high as they have to figure out how to sustain their body, mind, and voice for an Olympic, rigorous eight-show week in front of Broadway audience.

There’s not much room to explore who they are as an artist in this demanding space because that’s not the goal; the goal is ticket sales.

Maybe there are some folks out there who can — and are meant to — make that leap. But the majority of us don’t have the skills, experience, or regulated nervous system to be thrust from near oblivion into such high stakes. That doesn’t mean that we’ll never have that opportunity or aren’t worthy of it. It just means that we have the opportunity to develop our craft and hone our creative skills in “smaller,” low-stakes spaces where we have room to figure out our creative voice without so many eyes on us to catch us when we make mistakes (and we will make mistakes).

I want to hone my creative skills on a smaller scale so I that can do it well when I have the opportunity to be responsible for a creative piece on a larger scale.

I’m assuming most of us grew up with big dreams for our creative work, whatever that work may be. You know…movies, Broadway, a recording contract, an art gallery, etc. Whatever it was that society told us is The Big Time. We aim for The Big Time but resent the experience between here and there, waiting for our creative dreams to come true. Especially when we’ve been chasing our Big Dreams for a long while. While there is a loss to grieve when our big dreams for ourselves don’t happen in the time frame we wanted, I always want to be alert to the lessons I’m being taught in the meantime and how I might learn from them. (Easier said than done, I admit from experience) We might look down on these smaller, in-between creative spaces we find ourselves because we’re comparing it to our perceived idea of some upper echelon we are aiming for.

But folks, there is so much richness in the middle. There is so much to learn in this liminal space, whether it’s about how to run a business (being an artist in most forms is being self-employed), how to take care of our bodies and minds to sustain whatever labor is require of us, or to learn about who we are as a human, our light and our shadows. There is nothing wasted here in the middle. There are also incredibly kind, brilliant, generous folks to meet and build relationships with. The older I get, the more I’m interested in building relationships with my fellow artists, not because of some gross transactional quid pro quo, but because authentic relationships and community and holding one another’s humanity are part of what makes a rich life. That richness contributes to our creative work.

As artists, our work is in the act of creating itself, not just the trophy at the end of the race.4 It’s perfectly valid to have the goal to, say, be on Broadway. But I think it is important to be mindful that, on a certain level, those types of goals are outside of our control. What we can control is how we build our creative skills. So set reachable goals regarding your art form that you have control over. Work on your storytelling, your writing, your singing, your acting, your drawing. Make goals that you have some control over so that you can build evidence for yourself and your nervous system that you are growing and expanding as an artist. Set the goal of learning, experimenting, and honing your creative voice. And when you work on these goals in low-stakes spaces, you’re able to free yourself to experiment without pressure. It’s much easier to explore our creative expression in low-stakes spaces where we have freedom to adjust, pivot, and try again without severe repercussions.

Want to stick around for more life-lessons on creativity that have changed my creative life as a creative person (Working Title)? Or if you want to support my work, please consider sharing this article, subscribing, or upgrading to a paid subscription.

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I have loved singing since I was very young. I mean, very young. And I mean, loved it. Obsessed, even. I have loved it so much over the course of my life that sometimes I wonder if it’s something I did in a past life? I don’t know. I don’t spend too much time thinking about that. I just know that singing has moved me deeply from a very young age.

One of my very first memories was watching The Little Mermaid on VHS when I was three years old. I was enamored by Ariel. Partly because she had long, red hair like me...

But what I remember most is Jodi Benson’s gorgeous singing as Ariel and wanting so badly to emulate her exact sound — the tone, the resonance, the vibrato. It was gorgeous to me, even at that age.

Well, my little three year old brain thought that life operates just like a musical in that, when we start singing, music will begin playing out of thin air. I had a small speech impediment and couldn’t quite make an ‘r’ sound and I’d go around the house singing “…part of youuuu-uh wuuuuhhhld.” But what was more frustrating to me than my inability to sound like Ariel and make the ‘r’ sound in ‘your world,’ was that the orchestra wouldn’t begin playing when I began to sing. After all, that’s what it does in the movies. And I didn’t understand that movies weren’t real life.

After practicing over and over in the mirror, trying to pronounce my ‘r’s and trying to make the music begin with my singing, I tearfully went to my mother and told her that the music doesn’t start when I sing like it does for Ariel.

“Life isn’t a musical,” I remember her telling me. And honestly, I’m still disappointed in this news.

I was also obsessed with a cassette tape of songs that came with one of my Barbie dolls and I would play this cassette on loop all day, every day. At my kindergarten graduation, as we received our diplomas, my teacher asked each of us what we wanted to be when we grow up. I put the microphone to my mouth and in the thick southern accent I had at the time, with all the confidence in my five year old frame, I told the auditorium, “I wanna be a Barbie doll singer when I grow up.” I was determined to grow up to sing songs just like the Barbies on my cassette tape.

I was always singing and exploring music as a kid, but I was never given an outlet for my voice. No church choir, no community theatre, no school choir. Nothing. No guidance from a voice teacher or support from anyone. Just the four walls of my bedroom, left to my own imagination. But I always created ways to learn on my own.

When Home Alone 2, Lost in New York came out, my dad bought me a Talkboy1 — the recording device that Kevin McCallister used to outwit the adults around him. I used mine to record song clips from A&E Biography episodes of singers and musical numbers from MGM musicals that came on Turner Classic Movies. Most girls my age were swooning over Slater on Saved By the Bell; I made makeshift tap shoes out of my fancy church shoes by sticking thumb tacks in the soles to make a clicking sound. Then I would take my Talkboy out in the garage to play my mixtape, make up my own tap dances (I didn’t know how to tap but desperately wanted to), and practice imitating singers like Judy Garland, Doris Day, and Julie Andrews.

When I went to college and felt my first sense of personal agency, I decided that I was going to learn how to sing for real. I took voice lessons and did musical theatre during that time of my life. I loved it, but I was also drowning in desperation to be externally validated. The little version of Hannah who practiced alone her whole childhood was the one running all of my creative work. I needed someone to tell me that I was worthy, which made me so wrapped up in perfectionism, shame, and comparison. And that’s no space for creativity to thrive.

I’ve heard Stephanie J. Block talk several times on Stages podcast episodes about leading from inspiration, not desperation; That when we’re leading from desperation, there’s no way we can be inspired.

I couldn’t have articulated it at the time, but it’s one of the reasons I stopped and walked away from theatre completely; My desperation for external validation crushed any ounce of inspiration in me.2

After I graduated from undergrad, I stopped performing. I stopped singing. For the first time since “part of youuu-uh wuuuhld” at three, I went silent, even to myself. I stopped singing. I stopped dancing. I stopped playing.3

I sheepishly began singing again after my children were born, years later. I wanted to create memories where they would remember me singing to them. The singing wasn’t perfect, but the memories have been what’s most important to me.

Then, an encounter at the end of 20234 nudged me to begin playing again. Not just for or with my kids, but play, for me. Like the kind of play I did in my imaginative childhood years. I started feeling a pull to sing more openly — in front of my family, in silly videos on Instagram, or in front of neighbors at the pool. Not just in the shower or the car when I was all alone. It was like this inner voice and inner strength that I’ve cultivated and fought like hell to grow over the years was asking me to embody itself through singing. I wanted — needed — to connect with my voice & body in a structured, dedicated way — a way that scares me (because omg someone will hear me sing), but that I truly enjoy & fills my soul.

The little version of Hannah that I’ve spent so many years healing was begging me to sing, asking for the guidance and support she never had. I always try to be the adult she needed. I imagined little Hannah doing everything she could to make a way for herself to learn to sing and I wanted to honor her tenacity. So I decided to take voice lessons.

I came across an Instagram post that a vocalist I admire was opening up slots to take on new voice students. When I saw her post, the timing fell so perfectly that it felt like an invitation from the Universe directly to me for that moment in time. I felt a full-body YES. I signed up and started taking voice lessons with her last fall.

I was a little embarrassed at our first lesson when she asked me what I was there for and what my goals were. Little Hannah was loud inside. She wanted this but she was petrified. She was screaming, “NOPE. Nevermind. This is scary. Other people are way better than you and probably actual professionals. We’re leaving.” If she were there in physical form, she would have been grabbing me by the hand and pulling me toward the door.

“We’re showing up and we’re going to be messy and imperfect, but we’re doing it because we love it,” I remind little Hannah. I often have to remind that part of me that it’s fruitless and damaging to compare our own journey to others’. We put our blinders on and take the path meant for us without comparing it to anyone else.

I shared with my voice teacher that I shut my voice down for years and confessed that I was doing it for me — for me now and for all the past versions of me.

Then we got to work.

So much of my creative work is healing my inner-child. Through creativity I’m giving voice to that younger version of myself whose voice was ignored and demeaned and who was told her creativity was frivolous and inconvenient.5

Recently, I’ve gone back and read through my journal entries from the past year and made a list of themes that have been prominent. The themes I found are all about empowering my creative voice:

• Speak your soul. Use your voice. Your voice has incredible power. Speak your truth. Be creative. Be free. Your purpose is to express yourself.

• Confront and dismantle perfectionism. My fear of being seen in the mess is only holding me back.

• Step into my creative projects with my full body and soul and own them with unabashed confidence.

I believe life repeats itself in cycles, giving us opportunities to practice implementing what we’ve learned from lessons in our past to help us grow and evolve.

All of these themes are lessons I’ve been confronted with over and over again. I faced them years ago and chose to completely walk away because I didn’t have the tools and capacity and life experience to understand what lessons I was being taught. Life has been trying to teach me to find and use my voice since I was three years old trying to sing The Little Mermaid. As a creative person, I express my voice in creative ways - through writing, through performing, through singing. And it’s taken me a long ass time to find my voice to be able to express it.

What does that even mean: Find your voice? Most everyone has a voice. Just use it. Use your breath and your vocal cords to make sound. Badabing badaboom. There’s your voice.

No no no no no.

We hear the term “voice” used frequently, but what does that actually mean? It seems like a simple question but, for the sake of definition, humor me.

There’s our metaphorical voice and the physical use of our voice. They are separate, but they are also intrinsically connected.

We have to know and understand our inner-voice — our inner-world — to be able to express ourselves authentically with our physical voice. And if our physical voice is suppressed, it can be a challenge to find, know, and understand our inner-voice .

Here’s what I mean:

Growing up in an abusive home and within high-control religion, I had no autonomy. My voice - my opinions, my thoughts, my subjective view of the world - held zero percent value in the world in which I was born. I adapted by staying silent, gaslighting my lived perspective, and forcing myself into the view others had of me, all in order to survive. I silenced my physical voice in order to stay safe and in silencing my physical voice, I lost touch with my metaphorical voice - the voice within myself. Call it intuition, or inner compass, or the soul-self; It’s the voice inside of one’s self that’s connected to something deep within their soul that grounds them in their sense of self.

I had no clue who I was. That is the thing that I lost. Little three year old me practicing “part of you-uh wuhld” had it. She had a sense of who she was, what she loved, and how she could express herself in the world in the creative ways her limited world knew how. But we get this pure essence — this innate sense of self — beaten out of us through the circumstances we are each individually faced with in life. It takes a lot of work to hold on to it or to come back to it if we lose it. Hopefully, at some point, we can faintly tune in to our inner essence sending out SOS flares to get us to come back to that part of us. It takes intention, deep inner-work, introspection, empathy, and therapy to tune in and come back to our essence. But when we do, we live more authentic and more aligned.

The SOS flares from my soul-self have been faint, but thankfully I’ve heard them, and chose to follow their clues. I followed them to marry my incredible husband. I followed them to the events that led us to adopt our twins.6 I followed them to go no-contact with the people who harmed me. I followed them to advocate for myself to receive an autism diagnosis. I followed them for years, deconstructing my faith and leaving my faith tradition. I’ve followed them to write in various spaces across the years. Now, I’m following them to playwriting. And I’ve followed them to take voice lessons.

I love what playwright Sara Farrington of Theatre Is Hard wrote in her article, The Impossible Task: “Purpose comes from chasing an impossible task…If you dedicate yourself to the impossible task…you’ll equip yourself with armor against your own pain.”7

Finding my voice in creative work — performing, writing, and singing — have been the impossible task…

they have equipped me with armor against my pain and given me purpose.

In my voice lessons I wanted to learn Waving Through A Window from Dear Evan Hansen. The song is about choosing silence out of self-protection. When I imagine myself as this little abused, undiagnosed autistic kid & singing it as a grown woman, it feels like I’m giving voice to my inner child so she is able to express what she was never able to.

One of the largest lessons I get to practice is showing up to mess up.

Messing up is a way we can learn and figure out our voice.

These voice lessons are a safe, low-stakes space for me to explore my physical voice, how it’s connected to my body, and figure out how I sound. But that means it’s messy. And I get to make mistakes. Is it easy to embrace that? Hell naw! I have made some embarrassingly bad sounds! During one lesson at the end of croaking out a song, I folded into a pile on the ground. “Where did you go?” my teacher said over the Skype window. “I’m turtle-ing. Brb.” I was joking with the dramatics, of course. But the cringe was still there. I just needed to feel it for a sec so I could then get back up on my feet, reassess, and try again.

At my last voice lesson, I wasn’t feeling confident in how I sounded. My confidence in the big ending of the song has been minimal but I know I have the ability in me to do it, it’s just felt locked deep in there. I keep trying, but my confidence wavers. I’ve developed confidence in myself in many other aspects of my life, but when it comes to singing, I always feel like a little kid.

“Let’s sing the ending again,” my teacher said. I couldn’t mask my trepidations. Then, as if she had opened my journal and read the themes from my last year with her very own eyes, she called me out in the best way.

“You’re afraid of the power in your voice.” she said.

Holy shit. I was taken aback.

I looked over at my post-it note I wrote from my journal.

“Use your voice. Your voice has incredible power. Speak your truth. Be creative. Be free. Your purpose is to express yourself.”

Have you ever felt like Something Bigger was hand-delivering you a message through someone? This was that. She meant my vocals and yes, I do have a lot of fear when it comes to opening up my voice to sing. It’s symbolic, personally, of something so much deeper that I have to actively work through every time I show up to a lesson. It’s about the existence of my voice in the world & the fear I’ve had to use it. Singing feels like my embodiment of facing that fear.

I haven’t stopped thinking about what she said. There’s so much connection between my metaphorical voice and my physical singing voice and I felt like I had a witness. She could see the potential power I carry and that felt incredibly affirming. But she also sees that I’m holding back. It’s scary to be seen like that because it’s vulnerable and it’s uncomfortable to be vulnerable. But also, I’m so glad she saw it and called me out on it because it makes me feel like I don’t have do the work alone of excavating and embracing the power in my voice. Which is what I have felt like I have had to do my whole life: Do it alone.

“That is one of my themes in life, actually.” I told her. I wanted to word vomit how profound it was to me what she just said but, in the best way, I was too gobsmacked. (I’ll probably just send this article to her. Hiiii if you’re reading!)

I don’t remember what she said after that, but she was a safe witness to my process. She was gentle to not push me where I was not ready to go. I mean, I want so desperately to go there. I have the badassery in me. I know there’s power in my voice — metaphorically and physically. But I also know that I’ll arrive when I’m meant to. I want to be brave and face my fears because I’m willing and not afraid of doing the work. But that’s the only thing I can do — keep showing up and keep doing the work so that the power in my metaphorical voice — my sense of self — that I’ve worked tirelessly to find and excavate all these years is embodied through my physical voice.

Breakthroughs can happen in one miraculous moment. Breakthroughs also happen in milliseconds collected over time as we make the conscious choice to show up and face the things we are afraid of.

I used to be afraid of sharing my voice through writing. Oh my god, the thought of anyone reading something I wrote? Flop sweat. Now, writing feels like breathing. Sharing feels like a gift. It hasn’t always been like that; even writing in private felt too vulnerable. But over the decades of choosing to show up to my journal and being honest with myself in private, that made it easier to choose to show up and write honestly in public. I’ve developed my confidence in my writing because I’ve consistently shown up for years, learning my process, my voice, how it feels in my body, and allowing myself to be seen by others. And I trust that I’ll gain more confidence in the power of my voice the more I choose to show up to sing, to learn my process, my voice, how it feels in my body, and allow myself to be seen and heard by others.

That’s the thing; our power is waiting for us on the other side of our commitment to show up and do the work to find our voice. Whatever that work is. Whether it’s going to therapy, healing our wounds, speaking up against injustice, pursuing a creative endeavor, or learning to sing. We claim our power every single time we choose to show up and face the obstacles in front of us. When we choose to show up authentically and aligned to use our voice and claim our power, we’re not only giving one of the greatest gifts we could give ourselves in this life…we are giving an incredible gift to the collective by allowing ourselves to be seen, our talents to be witnessed, and our voice to be heard in order to contribute to the greater good.

I used to try to mimic the sound of others singing — Ariel, Judy Garland, Doris Day, Julie Andrews. But now, when I open my voice, it sounds like me.

So here’s to the journey of finding & using the power in our own unique voice — in all the creative ways it can be used & expressed in the world.

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My June has been full to the brim. I felt like I had just settled into a routine for my writing schedule during the spring, when summer arrived and tossed all routine out the window. Now the kids are out of school for the summer and we’ve been gone from home several days of the week for the past three weeks. It’s been good, though my autistic brain craves routine in order to function.

However, the North Star and highlight throughout the chaos of my month has been my Tuesday evenings spent in a playwriting class with other writers and creatives in Houston. I signed up for the class several months ago and the entire spring, I was like a giddy kindergartener waiting in anticipation for the first day of school.

I’ve had an idea for a play tumbling around in my mind for over a year. I’d spin plot lines and character arcs around in my head while doing mindless tasks like taking a shower, driving, or waiting in line anywhere. By early this year, I felt like the story and its characters were going to burst out of me. They were begging to be written. But even if I wanted to dedicate myself to writing this play, I’ve been away from any form of work in the theatre for fifteen years. I have been writing consistently in various mediums and spaces over the years, so writing and story structure feels like a familiar practice. But the whole point of a play is to have it embodied on a stage. I could write the script, but at this point in my life I’m so removed from being active in the theatre world, I didn’t know where to begin to get it on its feet once I had a draft done.

I thought of reaching out to an old college playwright friend to ask her if she could point me in a direction of a class or workshop I could attend to get me started. Within a few days of thinking of reaching out to her, I saw her share news that she would be teaching a playwriting class over the summer where we would write our full-length play and have a reading - with actual actors! - at the end of the semester.

Well, that felt serendipitous. I said YES immediately and felt that YES with my full body.

As I’ve sat in class the last four Tuesdays, I have felt like I am exactly where I am meant to be at this moment in time. It’s like I’ve come back to a core part of myself. I haven’t been in the theatre world for fifteen years, but it feels familiar. I was in it for years and the familiarity comes from the part of me that longs to tell stories that move people in many different ways. The part of me that love love loves collaboration with other creatives (and has been thirsty for it for a while), who loves working toward a shared goal of telling a story, who likes playing with story structure, who can dig into character development, who enjoys picturing how a play looks on its feet and finds satisfaction in making it come to fruition. Saying yes to taking this class and writing this play feels like coming home.

Not to be too romantic, but oh well, I’m going to be: A few times during our discussions, my gratitude to the Universe for my life and its path has been so overwhelming that I’ve had to hold back tears of joy.

How ironic that I’m grateful for the years away from the thing I’ve loved since childhood. Sometimes the things that you have to set aside will come back to you if they’re meant for you.

But for the longest time I felt like a failure walking away from something that I loved and wanted to pursue since childhood.

All I ever wanted to do, since I was eight years old, was work in the theatre, tell stories, and create worlds. I was on that trajectory. I followed my plan until after I graduated college. Then my life took many much-needed detours. I wrote more about that in this article.

I had a twisted idea of what it meant to be successful and for many years my shame from walking away warped my perception of myself. I saw walking away as failure. Over the years, part of my healing has been deconstructing my definition of success.

I look back on my young, impressionable years and realize how much of my ideas of success were unconsciously defined by the adults in my life. Every time throughout my adolescence when my extended family gathered together, I remember the conversation revolving around their judgement and their perceptions about others’ “success.”

There was a lot of talk about employers. “So-and-so got a job at Prestigious Company.” Check: Success.

There was a lot of talk about job status. “So-and-so got promoted at their company.” Check: Success.

There was talk about the amount of money they made. “So-and-so got a new job where they’re making more money.” Check: Success.

There was a lot of talk about their career path. “So-and-so is going to school to be an engineer.” Check: Success.

The people they discussed weren’t presented as human to my young mind; their humanity was reduced to mere data points that I could read on a resume. All the conversations revolved around status and the practicality of peoples’ work. Oil and gas or engineering were considered honorable careers. The arts? Well, anyone who would purse an arts career was a loon and deserved the destitute life waiting for them for their stupidity in not choosing a path with guaranteed stability. (What stability is guaranteed in life, after all?)

Job. Marriage. Kids. House. Work. Retire. Success was defined as arrival. Promotion. Stability. Visibility. Status. Money.

And success was accomplished by continual striving for the next thing. To settle was considered immoral.

All of these ideals are symptomatic of a capitalist society that reduces its community to dehumanized worker bots.

But not everything that matters in life comes with a paycheck, a promotion, a spotlight, or an audience.

In a recent interview with Gayle King, Audra McDonald was asked about being nominated for a Tony Award eleven times and whether or not she thinks about breaking her own record for most Tony wins.

Audra is the most decorated Tony winner in Broadway history with six Tony awards and was nominated this past season to receive her potential seventh for playing Rose in Gypsy. (Nicole Scherzinger won for Sunset Boulevard). Gayle asked Audra if breaking the record for most Tony awards is something that she thinks about.

“I can’t not think about it because people are talking about it,” Audra replied. “What I do know is that whatever happens [at the Tony Awards], I still have to sit with me the next day. So I need to make sure I’m right with me and with who I am.”

She continued. “Because what I know is that the Tony isn’t going to make me a happier person or a lovelier wife, mother, or human being…If I’m gunning for a Tony thinking it’s going to change my life, it’s not. A Tony…can’t fix [feeling empty].”

This is the most decorated Tony winner in history. She speaks from experience. She knows that the accolades won’t fill an inner void. Being the most decorated winner isn’t what defines her life because life is much more than our resume. And success is so much more than our accomplishments.

If we lose ourselves chasing a status symbol, we’ve already lost. If we arrive at our goals and find that we still aren’t satisfied, we’ll spend our entire lives searching for the thing we believe will finally make us feel fulfilled. We’ll have spent our lives striving for something that doesn’t exist. It’s not about making it to retirement. It’s not about winning a Tony Award. These can be healthy goals for ourselves, but they aren’t the final destinations that define our lives.

We never fully arrive at a destination in life; life is ever-evolving.

Not to belittle this place where I’ve found myself at this moment in time, but I know a small playwriting class isn’t a huge deal in the eyes of external success. But I’m no longer operating by an external definition of success. I define my own success. Can I be proud of what I’ve accomplished even if no one notices? Can I be proud of the work I’ve done, even the work no one sees? Can I be proud of how I’ve navigated life? Can I be proud of my integrity?

We can all ask ourselves these questions when we’re trying to form a framework for ourselves around a definition of success.

Is something or someone considered successful only when there is a monetary value attached? Why do we believe that?

Am I pursuing something because I’m striving for love/attention/accolades/money…?

Does popularity define success?

Why do we allow external sources to steal from us the success we feel on the inside?

Can we acknowledge and be proud of the inner work that has happened regardless of how the external world views us as successful?

Can we say that we’ve operated out of integrity?

Can we be proud of bravely pursuing something, regardless of a “successful” outcome?

Was there a greater lesson to be learned regardless of how “successful” we are? Sometimes the lesson inside of the thing is why we needed to experience the thing.

What or who defines success for me?

Signing up for this playwriting class and writing this play is success for me because I know what it means for me to be able to show up in this class at this moment in time. I know what I have been through to be able to have the guts to step back into theatre world and write a play. I’m not labeling my finished (or first draft) work good or bad. I’m not measuring the success of this play or this class by external or future rewards and standards; I’m holding it all in its own space where it exists in this present moment in time. To do otherwise would be unfair to myself, the play I’m writing, and my experience in this class.

I am successful because I’ve formed my own definition of success within each circumstance in which I find myself. My success at this point on my timeline is that I said yes and that I am doing it. Period. And my success now looks different than it did fifteen years ago. I was successful back then because I walked away. Because that’s what I needed to do at that point in my life. I couldn’t have told you that then, but I can now with the perspective having lived it.

It feels like success to me that I’m able to show up in any theatre space as the person I am today, after the life I’ve lived up until now. I thought my dreams of any participation in theatre were dead and I’ve grieved that loss over the years as though I grieved a loved one. It feels like I have clawed my way to get to get to this moment. Not in a grabby, controlling way; I didn’t even realize I was clawing my way to get to this point in time. I just knew I wanted to stay alive and I wanted to heal. And in the process I had to let my desires go in order to allow them to come back to me on the other side.

How divinely sweet to come back to something later in life that you’ve always loved, but a completely different person with a new perspective — a perspective rooted in health and wholeness. It helps me approach and appreciate this endeavor with a level of gratitude I wouldn’t have known otherwise.

I wouldn’t be able to write the play I’m working on if it hadn’t been for the years in between - the trauma, the healing, the relationships, the events, the lessons. All of these are ingredients to the recipe of the work I am creating.

We can’t rob ourselves of the stories we live that bring us to certain moments in our lives simply because we haven’t arrived at some arbitrary definition of success on an arbitrary timeline. Whether that definition is imposed on us by society or by ourselves, it doesn’t matter. I can dream for Broadway, but I’m not going to begrudge the liminal space between now and then. That middle space is where we heal and stretch and grow. It’s a space to make mistakes and to learn from our mistakes. It’s where we learn who we are and what’s important to us.

Don’t steal these opportunity away by resenting the liminal space that looks and feels “unsuccessful.”

Nothing in life is wasted. The detours aren’t necessarily detours; they’re the building blocks of our life story. They are the arcs of our character in the play that is our life.

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My apologies for the double footnotes for paid subscribers. I had to copy and paste from the built-in footnotes feature for it to be above the paywall because I want non-paid subscribers to also have access to the footnotes. But I don’t currently see a way of doing that while also giving audio to paid subscribers, while also still giving access to the full article to non-paid subscribers. It’s imperfect, but we’re going to roll with what we can do.

Mother’s Day came and went a few weeks ago. Since childhood, until only the last few years, my experience with Mother’s Day has been fraught with tension.

First, in my adolescence it was from the behavior from my own mother. Then, after Aaron and I got married, Mother’s Day was salt in the wound from years of infertility. And after I went no-contact with my mother in 2017, the reminder of her abuse, neglect, and disdain felt like an anchor pulling my heart into the ocean’s abyss, leaving a gargantuan wound that made me feel as though I am the problem and not worthy enough to be loved and cared for.

But with each year, I’ve done the labor of walking hand and hand with healing these wounds. It’s been both daunting and dark, yet beautiful and sacred. I’ve learned to mother myself and I’ve leaned in to the ways I’ve been given the gift of being mothered by a community of people over the years who have filled the holes left by my own mother’s emotional and physical absence. These gifts from others have built my capacity for mothering and, with healing and with age, I’ve come to view myself in the role of mother1 — not just to my own two kids but to the folks in my circles and in the world around me.

From this wholeness and healing, with each passing Mother’s Day, it feels as though the sadness and grief that has always surrounded this holiday wanes further and further away from me and I find myself able to enjoy the day rather than dread it.2

It hasn’t always been this way. I have memories of Mother’s Days in my childhood where my mom would eventually storm out of the house in anger, blaming her rage on our ruining Mother’s Day by not doing enough to show how much we cared about her. She’d get in the car and disappear for hours, leaving us with the guilt from her disappointment in us.

This gutted me each year because, from as young as I can remember, I’d try to make sure that Mother’s Day was special by doting on her, telling her I loved her (to which I remember her only ever saying “thank you” in response any time me or my siblings told her “I love you”), making her gifts, taking care of my younger sisters, and making sure the house was clean. But inevitably, one tiny misinterpreted signal of disrespect — something as small as saying “yeah” instead of “yes ma’am” — and she was out the door, slamming it shut, leaving the plates on the wall shaking in her exit. I can still hear the entire house rattle from her slammed doors.

It wasn’t just the glassware in the cabinets that rattled with her exit; my little spirit quaked in her anger. I felt it was easy to make her angry. I spent my entire life — while she had the privilege of being a part of it — walking on eggshells around this woman, never knowing what might detonate the land mine of her vindictiveness.

That’s life with a malignant narcissist.

I have very few memories of my mother in my childhood. Or rather, I have very few good memories of my mother in my childhood. If they aren’t memories dripped with pain from her neglect and abuse, they’re simply vignettes; the image of her tweezing her eyebrows in her bathroom mirror, the gait of her walking across the din in her muumuu, standing in front of the washer in the garage, reaching in for her clothes to put them in the dryer, or sitting at the kitchen table eating a meal while watching the tv my dad kept on the kitchen counter. I can count the wholesome memories with her on maybe two hands. And those wholesome memories are things like driving me to sports camps in the summer, picking up fast food on a random weekday, or taking me grocery shopping with her. All acts that are the bare minimum of care when you’re the parent of a child.

The way our memories work is wild. Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m being unfair, having erased any genuinely good memories I might have had of her because they are tainted by the pain she caused. I want to be able to hold the nuance that we may have had wholesome memories together even in the midst of her abuse. I’ve been quick to blame myself in the past for not holding on to the positive memories because I question, even after all of the pain I have endured at her hands, if she deserves to at least have a positive position in some of my childhood memories if they do exist.

However, here’s what I’ve learned by this point in my life: I refuse to continue to blame myself for any part in the demise of the relationship with the woman that birthed and raised me. You can’t have a legitimate relationship with a malignant narcissist. She has manipulated me so much over the years, I can no longer trust whether or not any good memories were from a place of sincerity, mere obligation, or if those memories were manipulation as a part of her game. She shot herself in the foot. She played her game too hard. She tainted and broke any surviving wholesome memories of her in my mind because of her manipulation and abuse.

It makes sense that this has happened. According to Dr. Barbara Fredrickson, a positivity researcher at the University of North Carolina, “for every heart-wrenching negative emotional experience you endure, you need to experience at least three heartfelt positive emotional experiences that uplift you.”3

The Gottman Institute also applies this same principle but in the context of romantic relationships.

There is a very specific ratio that makes love last. That “magic ratio” is 5 to 1. This means that for every negative interaction during conflict, a stable and happy marriage has [requires] five (or more) positive interactions.4

Any relationship, whether parental, platonic friendship, or romantic, is based on some form of attachment that both the Gottmans and Dr. Fredrickson speak to in their research. It’s formed based on the ratio of positive to negative interactions in the relationship. My ratio of negative experiences with the woman that birthed me far outweigh any positive experiences. If she wanted my memory bank to preserve any good memories with her, she should have done the work to mend the pain she caused. She has had countless opportunities over our time together in this life and every single time she has refused to take accountability and mend with emotional maturity. She isn’t capable. She’s only retaliated against my truth about her as my mother, villainized me, and framed herself as the victim.

As a parent now, my main goal with my own children is connection in order to build trust and safety. I spent years after we brought our twins home in ongoing trauma-informed education, studying Trust Based Relational Intervention (TBRI) through the Karyn Purvis Institute of Child Development5 and becoming a certified Empowered To Connect facilitator.6

Dr. Purvis concluded similar findings as the Gottmans and Dr. Fredrickson, but in the context of parenting and the idea of felt safety.

You provide ‘felt safety’ when you arrange the environment and adjust your behavior so your children can feel in a profound and basic way that they are truly safe in their home and with you. Until your child experiences safety for themselves, trust can’t develop, and healing and learning won’t progress.

If a child feels threatened…her primitive brain jumps in and takes over. Physically located in areas of the brain such as the amygdala, this primitive brain constantly monitors basic survival needs and behaves like a guard on patrol…Helping a child feel safe relaxes and disarms the primitive brain…When a child feels genuinely safe, the primitive brain lets down its guard and allows trust to blossom and bonding to begin.7

Not only do I approach parenting from a developmental standpoint and work on maintaining connection with my children through providing felt safety and owning and repairing my mistakes in order to build and maintain trust with them — In becoming a parent myself, I realize how easy it is to love my children. My mother made me believe that it was a laborious sacrifice to love me and my siblings. Because I was reminded over the course of my entire adolescence that children only ruin your life, I didn’t even want to become a parent until after I got married and began to understand what I wanted in life. I was given the unconscious belief through the constant reminders that children ruin your life that that’s what I had done to her.

I’m done feeling any guilt when it comes to the woman the birthed me. When people show you who they are, believe them. Especially when it has happened over and over and over again. And even if they are your mother. We can honor the humanity of our parents while maintaining clear and strict boundaries in order to honor ourselves, our reality, and our truth of what it has been like being their child.

Becoming a parent myself was a hard-won path.

I was in the car with my own mother and answered a phone call with the results that our third IUI8 had failed. I hung up the call and through my sobs I remember she told me I needed to get over it and be grateful because when she wanted to get pregnant, she didn’t have the kind of medical opportunities like I had.

I was driving but I remember looking at her while we were stopped at a red light right outside of my neighborhood and, instead of compassion, I was met with her lips pierced shut and a stone-faced glare after shaming me for my emotions, mislabeling them as ingratitude, and turning herself into the victim of my circumstances that had nothing to do with her (again, narc behavior). Aaron and I had been trying to get pregnant for a few years by this point and, worse than the news of our failed IUI, was her void of any capacity for empathy for her own child. It’s the first moment I remember being able to articulate to myself in the moment I experienced it, that my own mother wasn’t safe. Now, in therapy and through EMDR, I’ve gone back through my life and done an inventory of countless moments across the span of my life where she displayed the exact same pattern of behavior.

However, her cruel apathy in that moment epitomizes the pain and forgottenness I have felt from society as a woman who struggled with infertility.

We live in a patriarchal world that places value on a woman based on whether or not she is a mother, going as far as villainizing women who choose to remain childless.

This isn’t just society as a whole. I can speak from experience that the evangelical Christian church places emphasis on heteronormative marriage and procreation, citing “be fruitful and multiply” to be a woman’s highest (and only) calling in life. I’ve attended churches on Mother’s Day where mothers were asked to stand during service to be welcomed with applause and adoration. They handed out flowers and goodie bags to women with children, but only after asking them their motherhood status. “Are you a mom?” the greeter standing at the door asks, holding out a flower anticipating my “yes” as I walked by. I shake my head “no” and they retract their gift, crushing my fragile heart.

After a few years of painstaking and heartbreaking infertility treatments, I finally released myself from attending church on Mother’s Day because the reminder in public of my empty nursery at home felt too gargantuanly painful.

Eventually, Aaron and I realized that our path to parenthood was meant to come to fruition through adoption and we became parents to our twins in 2013.

I never did show a positive pregnancy test over all the years before health complications led me to have a hysterectomy in 2022. By the time my physical conditions deteriorated to the point of needing to remove my reproductive system, I felt closure in my path to parenthood. I no longer felt grief in my body when motherhood came up and I didn’t feel the pressure to prove my womanhood by my ability to get pregnant and birth children. By 36, I was throwing my middle finger to that patriarchal trope and gladly yeeted my ute to the nether. Now, I actually find great joy in my existence without a uterus at the youthful age of 389 and that my entrance into perimenopause contradicts the societal rule that a woman’s value is in her body. I actually feel more empowered as a woman without the parts society uses to define femininity and womanhood and it feels like a delightful rebellion against the patriarchal system.

Part of my work in life has been learning not to look for someone external to fill the mother wound in my life. This has been an excruciatingly painful lesson at times. While we need community, we also need to find our worth and validation from within our own selves.

I found this journal entry from October 2021 where I was able to take a long enough break from survival mode right after my dad died to put the pieces together…

You know what I realized just today?

My narcissistic mother was physically present but emotionally & psychologically abusive. I was emotionally abandoned as an only kid. Then my twin sisters were born 8 yrs younger than me & I pretty much raised them.

I was their mother.

I took them to school, picked them up, I cooked food & fed us. I did the homework thing, bed time, hard questions, deep talks, soothed tears, gave hugs and I Love Yous…I met a lot of the physical needs but I mothered them in the emotional things where our mother abandoned us.

I gave from an empty well I wasn’t even allowed to drink from. How I was able to do that is miraculous.

Then I got married and had kids and I’ve mothered my own children.

And because of traumatic situations that my narcissistic mom caused in my family of origin, I continued to mother my younger siblings even into their adulthood. One of them is now stable and mature and I finally feel like peers.

I have consistently mothered others since I was 8 yrs old.

But I have I didn’t have a mother that mothered me.

And I’m exhausted from doing it all alone my whole life.

Today I overthought & over shared with someone who means a lot to me. I thought what I was saying would disappoint her. And she said this:

“You’re a grown woman. Take your journey, sweetheart.”

Oof.

And all at once it’s like I was that little kid. I look 35 but this broken part of me is still that little kid.

I am a grown woman. I get to take my own journey and I don’t need to look for anyone’s approval in the way I do it.

I think it’s going to have to be grown up Hannah that now mothers kid Hannah. I think the healing begins there. No one else can do it for me.

And I have done that labor. I have mothered, and continue to mother, my inner child. I’ve learned to recognize that part of me when she speaks up and I’ve learned how to meet her in her pain in the way she needs. I have become the mother to myself that I deserved.

But healing our wounds doesn’t just happen in a vacuum. Relational wounds are healed within the context of relationships. I’m able to look back over my life and recognize that the gaping wounds desperate to be mothered left by the woman that birthed me were filled by many women who mothered me in her absence.

My granny was my familial source of mothering in my life. From a young age, she was my person. I spent much of my early summers and holidays with her in Louisiana and she was my source of safety and security in my young life.

There were several teachers across the years that I felt took me under their wing, embraced my quirkiness and taught me, not just their subjects in school, but that my voice was an important contribution in the world.

The mothers of my childhood friends were gifts I didn’t realize at the time. Melisa knew me since kindergarten and always made me feel like a second daughter to her. Then there was Melinda. All through elementary school she would take me and my friend Laura to the library every other week. In junior high, she would pick me up from school when my anxiety was too high to walk home down the busy road toward my house. And in high school, I’d hang out after school in her kindergarten classroom where she taught, until it was time to leave and she’d take me and Laura to Casa Ole for chips and queso. I spent many of my high school weekends at her house and she only ever made me feel loved and embraced.

There have been women in the various churches I attended over the years whose hugs and prayers were a balm to my heart.

The mothers of the students I taught and directed in my post-college years of teaching and directing kids theatre supported and encouraged the gifts they saw in me.

The women in the infertility ministry I volunteered with for several years held my heart and my tears over the years of struggle to become a mother.

And in my adult life, there have been friends who each have mothered me in different seasons and in the strength of their different personalities. Some are more analytical, some more emotional. Some are able to give tangible advice, others are more inclined to pull you into the car for a Sonic run and a simple drive while you cry in their passenger seat. Some let you cry on their couch and eat ice cream, while others will hold you while you cry. Some of these friends are from seasons past that I may not speak to as frequently as we used to. But the absence or infrequency doesn’t diminish the healing they have facilitated in the past with their presence and words that have facilitated the flourishing that exists within me today.

All of these ways of mothering in all the seasons of my life have held me in their own special, specific ways.

From my experience, mothering doesn’t belong to just one person in our lives. Mothering is communal. Mothering is a sacred gift we are able to give to everyone around us.

Not only is mothering communal because we all have the capacity to mother regardless of our parenting status; The communal act of Mothering is an act of rebellion against a capitalistic society that values hyper independence, isolation, productivity, and the sacrifice of our lives and bodies on the altar of the Empire. By choosing to see every child as ours and to see our fellow humans through the lens of a compassionate mother, we make the world softer for those who need a gentle place to land. And that compassion is fueled by the fierce power we carry that rages against systems determined to break us. Mothering requires both soft and hard, dark and light, rage and joy, grief and celebration. Mothering is a practice in paradox, holding well the tension of being an embodied human and the spectrum of experiences we face.

We all mother each other in some way. I could list by name many more women over the years who have mothered me and made me feel loved and precious, healing the deep wounds left by the woman that birthed me. Some of them have been mothers themselves, some never birthed or raised children in their home. But all of them offered me the gift of feeling precious to them.

Mother’s Day belongs to those who mother, regardless of gender, relationship status, or if they have birthed or raised children. We hold the capacity to Mother one another in ways that heal.

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FOOTNOTES

1. I’m giggling because the word “Mother” has come to be slang for an iconic person of influence. And while, I’d be honored to be labeled “Mother” in the slang sense, that’s not what I mean in this instance. I mean the ‘old fashioned’ definition of a mother. lol

2. I know this is not the case for many and that Mother’s Day comes with sadness, pain, and grief and I hold that reality tenderly.

3. Source: Psychology Today

4. Source: The Gottman Institute

5. https://child.tcu.edu/about-us/research/#sthash.yq3Z9eZB.dpbs

6. I’ve since let my certification lapse

7. Karyn B. Purvis, David R. Cross, and Wendy Lyons Sunshine, The Connected Child: Bring Hope and Healing to Your Adoptive Family (New York: McGraw-Hill, 2007), 48-50.

8. Intrauterine Insemination - placing sperm directing into the uterus to increase the chances of fertilization

9. This is not sarcasm. I’m still young in the grand scheme of life.

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I’ve been planning this article on the topic of healing for the past two weeks, dropping ideas into my notes app and compiling thoughts together as I move through my days, to eventually sit down and organize all the material into a cohesive article. (This is my writing process)

So the irony is not surprising to me that the day I planned on finally sitting down to start intentionally working on writing about this subject in dedicated time in front of my laptop, I have had an intense opportunity to practice self-compassion after a rough twenty-four hours of being faced with my own repeated patterns of behavior that make me want to crawl into a cavern of self-loathing. Without going into too much detail…I don’t like that I max out so quickly on my social capacity and I meltdown from being pushed over the threshold of my social and sensory tolerance.

It would be easy for me to spiral into self-contempt because I wish that I didn’t burnout and meltdown into a panic attack so quickly when I’m overstimulated, but by this point in my life and everything I’ve been through, I’m only interested in introspection that helps me grow and evolve. I no longer fruitlessly shit on myself. It’s not productive and I don’t deserve that. As I’ve said before: We can’t shame our way into wholeness. I no longer let other people shit on me either, so I refuse to be my own bully.

Yet, I still have the feelings about myself, wishing I wasn’t like this, while also being able to show compassion for my autistic brain and sensitive body. What do I do with these feelings? I realize I still need to process the feelings I have toward myself and feel through them. Of course, we could breeze past the introspection without acknowledgement. But it’s not emotionally healthy to stuff our feelings because our emotions always, eventually, manifest in some way. We hope these repressed emotions manifest as a fairly neutral expression — maybe a cry in the shower or an intense boxing match with a punching bag like a scene from a movie. But from my experience, they usually bite us in our own ass or harm other people if we haven’t done the work to process through them.

So it’s this balance; how can we process through our feelings in a healthy, constructive way, without spiraling into shame…

while also showing ourselves compassion…

but yet gently hold ourselves accountable…

while meeting our behavior with curiosity rather than shame…

…all in order to move forward in a constructive way so that the next time this happens to us, we’re able to handle our feelings in an advantageous, emotionally healthy manner.

These are big questions and lots of things to hold all at once.

In my last article, we took a look into the future to acknowledge that our healing journey is one that is life-long. Accepting that we won’t arrive at a miraculous moment of healing is one element of our human healing journey. When we understand and embody the belief that, in each moment we are faced with our wounds, we have an opportunity to step into deeper understanding of who we are and how we operate. Our curiosity holds the hand of healing and we get to partner with that healing for the entirety of our lives.

But this morning before I sat down to write, wading through the waves of potential self-loathing while working to tether myself to curiosity and compassion, I asked myself, “How do we move through our negative feelings about ourselves, feel it wholly to heal, while also showing ourselves compassion?” These things feel like seemingly opposite practices.

But rather than thinking toward the healing of the future, there’s a lot of healing that can come from looking at the past.

A few weeks ago I was in a funk and needed a change of scenery during my work day. A friend agreed to meet me at a coffee shop to sit together on the covered porch so we could enjoy the pleasant weather and do our work.

As I was driving to the coffee shop, I was talking out loud to whatever in the Universe would listen. I shared the huge dreams and visions I have for my future and the things I was feeling about what was holding me back from achieving them. I was able to recognize in the left side of my brain what was happening with my emotions and why, but my right brain needed to express it to give the Universe an opportunity to speak back.

I was mid-sentence when I passed a DaVita dialysis center. I saw the sign and immediately, with profound intensity, I felt something inside ask me, “Are you still on dialysis?” Sometimes it takes me a second to catch on and hear what it is the Universe is trying to get across to me. Not this time. This question, “Are you still on dialysis?” was so blunt and direct, it stopped my emotional spiral in its tracks.

When I was three years old I was deathly sick and I spent a long time in the hospital where I almost died of kidney failure. I spent those months living on dialysis. Doctors said that if I lived, I’d spend the rest of my life with complications and might not be able to live a normal life. With the exception of a few small, insignificant instances in the 35 years since that time on dialysis, I haven’t had any kidney complications like doctors predicted.

“No.” I confessed out loud to the question that was posed to me.

“Does your life look anything like it did when you were on dialysis?” I felt I was asked.

Damn it. I knew where this was going.

“No, it doesn’t at all.”

“Then why do you think that your life in 1…5…10…30 years is going to look anything like it is now?”

I know my life will look different in various ways as the years pass on.

And I felt that voice inside gently tell me, “So take a look over the span of your life since those days you were tied to a machine to keep you alive, and look at how far you have come.”

It was the wisdom I needed in that moment to realize that change takes time. It’s a process, and we are given so many opportunities along the way to make even the most subtle shifts that will bring us into alignment with our dreams and visions in the long run.

A lot of times our bodies remember before our brains can catch on.

My dad passed away in September of 2021 and it’s been a long three years since dad’s death navigating, not just the grief of his loss, but the emotional toll of dealing with my family of origin (who I’m no-contact with), and the red tape of his estate. I don’t mean that to sound like we’re the Vanderbilts, having dad’s will read aloud by his long-term lawyer like they do in the movies. It wasn’t that kind of estate. Just a tiny life insurance policy and a small portion of land in Louisiana that was split between myself and my two siblings.

By the end of last summer we were in negotiations to sell the land and even though I felt mentally healthy and grounded, my body was taking a beating just from the emotional toll of dealing with people who had once caused me immense hurt over the course of my life.

Thankfully, my brain recognized what was happening in my body and I had an opportunity to show my body the compassion she deserves. It was almost like my brain and my body were two completely different entities. It was a very good example of the difference between cognition and embodiment; My brain could recognize what was happening in my body, but my body needed to process through the trauma it remembered from interacting with these people in my past.

It was profound enough to me that I thought to grab my phone and articulate what was happening in the moment.

Just because we feel these old feelings doesn’t mean we’ve regressed; they’re just part of our story. But we get to write a new story for ourselves at every opportunity. We have a choice of how long we want to stay in those old patterns before we shift into our healed ways of thinking and feeling.

This is why I no longer care to shit all over myself, attack my self-worth, and spiral into self-loathing whenever my brain or my body shift into old patterns of thinking and feeling. That is what that unhealed version of me did and I don’t do that anymore. It was a long journey and it didn’t happen overnight. But when I look back, it feels like yesterday.

Those pathways are there because they are what kept us safe. Let us honor those past versions of ourselves for doing what they knew to stay safe but then show them how we do things differently now. We know new, healthier ways of coping because we’ve chosen to heal along the way. If we have made some movements toward healing, even if they are incremental, it deserves the recognition.

So, to my questions at the beginning:

…how can we process through our feelings in a healthy, constructive way, without spiraling into shame…

while also showing ourselves compassion…

but yet gently hold ourselves accountable…

while meeting our behavior with curiosity rather than shame…

…all in order to move forward in a constructive way so that the next time this happens to us, we’re able to handle our feelings in an emotionally healthy manner.

A beneficial practice for us when we are in this state is to pause and look back to see how far we’ve come.

Just like the question I felt asked, “are you still on dialysis?” we can all ask ourselves the same thing when we feel ourselves begin to spiral; Are we still on life support with the same machines as when we were three? If the answer is no and we can recognize where we have healed, grown, evolved, and matured, then that is something to honor and celebrate.

Yet, we don’t quit there. We use retrospect to inspire us to keep moving forward so that in another ten years we can look back and, though this version of us will be familiar, we will no longer recognize them.

If you took a time machine back in time, you would not recognize me. The essence of who I’ve always been is still there, yes. That’s the soul coming through. I’m inquisitive and quirky. Daydreamy and imaginative. Serious but silly.

But you still wouldn’t recognize me. Now, I’m not afraid to speak up. I’m not afraid to ask questions. I don’t find my worth from external sources. I believe in my potential. I’m really proud of who I’ve become and how I’ve healed and evolved while still holding all those past versions of me with dignity and honor for navigating life the only ways she knew how at the time. I have been through hell and dark nights of the soul many times. But yet, I feel whole and grounded in a level of healing today that I definitely didn’t know back then.

At the same time, because healing is life-long, if you took a time machine from the future back to this very present moment, I’d hope you still didn’t recognize me now from my future self. Though I’m proud of how far I’ve come, I don’t want to stay here. I want to keep moving forward, growing, learning, loving and healing.

May we all pause to take a moment to honor all the past versions of ourselves and the work that we’ve done that has brought us this far. But may we move forward with a continued desire to heal and evolve as we travel along our life’s path.

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I nestled into the bean bag chair at the foot of my bed with a copy of One More Time by Carol Burnett that I checked out at the local library on my latest library outing. I was ten years old and reading books about my favorite movie stars was my means of escape from my loud, tumultuous reality. I was only a few pages in, when my hand made its way up to my eye and I began rubbing my eyelashes between my fingers. Before long, the rubbing turned into pulling and within a few hours I had pulled out all of my eyelashes. There was something soothing about the pulling, paired with the stillness of reading.

For the next eight years, until I graduated from high school, I couldn’t keep my hands away from my eyes, leaving me with no eyelashes. I spent those years making excuses for my bare eyelids, crafting elaborate stories to avoid admitting that this was something I inflicted on myself.

My parents would offer reminders to keep my hands away from my eyes and take me to the nail salon so I could get fake nails to prevent me from being able to pull my lashes. But that was the extent of my support. These were ancient times before we could enter search words into Google to fall down a rabbit hole of reading about what ails us. And mental health didn’t exist in my world; behavior was a matter of faith and self-control. So instead of researching or finding therapeutic help for my compulsive hair-pulling, I was expected to control it through prayer and sheer willpower, failing over and over and over again which made consistent blows to my self-esteem.

Growing up in the Charismatic Evangelical Christian spaces that I did, I was taught that healing was a miraculous moment where, in one fell swoop, God would remedy whatever physical ailment, sin, or “negative” emotion was bothering you and make it disappear forever. Any resurgence of those ailments was because of your own flaws, faithlessness, sins, or misdeeds.

This concept of healing gave me a twisted idea of what it meant to live life as a human and it gave me a warped sense of the divine. Suffering and blessing were based on some sort of quid pro quo pattern with God. I thought healing was one and done. Move on. Never speak of it or deal with it again. If Jesus could make the lame walk and the blind see, he would heal me if he really wanted to.

I’d have stints where I could abstain from pulling and I believed God had healed me of my obsessive compulsion, only to start pulling within the week. So you can imagine the torment I went through over the years, pleading for God to help me stop pulling my eyelashes after believing that I had my miraculous healing moment. I thought the ebb and flow of my compulsion to pull signified the fickleness of God, who chose to cure me when he found me pleasant and curse me when he didn’t. As if he were Santa Claus, constantly vacillating me between his naughty and nice list.

But we need not be indoctrinated into high control religion and have a belief in divinity to wish for our momentous healing. The longing for reprieve from what ails us is a human condition, not just a religious one.

The summer after I graduated high school I was at a nail salon for my routine acrylic nail appointment and I picked up a copy of Cosmopolitan1. I flipped through and stumbled on their Q&A section.

“I pull out my hair and can’t stop. I feel like a freak. What’s wrong with me?” asked the person writing to the magazine.

It was the first time I read about someone else suffering from the same mysterious behavior that also caused them so much shame.

“You suffer from Trichotillomania, an irresistible urge to pull out one’s own hair.”

The answer to the reader’s question gave a brief explaination that trichotillomania (trich) is considered an impulse control disorder2 and that it can be caused by anxiety.

For the first time since I pulled all my eyelashes out at ten years old, I felt validated. I wasn’t a freak. What I had had a name. Naming it and knowing I wasn’t alone did so much for my self-esteem. If God had chosen not to heal me, I thought that knowing the name for my compulsive hair pulling and the reason for it would definitely heal me immediately.

But having knowledge isn’t the same as embodiment. I’d say miraculous healing is rare; often we’re meant to live through a journey toward healing for the duration of our lives, even when we can cognitively analyze the root causes of why we are the way that we are. Cognition is only one portion of healing; we also have to live through it in our bodies.

Finding out that my pulling had a name didn’t heal me automatically like I thought it would. But naming it and knowing I wasn’t alone did heal some part of me. When we name our wounds and find others suffering in similar ways on their own search for healing, we do find pockets of our own healing to lean into. There’s healing in having our experience validated. There’s healing when we traverse our suffering in community. It’s not the entirety of our healing, but it is something. And there have been micro moments like that in all these decades that have added up to acceptance and self-compassion. There are moments of revelation that lead us to a new understanding of ourselves, if we allow it. But we wouldn’t have that understanding without the opportunity found in our journey with our wounds.

Sometimes the wounds that consistently taunt us are there to allow us to get to know deeper parts of ourselves and to be able to evolve into who we are meant to become.

There are wounds I have that are much deeper, prevalent, and insidious than trichotillomania; They are deep, psychological blows struck by others. Complex trauma, sexual abuse, spiritual abuse…Perhaps this is you, too; carrying the pain from trauma inflicted on you by another. It’s not fair that we have to live day in and day out with the results of others’ abuse toward us when they get to live their lives unaffected by their actions.

But now, from this vantage point in my life, as someone who has walked through decades of experience with wishing for healing from her physical and psychological pain, I’ve realized that wishing it hadn’t happened to me spirals me into bitterness that only impairs me from moving forward.3 Yes, I hold space for anger. But perpetually living in it is to my own detriment. And I refuse to let my perpetrators have any more access to me than what they’ve already stolen. I couldn’t control others’ actions toward me, but I have control over how I move forward. I’ve had to learn to accept that these wounds are a part of me, no matter how hard I wish they weren’t.

That’s the paradox of healing. Two things can be true at the same time; I wish these things hadn’t happened to me but I also wouldn’t be who I am without them. They are part of what has made me who I am today. And who I am today has taken a hell of a lot of work to get here, and I’m incredibly proud of the woman I have become.

Our wounds don’t define us, but they are an intricate part of who we are. What does define us is how we move through our wounds each time they show up. And each wound is a portion of our past self, frozen in time, who shows up in our present life looking for validation and to have our needs met.

For me, when I’m in a new situation and my inner child is begging me to leave or stay where it’s comfortable because change makes her feel unsafe, I get to let her feel her feelings but remind her that we’ve been through changes before and we’ve made it through safely. And I get to take her by the hand and bring her with me through the change.

When the parentified inner teen inside of me who raised her younger sisters has overwhelming feelings when my own preteen children are having developmentally appropriate reactions to life, I get to gently parent that part of myself that was forced to grow up sooner than was fair.

When the belittled young woman shows up in fear of speaking up because her voice was dismissed over and over again, I get to remind her that our voice matters and that there is power in what we have to say.

When all the past versions of me choose to shrink back because she was always told she was “too much,” I remind them that it’s not our job to make others feel comfortable. And in the words of Elyse Meyers, “they can go find less.”

When I gaslight myself I’ve learned to recognize all the past versions of me who’s reality was continually invalidated and I can remind her that her reality is real and valid in the exact way she is experiencing it.

When I feel stretched too thin being at the beck and call of others, I’ve learned to recognize the past versions of me who continually sacrificed her own needs for the well-being of others and I get to remind her that it’s okay to express her needs and set appropriate boundaries.

When the young performer in me, desperate to be seen, who found her value in being picked, tries to influence me to sacrifice my authenticity to give others what I think they want, I get to remind that performer inside of me that we have inherent value in who we are, how we show up, and that we have the right to show up authentically. Anyone who chooses not to accept us, doesn’t define who we are.

Or when I’m sitting at my desk, writing a substack article and my hand makes it way up to my eye to start rubbing my eyelashes, I get to show myself compassion for all the years of abandonment that forced me to find coping mechanisms to regulate myself in my young, dysregulated autistic body.

All of these past versions of us did the best with what we had. And every time we’re confronted with those wounded parts of ourselves, we are met with a choice: we can choose to shame and belittle ourselves for falling back on patterns that brought us safety and comfort. Or we can be kind to ourselves and honor the past versions that did everything they could to stay safe and secure.

Telling ourselves to “get over it” only perpetuates our wounds. Shame never moves us toward healing. We’ll never flog ourselves into wholeness.

We don’t just exist as our present selves. We exist as all the versions of us that existed before this moment and all the versions of us that exist in the future. Each one of these are a part of who we are at the present moment and we get to meet them in their pain the way they deserved to be held.

Have you ever been in an emotional spot — whether sad or frenzied, panicked or scared — and someone has helped calm you down and made you feel seen and validated? Our present selves have the ability to do that for the past versions of ourselves. It’s not just about arriving at the final destination of total healing; it’s about meeting those past versions of ourselves and being the healer to them that we need. The more opportunities that we have to confront the wounds in the past versions of us, the more opportunities we have for growth, evolution, and to get to know ourselves even more.

Because getting to the final destination of ultimate healing isn’t what matters; What matters most is how we meet ourselves within our struggle toward wholeness.

The process, rather than the destination, is where we find our deepest healing.

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Technically, the spring equinox happened well over a week ago. I’ve been wading around in its energy and felt it important to acknowledge the transition into spring and articulate its significance.

The vernal equinox is one of only two times a year that the earth’s tilt is perpendicular to the sun, meaning that Earth is equally illuminated in the northern and southern hemispheres. Equinox comes from the Latin words aequi, which means "equal," and nox, which means "night." Astronomers of the ancient world needed a "zero point" from which they could measure the movement of the stars, and they chose the vernal equinox — the “equal night” and day — as that starting point.2

This means that there is an even balance between the dark and the light. How beautifully symbolic of so much more than the tilt of the earth in relation to the sun. Living this human existence is also so much about existing within dualities. Some seasons there’s a heavier balance of the dark; some seasons tip the scales toward light. Joy exists with grief. Love exists with loss. Happiness exists with sadness. We experience the entire spectrum of what it means to be human, with opportunities to catch our breath during a seasonal balance - an equinox.

The two seasonal equinoxes feel like an opportunity for us to balance back into a state of energetic equilibrium. Just like ancient astronomers used this event to set their calculations back to zero, the equinox brings me back to equilibrium to set me at a neutral point in preparation for the next season. In the spring, it prepares me for busyness after a season of dormancy. The autumn equinox prepares me for stillness after the hectic spring and summer. Both seasons are of equal importance.

The seasonal cycles have been the way in which our ancestors have measured time and organized their own systems of survival. And that survival became a celebration of humanity. The spring equinox has been a significant event for us humans for millennia to commemorate our farewells to the dormancy of winter and the welcome of lively spring. Ancestors across the centuries have celebrated this yearly cycle in their own specific, beautiful, cultural ways.

• Every spring, people across India and around the world celebrate the Hindu festival, Holi (the Festival of Colors) to mark the end of winter and celebrate the triumph of good over evil.

• Nowruz, the Persian New Year, is a 3,000-year-old celebration of spring. It begins around the Spring Equinox, lasts for 13 days, and is celebrated by around 300 million people across the Middle East and Central Asia.3

• Shunbun no Hi is the Japanese celebration of the spring equinox where people visit their ancestors’ graves, clean them, and bring offerings to their loved ones in the spirit realm.4

• The Anglo-Saxon festival of Ostara is linked with the Germanic goddess Eostre, and is rooted in ancient pagan traditions celebrating the arrival of spring.

Our modern, western, capitalist society has erased the significance of us humans living according to the seasonal cycle. We’re expected to live in perpetual productive spring energy in order to keep us on the productivity hamster wheel so profits continue churning for the few.5

Sure, we acknowledge that spring has arrived because stores start selling pastel-colored Easter paraphernalia. We know fall is upon us when the pumpkin spice latte is back on the Starbucks menu. And winter’s arrival is marked by the Christmas seasonal decor at our local Target. This societal acknowledgement is tied to capitalism, rather than sacred, internal, energetic work that takes intentionality.

I’ve written throughout several articles about my faith deconstruction that part of my deconstruction has been embracing more earth-centered forms of spirituality.6

Though I’ve deconverted from Christianity, it’s not enough to just no longer go to church or believe the Christian creeds. It takes intentionality to continually divest from the religious patterns of belief that built me and are so sadistically intertwined with capitalism. These are beliefs that productivity equals holiness, that tangible results signify favor, and that I must always be doing and working toward something greater, and bigger, than myself. It’s capitalism in a different font. It’s an on-going process to untangle my rhythms from this mentality and to embrace the intuitive energetic cycles of nature we are a part of and intrinsically connected to.

Spring Energy and Our Inner Child

Several weeks ago I fell hard into a depression. After a quiet winter season, life started to get busy and I had an opportunity come up. Even though it was positive and made me feel seen and validated in my abilities, the aftermath slid me deep into depression.

I could recognize that what was activated were from the wounds and fears of my inner child. I’ve spent a lot of my healing over the years working with this younger version of myself and I’ve learned that what she needs (and deserves) when she shows up in my present life, is my acknowledgment of her reality and the space to feel through her feelings. There is no “just get over it;” that just prolongs any inner healing and perpetuates the wounds caused by caregivers.

In the moments my inner child shows up in my adult life, I get to be the parent that she deserved. I parent my inner child in the same way I Gentle Parent my own children. By doing this, I’m building trust with this younger version of myself so that each time she shows up and I give her space and gently bring her along the journey with me, we build trust so that she’s less likely to slip me into a depression or self-sabotage in the future.

Two weeks after this depressive episode I was in a workshop with a mentor and, unprompted with no knowledge of my episode, she pointed out that because spring energy is full of newness with new opportunities, we may feel our inner child get loud during the transition into spring. She pointed out that our inner child wants to do what she can to stay safe and because she’s activated by the change that’s within spring energy, this can feel like a loss of safety after the quiet dormancy of winter. Well, I was floored. It felt like a synchronicity. I had been experiencing exactly what she was talking about.

Creating Ritual and Rhythms for the Season

Having the language to articulate what I knew was happening in my depressive episode and then the valid reason that is also tied to the seasonal transition — it felt like an ever-widening dissection from my religious and capitalist indoctrination to burrow myself even deeper into the sacred practice of moving with nature’s cyclical rhythms. Understanding this element of my relationship with my inner child and how it’s tied to the seasonal energy made me realize that part of my transition into each season will be creating various rituals for all the parts of me that need to be acknowledged and honored with each cycle’s beginning and end.

For this spring equinox in particular, I’ve created a few of my own ritual practices to reset my internal equilibrium and honor the season we’re leaving and now transitioning into. Because my inner child was really feeling untethered and reactive in this bustling spring transition, my rituals have revolved around allowing her to feel a sense of safety.

I created an altar to my younger self and every day when I go into my office to sit and write, I take a moment to pause and acknowledge this younger version of me and promise her that, whenever she shows up in my present life, I will parent her the way she deserved to be parented.

I’ve been doing more reading and learning about the seasonal calendar, the astrological year, and various elements of nature. Not only because I love to learn, but because doing a deep-dive into learning about a more earth-centered form of spirituality is an act of divesting from the religious culture that harmed me. It’s teaching me about rhythms and cycles, how I can implement them, and ways that I can honor my connection to the natural world.

I’ve gone on what I’m calling “Hope Hunts.” The adult part of me has been anxious and worried about what’s happening in the United States and in my home state of Texas.7 I’ve been working on the balance between staying broadly informed while not losing my sanity and living in a constant state of rage. But what my younger self has needed in this spring season is to focus on beauty, life, and new growth as a sign of hope for the future.

And I’ve needed to get creative simply for the sake of creating with no ulterior motive to turn it into something. I just need to create. My soul needs to make art in whatever form speaks to me in the moment. There’s lots of singing, puzzles, doodling, crafting, dancing, and writing.

I found a wood burning kit on clearance a few years ago. I had no expectations to become a master wood burner, but I secretly hoard craft supplies for when inspiration strikes and I couldn’t pass this one up. A few tutorials and a quick deep dive on a wood burning subreddit later, I impatiently made this little sign out of scrap wood and metal I had laying around and proudly mounted it outside our back door. It’s no masterpiece, but it’s endearing and it gently reminds me to “be still and the earth will speak to you.” And nearly every time I see it, I take a moment - even if it’s brief - to breathe, acknowledge the nature, say hi to the trees in our yard, and be mindful of my coexistence with the earth and the rhythm of its cycles.

These rhythms may seem small, but the smallest bits of consistency and dedication can be the most powerfully rewarding because it feeds your soul the nutrition it needs to continue along its path to fulfill what it came here to do.

Being intentional with the energy of the spring equinox feels like I’m in alignment. It just feels right. Like, I realize the wisdom of our ancestors had it right. They knew we are a part of nature and its cycles, and that aligning ourselves with those cycles is a sacred practice to honor our humanity.

For me, to be intentional with syncing my rhythms to the cycles of nature, is a way for me to appreciate and acknowledgement my connection to the physical world. I believe we’re spiritual beings having an embodied experience. Syncing ourselves with nature feels like an intentional acknowledgment of our embodiment. It’s a spiritual practice that connects our spirit to the physical world. Just like our ancestors celebrated the spring equinox every year to celebrate the resilience of life, the equinox has taught me about my own embodiment and given me a deeper appreciation for humanity.

What the equinox has also taught me is that it’s important for us humans to have an internal reset. We aren’t meant to go hard all year long. This is a moment to find equilibrium in the transition of the seasons so that we can live fully within the season that’s present. It’s important to live fully in the current season in which we find ourselves. It takes intention to live in the present moment so that we can appreciate each coming season. We can’t fully appreciate spring’s blossoming arrival if we haven’t lived in the dormancy of winter. In the same manner, we’ll be tormented by the dark, slowness of winter if we don’t appreciate the life that comes with spring and summer.

Just like the natural world we are inherently connected to, we, too, will benefit when we live according to the earth’s cycles.

And in this moment, let’s take a breath and find our balance between the dark and light so that we can prepare for what life has in store for us in this next season.

What are ways you’ve prepared for the busyness of spring? Have you felt a transition in energy going from winter to spring, dark to light? How has this manifested for you?

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This article is an immediate continuation of this post, What It Felt Like To Die.

To listen to this article, click the play button above or follow this link to the video on YouTube.

I’m glad I had the foresight to book a hotel room after the laborious emotional triathlon that was my past-life regression hypnotherapy session. Home was a four-hour drive away and talking to anyone about anything felt like a gargantuan task, much less talking about what I had just experienced. I needed some time in solitude and quiet to process what I just went through before I could talk to anyone. I couldn’t get to my room fast enough. When I finally did, I dropped everything on the floor and immediately got in the shower. The warm water pouring over my head and down my back helped regulate my racing mind and exhausted body. I was grateful for what I had just experienced, but its contents were heavy and the labor was immense.

After a long while, I emerged from the shower and laid comatose on the bed wrapped in a towel, too exhausted to be bothered to grab my clothes from my suitcase. I don’t know how long passed as I laid there in a daze, but my empty stomach begging for food finally snapped me into action. With my hair still wet, I threw on clothes and headed out the door to grab a pizza from a local restaurant to bring back to my room. For the rest of the evening, I nibbled on pizza and sat in silence without even music or entertainment. Just me, my pizza, and my thoughts before I finally passed out from exhaustion.

The drive home the next morning was no different. I drove in silence amongst my own thoughts. Only now, my thoughts about the experience had shifted. In the moment of hypnosis, everything feels real and visceral, like you’re reliving a real-life event in your mind’s eye, experiencing it as though you are still living in the moment. But as soon as the next day, I began gaslighting myself to believe I made the entire thing up like a child playing pretend. I felt like I was crazy, having made up the entire story in my head as if I were sitting at a computer writing a piece of fiction. And by the time the four hours had passed and I made it home, I felt like a complete fool. I spent years in charismatic evangelical church spaces that manipulated your emotions to get you to drink the Kool Aid, and I worked so diligently to make sure I didn’t fall for that kind of heightened emotional spirituality again in my deconstruction. But I convinced myself that’s what I had done — that I got swept up in the emotions of hypnotherapy.

When I got home, Aaron wanted to hear about what I experienced. “I don’t have the bandwidth right now. Maybe later.” I told him. And like I usually do when I feel overwhelmed, dysregulated, or sad — I took a bath.

I could feel myself falling into a depression as I laid there in the tub for a few hours. I tried to keep my head above the figurative water by looking back at the past several years that led me to the moment of booking this hypnotherapy session. I knew that everything on my path the few years prior led me to this experience. So why the hell was I depressed about it? I knew going into the experience that the important thing to take away from past-life regression hypnosis is that it’s not about whether the details are true and provable; it’s about the experience serving you toward your highest good in this life.

I was willing to experience whatever I needed to during my session. I surrendered my expectations. So why was I feeling so shitty and depressed about it afterward?

“Ok, Bob.” I said directly to my spirit guide.1 “I’m going to need some hard evidence to help me know I wasn’t making it up and just caught up in the emotions of it all.” I begged in all earnest, “You’ve got to give me something.” In asking him for this, I held on to a glimpse of hope that it wasn’t all for nothing — that there must have been some element of what I experienced that was true.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

“I’d love to hear about what happened if you have bandwidth now.” said Aaron.

I was close to giving him a quick outline: I was a witch, they burned me at the stake, I met Bob. But before I had a chance to pull those words to the front of my mouth, I felt a pause vibrate through my whole being. I didn’t hear these words audibly, but I felt them deep in my spirit; “Do not give him any details about it. It’s not his time to hear about it.”

I had nothing to hide from him, and I felt a twinge of guilt for not giving him anything, especially since he had been so supportive leading up to the experience. But between my exhaustion and this strong nudge to keep it to myself, I stayed quiet.

“I would love to tell you,” I replied to Aaron. “But it was so much, I’m still processing it, and I am so damn tired that I can barely speak.” I assured him, “I’ll come back soon to tell you about it. I promise.”

His response was empathetic and patient. “I understand. I’m looking forward to it whenever you have space.” he said.

I planned to come back the next day to fill him in. But a day turned into a week. Life fell back into routine and trying to articulate such a profound experience felt harder the more time passed. I felt guilty, as though I was lying to him. But I also held space for myself that it felt like a monumental task trying to articulate something that was such a deeply profound experience. The experience crossed my daily thoughts, but besides the few facts and feelings I journaled, it still felt too big to try to articulate to Aaron.

One night a week later, I was reading in the lounge chair in the corner of our room while Aaron was sitting in the bed across from me. I was present with my book but I could feel Aaron’s gaze on me. I looked up at him to catch his eyes when he suddenly got up and walked over to me with urgency. He sat by my feet on the ottoman. “I have something I need to say to you.” he says, incredibly somber, tears beginning to pool in his eyes. I close my book and give him my full attention.

“I’m…” he stammers. “I’m sorry I let you die.”

My heart races in my chest. The top of my head begins to tingle. I shiver. I know exactly what he’s talking about.

“What did you just say?” I ask him.

Without hesitation he says again, “I said, I’m sorry that I let you die.”

Not wanting to ask any leading questions, I simply respond with, “What do you mean when you say that?”

He elaborates. “I was sitting there staring at you while you were reading and saw…I don’t know…a vision? And I felt this profound sadness and guilt.” He continues. “I felt like you were a witch in your past life and that you were burned and that I could have done something about it but I didn’t. I’m so sorry I let you die.” he says with sincerity.

I lean forward, grab his hands, and stare into his eyes. I feel deeply grounded.

“What else to you see? What else do you feel?” I ask. “Close your eyes, take several deep breaths, and describe to me exactly what you see and feel.” I direct him.

He follows my instruction without question. At the moment he closes his eyes, the tears that had been pooling fall down his cheeks. He takes a deep breath and pauses for a moment before he begins.

“There’s a crowd gathered in the middle of a small village. You’re being burned at the stake. I’m in the crowd, but I’m at the back. I want to save you, but I don’t want to get caught and I feel so guilty about not doing anything.” He responds.

I’m astonished. He is seeing and feeling exactly what I saw and felt from him in my hypnotherapy session.

“Where are you in relation to me?” I ask him to confirm for my own sake.

He takes a moment. “I’m in the back of the crowd toward your right.”

It’s the exact spot he was standing in my experience. I’m stunned. I feel as though I’m having an out-of-body experience in that moment, witnessing what’s happening between us from outside of myself. Yet, I’m deeply grounded and present in the moment with him.

“Who are you to me?” I ask.

“We’re friends. It’s not romantic but we have a deep, deep love for each other.” He cries. “You’re a free-spirited woman and you’re being punished for it. And I’m sorry I’m letting this happen to you.”

“Keep going.” I urge him.

“You’re speaking to me in your last moments. You’re telling me that it’s okay.” He lets out a sob. “You’re telling me that we’ll try again in another life.”

In another life.

It’s the exact words I said to him in my last moments.

“You asked for a sign that you didn’t make it all up,” I feel Bob say. This sign couldn’t have been more clear. I feel a deep sense of rest in the reassurance that I was given exactly what I needed to alleviate my doubts about my own experience.

I hold Aaron’s tear-stained face in my hands. He opens his eyes and I see the sorrow deep in his spirit. I’m overwhelmed with tenderness and love for him.

“You just saw what I saw during my session.” I tell him. “That was that life and it’s time to let that guilt go.” I continue. “This is this life. And this, my love, is another life.”

We both sit flabbergasted for a moment.

“Are you serious?!” Aaron asks.

“I have my session recorded.” I tell him. I hadn’t had the emotional and mental capacity to listen to it. But with urgency, we immediately listen to the entire recording of my session that confirms everything Aaron just said. We could barely speak, our awe was overwhelming.

I have never experienced anything like this in my waking life. I’ve had weird phenomena happen to me in other states and scenarios; When I was a young kid, I was dying from kidney failure and have memories of being outside of my body with an ethereal being. Then, when I had brain surgery at 30, I had an out of body experience while I was being operated on. But of those were while I was unconscious. While they were very real, they’re silhouetted through the lens of a dreamy, other-worldly state.

In this moment between me and Aaron I was awake, in my body, and fully grounded in the present moment, alert to what was happening and its significance. I couldn’t deny the profundity of this experience; Aaron had zero information about what happened in my session. And what gobsmacked me was that he experienced the same emotions I witnessed in him, he knew where he was standing in the crowd, and he said the exact phrase I said to him — “We’ll try again in another life.”

I asked for a sign and I got it. Loud and clear. However, I’ll acknowledge that having this experience together with Aaron still doesn’t prove that the events that happened in my past-life regression actually happened in that past life. That doesn’t matter. To focus on gathering data to prove my past life’s validity would be a meaningless endeavor. It’s focusing on the wrong thing. The point is to understand how what you encounter can serve its purpose in your present life.

What this experience with Aaron does prove, is that how I experienced my past-life regression session was real. That’s what matters. It’s not about whether or not the facts are true; It’s about how I can take what I experienced and use it to help me grow in my present life today.

Here are some lessons I’ve learned from this past-life regression experience:

My past-life regression helped remind me that strength lies in the face of rejection and adversity; Even if I’m standing all alone, I can be proud of myself as long as I know that I am standing in love, with my integrity intact.

It reinforced a theme of my deconstruction journey which is, it doesn’t matter if what we believe is “correct.” What matters is, does what we believe help us grow in love toward our fellow humans, ourselves, and every living thing on earth?

In the interactions I had with my dad in the past life, it helped me redefine my idea of safety. Safety at the expense of conformity is sentencing your soul to a slow, life-long death at the hands of a society that doesn’t care about you, your autonomy, or your well-being. So be your full, authentic, unmasked self, never sacrificing for a false sense of safety. Safety is always conditional based on your willingness to conform to societal rules that can change on a whim.

It grounded me in my strength as a woman. Even though patriarchy and misogyny have their boot on the throat of women even today, when we women show up unashamed, in all our power, we have the ability to create ripples of change in our immediate circles that will last for generations and will benefit the good of all women, now and in the future.

It reminds me that there is potential for people to change, despite immediate circumstances. As I looked into the faces of the mob that was murdering me in my past life, I spent most of my energy searching for the goodness in each of their souls, to try and reach the part of them that could be guided by that goodness. In the moment, I couldn’t find it, but I believed in it with every cell of my body. I knew it was in there, somewhere. I want to have that same intensity of hope today. I’m not naive, though; I’ve studied history with vigor. I pay attention to politics and world events. I know there are people who seem like their morals and integrity are so far gone, who continually cause harm through their evil actions because it benefits them. (In this moment I’m thinking of the current leadership in the U.S.) I’m not going to spend my energy running myself into the ground to change those minds and their systems that have been built over centuries and have no interest in reform. This level of change needed takes collective resistance.

What I can do, is show up in my immediate world, my community, and in my connections to be a person in my circle of influence who motivates others to evolve into a more loving, higher versions of themselves. Then those folks affect their circles, and then those circles affect their circles…and so on and so on.

This isn’t all sparkles and light; that would be spiritual bypassing. I’m talking about the spiritual practice of alchemy — using our experiences and emotions for soul-deep growth and transformation, both individually and collectively. By each of us showing up in our circles with integrity, grounded in our strengths, and partnered with love, we harness the power to change the energy of the collective to bring hope and joy among systems — and participants of those systems — intent on decimating the outliers.

And I’m grateful I listened to every nudge on my faith deconstruction path that led me to this experience. Past-life regression hypnotherapy and the event that happened with Aaron a week later, has been one of the most profound experiences I have had in my life.

It changed me on a cellular level.

The next year, our family took a trip to Greece and had the delight of touring Athens and the mountainous countryside of southern Greece. I had never traveled overseas before this trip. Aaron and I decided it would be a fun experience to get a tattoo as a souvenir when we go on big (to us) vacations like this. To commemorate our trip to Greece, we decided to get the phrase, “In another life” tattooed on our arms in Greek.2

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This article is an immediate continuation of this post, I Did Past-Life Regression Hypnotherapy.

TW: Physical Abuse, Violence, Death

To listen to this article, click the play button above or follow this link to the video on YouTube.

Note: The audio from my past life regression hypnotherapy session was recorded. The dialogue in this post is transcribed from that recording.

I’m completely surrendered to whatever this past-life regression hypnotherapy session has for me. Covered in a blanket with an eye mask over my eyes, I melt into the recliner as John encourages me to inhale deeply and release all my tension with each exhale. He directs me through a mental body scan and with each deep breath, before long, I’m so relaxed, I begin to twitch. He guides me into a visual prompt — a recurring dream I’ve had since childhood that we discussed during my intake.

As I wander my way through the mental visual of the dream, in my meditative state, I feel a massive shift in energy. It’s as though I am being sucked out of my present body and the life that I know as Hannah, and I’m witnessing, through my mind’s eye, another life through different eyes, energy, memories, perceptions, and life perspective. I’m fully immersed in a different reality. I gasp.

“Are you in a different body?” John asks. “Yes, I’m in a woman’s body.” I describe what I see. “She’s wearing a long, floor-length dress with long sleeves. No shoes. The closest description I know how to give is Puritan clothes.” My energetic presentation in this body is a stark contrast to the energy of the society of which I am a part, which feels very put together, crisp, and rigid. It’s as if cleanliness, uniformity, and conformity of one’s presentation is expected, no matter how inauthentic it is to the individual.

I stick out in this rigid society. I feel, and look, like an outsider but yet I’m grounded in who I am and my integrity won’t allow me to conform to what society expects of me. I don’t feel the need to spend my energy hiding my true, wild, uninhibited self.

My senses come alive. I smell the richness of the soil that stains my hands, feet, and clothes. I feel the dirty, tattered, thin dress draping on my body. I feel the dirt under my nails. I feel connected to nature and to the earth. I refuse to wear shoes because I want to feel the ground on my feet. I’m young. Late teens, maybe early twenties. I feel the energy of this person’s existence. It’s palpable, like we are inhabiting one another’s bodies across time and space.

“What’s the very first thing you notice?” John asks further.

I look around and I’m stunned to see the man I know as my father, Chris, but he is a completely different person in a different body. “I see my dad. He’s my dad but he’s not him as I’ve known him as Hannah. It’s the essence of who my dad is - his soul and his energy - but he doesn’t have his characteristics like I know him. He’s a totally different person.”

“What’s different about him?” asks John.

My heart races. I can feel the palpable disdain he has for me. “He’s mean here. So mean.” I sense his rage. “But Hannah doesn’t know him as mean.” I speak of myself in third person. “He was a gentle, kind dad to Hannah.”

“What’s he saying to you?” asks John.

“There’s no words. He’s trying to grab me. He wants to use physical force to control me.”

I feel his hands grab my arms as he digs his fingers deep into my skin. I start shaking in the recliner. “He has his hands on me, shaking my shoulders.” I see him lift his hand to me, I wince, and grab my face. “He slapped me so hard, I’m on the ground.” I begin sobbing. The grief from his disdain overwhelms me.

I don’t hear the conversation as if it were dialogue, I just sense the energy of he and I in the scene. When I do hear words, it’s telepathically from his mind. Not with his mouth. His disdain, abuse, and rage is evident, but I can sense beyond what I’m witnessing, as if I can read his soul and the deeper meaning behind his emotions and actions. His rage is out of his own self-protection. He wants to love me, but I’m a woman who doesn’t conform to society’s standards for women and he not only thinks that I should conform, he forces himself to hate me because he doesn’t want to face the grief of losing me — which is a very real possibility for women in this era if they don’t comply with what is expected of them.

“I’m just trying to live my life.” I tell John. “I don’t care about protocol and standards and what is expected of me because of my gender. I’m just trying to exist. I just want to exist.” I become winded from the visceral anxiety I feel as I vacillate between the idea of who I am in this past life and the stark contrast of what is expected of me in this society. “I don’t know what to do. I feel trapped in my circumstances. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

John probes further. “What else does your dad do?”

I observe the scene deeper. He towers over me, disgusted with me. I can feel that I’m not the kind of daughter that he wanted. I made his life too complicated by not fitting into the expectations he and society have of women. I forced him to face the reality that women are autonomous people and can have strength and power and he’s angry at me for challenging his ideals, even though my challenge wasn’t intentional. I was just existing in the way I felt I should exist. I relay to John, “He’s saying, ‘that’s all you’re supposed to be good for. Why can’t you just be what you’re good for?”

John asks for clarification. “What do you mean, ‘that’s all you’re supposed to be good for?”

I try to articulate through my tears. “Woman things. Marriage. Babies. Quiet. Subservient.” I say in short, pointed words.

I remain on the ground where he threw me and I feel the force of him kick me as I jolt in the recliner. I start moaning in terror as the scene shifts from just me and my dad to a rambunctious crowd with me at the center of attention in the middle of a small, rural village.

“There’s a lot of people around now.” I tell John. I continue to cry as I sense my dad’s rage morph into grief. I can sense the entire timeline of both of our lives together in this incarnation. He harmed me because his harm is much less terrorizing than what he knows is about to happen to me. He believed his harm was to keep me safe.

“Who are these people?” John asks.

The rage from the mob is so palpable, it feels like you could physically chew on it. “It’s the community. They’re focused on me.” I relay to John. “They think I’m…” I pause to avoid a modern cliche. However, there’s only one way I know to describe the mob’s mentality…

“They think I’m a witch.”

A massive wave of guttural sadness hits me as I see my father turn his back to me and I’m left alone to face the blood-thirsty crowd. I tell John, “Dad acts like he doesn’t know me now. He disentigrates into the mob so he can keep himself safe.”

Through my sobs, John gently encourages me to fully immerse myself into the scene, but I’m trepidatious because the crowd is barbarically volatile.

“Tell me about what’s happening.” says John.

I continue.

“They’re accusing me of things that are basic, normal things like speaking and moving through the world. But this society considers this a threat. I’m a threat. But it doesn’t make sense to me to not exist freely the way I feel I’m meant to.”

“What are they accusing you of?” John asks. “What are you hearing them say?”

I tune in to the memory that led to this specific moment. I see and feel it with my whole essence. “I stood up for someone. A woman was having her period and they physically beat her because of it and I was compelled to say that’s not right. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

I had a hard time articulating to John exactly what I was experiencing because it was so emotional, profound, and visceral. “I feel like I’m surrounded by men that think they’re everything.” I tell him. “And the women won’t say anything because they don’t want to be in my spot. And I’m not mad at them because I understand the cost of speaking up.”

My attention turns back to my dad and I feel him say to me, “I inflicted all that pain because I was trying to protect you from this moment. What I did was better than what’s about to happen. You have to go with the way people expect of you to keep yourself safe.”

I lose it when I hear him say this.

I yell from the recliner, “What’s the point of being safe?!” I plead with him. “That’s not what matters!” I scream as I choke through tears.

“What matters?” John asks, unfazed by my shouting.

“Look at their faces!” In my mind I point to the women and young children around me witnessing this moment and I implore the men in the mob to look into the face of the people they choose to harm, hoping that they would get a glimpse into their humanity and stop. “The way you’re treating them — us — is inhumane. Standing up for our humanity is better than being safe!” I yell, both to the crowd, my dad, and in real life.

”I matter! And they matter! We all matter!” I sob as tears stream down my face.

“What do you see in the faces of the mob?” asks John.

Disgust. It’s comparable to what I witnessed on the screaming faces in the mobs of people on the January 6 Capitol attack. It’s the same barbarism. It’s animalistic. They can’t think, their physical bodies are so dysregulated with rage. They’re too inundated with the mob mentality, they can’t form their own thoughts and think clearly for themselves.

My fear and anger shifts into acceptance of what is coming and I’m overcome with grief; I thought that I would have more time to live and to bring my rebellious energy into a world that needs to be disrupted.

But my life is being cut short.

I’ve been forced onto a pile of wood and kindling with my back up to a pole and my hands tied behind me. I scan my physical body and notice that my legs can’t move. My feet have been tied to the pole to keep me from running. My heart beats in my chest and pounds through my ears, because I [Hannah] panic at the thought and feeling of having my legs unable to move in a way that prevents me from being able to run. Perhaps it’s an embodied imprint of my time in this past life.

“Can you still see at this point or do they have your eyes covered as well?” John asks.

I can see. I don’t see exact faces with distinct features; it’s more like I’m staring at the human form, looking into a shadow of this form and with every ounce of intention, desperately searching to try and reach into the depths of their darkness to find some glimmer of light that would allow them to correct their course. With anguish, I try to reach some other-worldly part of them, beyond what’s right there in front of me. I can see inside every individual and their amygdala, the part of the brain that controls their fear and fight response, has fully activated. It glows like the fire they will soon light beneath me. It’s a sea of fiery minds before me. When the amygdala is activated, it’s hard for a healthy individual to regulate, much less individuals caught up in an angry mob. This response in their physical brains prohibits any sort of reasoning or rationale. I can sense their soul trying to come through to try and probe their conscience, but they’re too heightened in their rage and misogyny that they literally can’t be reached because their physical brains are preventing it.

“What’s happening now?” John asks.

“They’re excited to get rid of me.” I tell him. I disrupt their status quo. I can’t fathom how they can be this barbaric. “I don’t understand,” I say over and over again. “I feel hopeless…for the community…for humanity.”

I feel their anger and their hate. I know this is the end for me. These are my final moments as the kindling is lit beneath me and the mob collectively celebrates. There’s nothing I can do anymore. I can’t change anyone. I tried. In my small world, I tried. I just wanted people to see and understand the potential you can be beyond how we believe people are meant to exist in the cages, systems, and binaries where we keep ourselves and each other trapped. I’m more grieved that they won’t change than I am about my own death.

“You can see their potential but they don’t have the ability to?” John confirms. “And why is this being shown at this time?” he asks.

I know immediately. It’s because I know that I can see the beauty in existence and the potential that can come out of that beauty. We’re supposed to pull the best parts out of each other. And they’re rejecting it but it’s out of my control. I’m meant to show up and I’m supposed to keep trying to point people to beauty and the higher potential inside of them. I’m meant to be a beauty scavenger amongst their restrictive systems, to point the collective toward something bigger. More beautiful. More free. But all I can do is show up and try.

As the flames slowly encroach toward my feet, I scan through the crowd of burning brains, as if I’m on the top of a hill looking out at a vast village burning around me. I look past the rage on each physical form, to see if I can sense someone — anyone — whose brain and senses have the capacity to physically be reached.

I see the back of my dad again. His countenance has changed. He no longer burns with the same rage as the mob. He is overcome with soulful sorrow — not necessarily over what is happening to me. It’s a sorrow that he did everything he could to prevent what was happening, but the circumstances are outside of his control. He’s facing a reckoning that will haunt him for the rest of this life.

“I see dad again.” I report to John. “He’s justifying his years of abuse saying that it is better than what was happening now. The abuse he inflicted was his protection. He’s saying that he tried to warn me. He knows how the machine [of society] works and he has to go with it to be safe and to keep everyone in his life safe.”

“Is that a word that he uses? Safe?” John asks. “It’s the second time he’s used that word. How do you feel when he uses that word, ‘safe?”

I become indignant. ”You don’t know what safety is!” I scream at his back, choking back tears. “This is conformity. Not safety.” I pause then let out a massive wail. “I’d rather be here facing my death than the dictated, lifeless shell of existence you’re choosing to live!”

And with that blow, my father’s energy disappears from the scene and I’m left to face the heartless, vengeful mob alone.

“As you continue to look through the crowd, do you recognize anyone from Hannah’s present life?” asks John.

I continue to scour the mob, scanning for an energy I can recognize, when I see the face — or rather, the soul essence — of one individual to my right, hiding at the back of the crowd, watching in horror but trying not to draw attention to himself.

“That’s Hannah’s husband, Aaron!” I exclaim. He sees that I notice him. My attention diverts from the mob to be fully engaged with him and our energies make a connection, communicating through our minds. The fire has met my feet. He wants to stop what is happening to me but he’s petrified. He’s not participating in the mob, but he’s there watching in horror.

“Look into his eyes.” John directs. “What do you know about him?”

I can see the very essence of Aaron’s soul as I look into his face. It’s as if we’ve known each other across time and incarnations.

“He’s not the same as everyone around us. He has compassion. He’s empathetic.” I relay to John. “He’s someone that I know in this life. He’s…a friend?” I question. As I’m reading through this energy, within a single moment I can see the whole scope of our relationship in this life. We broke social rules to spend time together in secret. I can tell our dynamic is not romantic. At least not now at this moment in time, but there was potential. He’s someone I care about and he cares deeply about me. But it wasn’t sexual. We just loved each other.

I tell John, “He wants to do something about what is happening to me, but he’s afraid. There’s too many people to stop it. They would kill him too.”

I’m able to connect to the thoughts and emotions that Aaron is experiencing. He is ripped into shreds by what is happening to me. It’s the most terrifying and horrific thing he’s ever experienced. And in the midst of my death, I talk directly to him.

“I know.” I comfort him. “I see what you’re feeling. I know.” He shares his regret and guilt for not speaking up. I’m filled with compassion for him. “It’s not your time right now. You have to stay.” I tell him. “This is what is meant for me and I accept it. It’s not meant for you.”

Much like when sitting with a friend in their deepest grief when words fail, we hold our energetic connection in a silent void that’s overflowing with divine love. It’s an other-worldly connection. An other-worldly love. This love holds me in my last moments and drowns out the angry mob. I hold on to this connection for as long as I can. As I feel the flames engulf me and my physical body weaken, I say my last words to him.

“We will…” I choke back tears trying to get the words out while lying in the recliner.

“We’ll try again.” I let out a wail. “We’ll try again in another life.”

The energy of Aaron’s sorrow and guilt crashes over me like a tsunami when he hears these words. I reassure him one last time.

“It’s okay. We’ll get another chance. Be free. I love you. I’m not mad at you. I love you. I will see you next time.”

With that, I lose contact with Aaron’s energy and fully embrace my fate. Death encroaches. I am not afraid.

“We could have been something.” I whisper to John. “But it can’t be this time because we’re here in this society.”

The crowd stands around and watches as if they’re simply watching a trash heap burn.

“Do you stay in the body or are you able to leave?” asks John.

I’m able to leave my body shortly after I say goodbye to Aaron. “I’m right over their heads.” I report to John. I’m weightless. Like a drone getting an arial view of the scene. I no longer have a connection to this body, both physically and emotionally. It’s now just a shell and I exist as a weightless consciousness. I’m no longer able to communicate with anyone who’s in a physical form but my residual sadness for the people in the mob remain. “You can be better.” I whisper one last time.

“This is very important,” John says, “now that you have left the body in this life, I need you to scan your being to recognize if you bring anything with you from this life in to your current life as Hannah.”

I take deep, mindful breaths as I follow his instructions.

“The most cavernous, grievous feeling I have is loneliness.” I tell John. “I feel lonely because…” I try and search for the words to articulate the reason for my profound loneliness. “…because I question everything. I’ll ask ‘But why?’ over and over. And the reply I get from everyone is, ‘That’s just the way it is.” Tears well in my eyes. “I feel ostracized for my curiosity. For not going with the status quo. I’m not pristine. I’m a free spirit. And it’s been so lonely. I’m strong and don’t care to change.” I confess. “But it’s been an incredibly lonely journey being so ostracized and isolated.”

“Before you leave,” says John, “it’s important to be aware that that life is over and to let go of that feeling of profound loneliness.”

With this permission, I begin to gently sob. Not only was the loneliness a theme in this past life, profound loneliness has been a theme that I have felt in my life as Hannah since as young as I can remember.

In a calm, low voice John continues.

“Let the body know that that life is over and there’s no longer any need to carry those feelings. It served its purpose in this past life. Now feel yourself releasing those energies.”

As I focus my intentions on his instructions, he gently continues to remind me over and over to allow my body to let go of my deep feeling of loneliness.

“Now, in place of these feelings, breathe in the divine light that is available to you.” he says. We pause for a moment as I take several deep breaths. Then he asks, “What’s happening to you now? Where are you now?”

My mind’s eye has shifted to a new scene in another realm much different from earth. It’s spiritual, divine, and only knows peace. “I’m in a bright subway terminal.” I tell John. “I’m waiting for the subway to take me to the next step.”

I’m standing on the platform, facing the tracks, when I sense a presence behind me. I turn around. “You might know me as Bob.” says the voice. And I start laughing out loud.

“Who is Bob?” John asks.

My countenance quickly changed from profound sadness to joy, as if I’m seeing a loved, familiar friend.

“He’s my spirit guide.” I confidently reply.

Spirit guides, or what religion calls “guardian angels,” are spiritual entities assigned to souls that act as support to guide us during our incarnation toward wisdom, our highest self, and our soul’s mission in life. When I first learned about spirit guides from Journey of Souls, I started wondering about mine. Over time, when I would meditate or pray to ask for help, I started calling my spirit guide, Bob. It made me laugh to think that this magnificently divine entity would be named something as human and simple as “Bob.” So I started talking to Bob and asking Bob for guidance and support.

And here was Bob, meeting me on the subway platform.

”Am I making this all up?” I ask Bob.

“No, you’re not. What you’ve experienced here is meant to serve you for your highest good.” he replies.

“What does Bob have to share with you at this time?” asks John. “What does Bob want you to know?”

I ask these questions to Bob. “That was rough back there.” he says. “But it’s not your fault. This was a section of time on the planet and humans didn’t have the ability to view everyone with equal value and respect regardless of their gender or how they expressed themselves to the world. They were still evolving there. They’re still evolving even now.” He encouraged me; “Your death was inevitable because their actions were outside of your control. But by being your full, authentic self, regardless of expectations, you were on the path to accomplish what you were meant to accomplish, and that’s what matters.”

“What is being shown to you about what you accomplished?” John asks.

“You were true to what was right in your gut and you dignified all the people that weren’t dignified at that point in society.” Bob tells me. “You say you want to live with a divine love like Jesus while you’re here. And that was your whole mission there. Although you didn’t have that language, did you do that?” Bob asks rhetorically. And then, as if he’s imitating Family Feud, “Survey says…you did! Congratulations!”

His sense of humor brings me immense comfort.

He continues, “Hey, I know you’re experiencing similar things in this life, too. You were abused and left alone to figure out life. You’re neurodivergent, autistic, and have adhd. But those are just human labels to identify aspects of human embodiment. None of these things make you insufficient. And the labels are helpful to validate your lived experience in a society that ostracizes anyone that doesn’t fit inside of their expectations. You’re whole. Nothing is deficient or missing. You’re just performing outside of society’s standards. It doesn’t make it bad or wrong. You’re just who you are. We [your spirit team] love you for who you are. You know this. You just need a reminder…quite a lot actually. But that’s my job. I’m here to always remind you when you need it.”

John asks, “How do you feel about what he’s telling you?”

With soul-deep gratitude, I respond: “Seen.”

John encourages me to allow every cell in my body to fully experience that sense of being seen.

I lay in the recliner basking in the seen-ness. My body tingles. I feel warmth, like basking in the sun on a cool day. There’s light all around me as I rest in the encouragement from Bob. I feel like I can breathe. Like, my soul can fully inhale and release the most satisfying exhale.

Bob reminds me, “This is all encouragement you have available to you where you are. You can always tap into this endless well; it’s available to you on earth at any moment you need it.”

Tears stream down my cheeks. I feel so loved, supported, and seen in this hard human journey.

I see the subway car approach the platform and I sense my time with Bob in this realm is ending. Suddenly, I feel myself wrapped in a hug except there’s no arms. It’s like my soul is being wrapped up in a divine embrace. I rest in that hug and then start sobbing.

”I don’t want to say goodbye.” I say out loud.

“I know.” replies Bob. “But I’m with you.” He continues. “Your spirit team loves you just the way you are. We love you because of who you are. Focus on your path. Stay curious, keep listening, being yourself, and loving people. One of your greatest strengths is seeing the potential in others and the beauty in everything. That’s what’s going to sustain you.'“

I’m holding back tears as the subway car stops in front of my platform and its doors open, waiting for me to board. I rest in the last moment of this soul hug as Bob reminds me, “You are just as strong now in your body, in your heart, and everything about you as that woman back there in your past life. You have all of that in you in this life. Keep going. It didn’t change peoples minds back then like you hoped, but it will make shifts in the world now that will have implications in the future that you can’t even imagine.”

We rest in our final moments together then I step onto the subway and the doors close in front of me as I wave bye to Bob. He dramatically blows me a kiss because he knows it will make me laugh. I leave feeling like I have a cheerleader on my life’s journey. The subway moves forward and my full awareness is brought back to John’s office.

I pull the eye mask away from my eyes and adjust to the sunlight shining in through the windows. I take a moment, then sit up as John hands me a bottle of water.

I feel as though I have just run a triathlon.

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I walked into John’s1 office excited, but nervous, about our session. I had never done hypnotherapy. I’d never even considered it until a few months prior.

He escorted me through the small waiting area, set up like a home living room. The room was filled with warm, ambient lighting from floor lamps next to a couch facing a fireplace and sitting on top of a thick, deep red antique rug spread across the tiled floor. The walls were covered in beautiful canvases of art he painted himself, dispersed between shelves of books. At the back of this homely living room was a small nook where a massive, plush recliner chair sat in front of a wall of windows perpendicular to yet another wall of full bookshelves. “Please, have a seat.” he pointed to the recliner. I immediately felt at ease as I sunk into the recliner’s lush cushions.

I had been apprehensive about having a male hypnotherapist since I felt that hypnotherapy is such a vulnerable modality. And as a woman, I have experiences that give me reason to be apprehensive about giving a man access to my vulnerability. But the type of hypnotherapy I was looking for was a specific modality that required a specific type of certification and when I searched the Life Between Lives (LBL) website for certified LBL hypnotherapists near me, there was no one certified in my area. I expanded my search and when I saw John’s picture, his kind face gave me the feeling of a safe, fatherly figure. I’m not usually one to be swayed by appearances alone, but I felt it in my gut that I should give him a chance. So I reached out to him despite my apprehensions about having a male hypnotherapist.

We had an hour-long phone consultation where he asked me many curious questions about myself and my reasons for wanting to have an LBL hypnotherapy session. Then he talked at length about his passion for this work. This passion, along with his kindness toward his clients and his empathy toward humanity, gave me the green light to book my hypnotherapy session with him.

Within a few weeks, I drove four hours from home and was sitting in the recliner in John’s office for my first past-life regression hypnotherapy session.

Six months earlier I was scrolling my Instagram search page. “Have you been called an old soul?” the post read. I had many times. And I’ve felt like an “old soul” my whole life; like I felt a deep sense of…something…beyond the time, place, and body in which I was born. I clicked the post and read through the slides where they talked about the idea of reincarnation, karma, the spirit world we experience between our incarnations on earth, and the evolution of our souls.

“This information is based on studies done by hypnotherapist, Dr. Michael Newton.” read the caption of the post. “You can find more about this in his book, Journey of Souls.”

For months I was sitting with an openness to learn and understand more about reincarnation after I watched the Surviving Death documentary. I closed Instagram, ordered Journey of Souls immediately, and inhaled its contents.

If it’s not obvious from reading my previous articles in this series, I’m a voracious learner. My footnotes are almost always filled with resources I’ve devoured that I like to share in case you, reader, are interested in a deep dive into the things I write about. I (try to) satiate my desire to learn through reading books and watching documentaries written and created by people who are smarter than me and who have different lived experiences than I do.

Even though I no longer believe in the Christian God for my own personal belief system, I do still believe in something Bigger than us. And I believe that Something Bigger — that Source — can intervene in our lives by sending us nudges we can intuit and choose to acknowledge and act on. Source will use what’s in front of us to speak to us. In Christianity, they often used my daily Bible study to speak to me. On this day, I was scrolling Instagram and Source used that random post to nudge me to pick up Michael Newton’s book, Journey of Souls, to set me off on the most transformative portion of my path so far.

Dr. Michael Newton was a licensed psychologist and a certified Master Hypnotherapist who discovered, through hypnotherapy, how to enable people to access the wisdom of the spirit world and their higher guidance whilst living their lives.2

In the late 60s Newton was working with a hypnotherapy client to treat chronic shoulder pain. In the middle of this hypnotherapy session, the client regressed into a past life as a WWI soldier where he had been stabbed. “Michael asked all manner of questions about his unit, commanding officer and even the badges on his uniform, before desensitizing the pain and resolving the issue. The client went away bewildered, though healed.”3 Newton confirmed the client’s story through War Records in London.

He then treated another client with depression who regressed into the afterlife — a period of time between her incarnated lives. From there she learned the deeper meaning of her existence.

He then spent the next 25 years collecting data from hypnotherapy clients for a comprehensive scope of the spiritual realm and formulated a modality for hypnotherapists to follow to facilitate these spiritual experience with their clients through past-life regression hypnosis and Life Between Lives (LBL) hypnosis.

I devoured Journey of Souls along with several other books written by medical professionals who study and write about the afterlife, past-life regression, and Life Between Lives hypnotherapy.4 The only spiritual experiences of the afterlife that I knew of that we could probably experience were through a medium, a ouija board, or a seance.5 But I had no idea that there is long-documented evidence of spiritual experiences through hypnotherapy. Even hypnotherapy was teetering on the demonic in my evangelical world, so I was conditioned to stay away from it.

My willingness months before to be open about the idea of reincarnation made sense once I read these books. I needed to sit in my discomfort and curiosity for a while so I could be open to learn this new information about LBL hypnotherapy.

I spent months cycling through each of these books, reading them several times. What I read made so much sense to me and for me.

Life Between Lives helped me make sense of existence and my role in it. The more I sat with it, the more grounded I became. And the more grounded I became, the more I was willing to accept that it could be true. It made the most sense for me, personally, in rebuilding a spiritual framework for myself, than any other spiritual framework I had encountered in my deconstruction.

It wasn’t a structured religious system.

It wasn’t a hierarchical bureaucracy.

The idea of our souls living multiple lives to learn lessons that help us evolve into higher forms of consciousness and divine love made sense for me.

It helped me see the interconnectedness between every person and between humans and every living thing on earth.

The concept of soul groups helped me see the spiritual importance of the relationships in my life, both the beautiful, life-giving ones and the ones that have been painful and toxic.

This helped me make sense of my personal suffering.

It helped me see the humanity of every single individual.

And it helped restore my autonomy that was shriveled from years of sacrificing it to a cult.

It helped give me a sense of purpose. In evangelicalism, I lived feeling like a constant failure because I wasn’t making massive, public waves for God like I had been told was my highest calling. I no longer had to do great, big things in the world like I had been taught was my responsibility. My big things shifted to my immediate world that I live in rather than focusing on the world at large. My focus became on what, and who, was right in front of me in my present moment. It could be as “small” as smiling at someone, taking a moment to notice another person, or letting them know in some way that they are seen and heard. These small actions with our fellow humans have immense value and matter intensely in this life. They are some of the most important parts of our existence as humans.

But possibly the greatest thing I took from this is that my soul chose to live this specific life. I chose this exact point on the timeline, in this body, with this story. So whenever I have an existential spiral (which is often), it has helped me to remind myself that I chose this life for the experiences and lessons I’m meant to learn and that nothing has caught my soul by surprise. And it helps shift my victim mentality into an empowering quest to learn the lessons I’m meant to learn in this life and to grow into the highest form of love while I’m here.

Though Newton’s collection of data about the spirit world had substantial evidence through thousands of people’s common experiences, it still isn’t provable. It isn’t absolute truth. Believing in what he presents is still a form of faith. As I spent months reading, I needed to analyze all this new information in my left brain before I was willing to accept it as an embodied experience for myself. I was careful to my susceptibility to jump immediately into a spiritual framework since I had recently broken up with my life-long Christian faith. It’s like when you break up with someone and are vulnerable for emotional connection with anyone to fill the void left from the breakup, so you know you need to take a moment to figure out who you are before making a commitment.

There was nothing in Newton’s work or the books that I read that tried to convince the reader to believe what they were presenting. There was nothing prescriptive. But I’d been emotionally manipulated with spirituality innumerable times and my guard was high. I spent a majority of my life in charismatic church spaces where intense emotions were used to manipulate the crowd and before you knew it, people were running around the sanctuary, screaming in tongues, and sobbing at the altar. I guarded my emotional response carefully.

I kept my guard up, continually self-searching the reasons behind why I would want to have a hypnotherapy session. I wanted to prove to myself that I can rely on my own gut and intuition, rather than having someone on the outside facilitate a spiritual experience for me.

For six months I audited my motives.

Out of pure curiosity I finally went to The Michael Newton Institute’s website just to see if there were any hypnotherapy facilitators in my area. When I saw John’s face, something in me told me to reach out. I had no intention of booking a session but after we spoke, it felt like the right time.

I was ready for hypnotherapy.

John sat down in a rolling office chair opposite me in the recliner. “Please, feel free to make yourself at home.” he said. I kicked off my shoes, pulled my legs up, and criss-crossed them into the recliner as though I was getting comfortable at home. He handed me a blanket and we spent the first two hours doing an intake where I told him more of my story and he asked many questions that would help him facilitate my session as best as possible.

“Thank you for trusting me with your story and with this process. It’s an honor for me.” he kindly said. “I’m ready to begin when you are.”

I uncrossed my legs, reclined the chair, and placed an eye mask over my eyes. I took several deep breaths and melted into the cushions, open to whatever was meant to happen for me in this past life regression hypnotherapy session.

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“Reincarnation is bogus.”

That’s what I believed most of my life.

It was more than bogus. I was indoctrinated to believe it was an evil idea. No room for mystery. Definitely no space for uncertainty. It’s not a part of Christian theology? Evil. Period.

“Be sober-minded, be alert. Your adversary the devil is prowling around like a roaring lion, looking for anyone he can devour.” 1 Peter 5:8 CSB

The adversary was always found in the beliefs and practices of other religions and forms of spirituality — like the belief in reincarnation. Or in astrology, tarot, psychics, mediumship, talking to trees1, or doing yoga…definitely doing yoga. And definitely if you wore yoga pants.2 I wish I were kidding.

Once I began deconstructing my Christian faith and opened myself to learning other perspectives on spirituality, I learned that the reason many things were considered demonic within evangelical Christianity was because of white supremacy and racism.

Beliefs in reincarnation can be found in the eastern religions of Hinduism and Buddhism. Yoga is rooted in ancient eastern traditions. Astrology is a practice developed by non-white and non-Christian cultures over thousands of years through meticulous study of the planets and their correlation to earth and humans. If Christianity believes that God has given us dominion over the earth, there can be no reverence for nature since we are meant to abuse it for our profit. So we demonize indigenous culture and spirituality that practices a communal relationship with nature.

I wasn’t allowed to do yoga because it could “let in evil spirits.” Communing with nature was labeled as idolatrous worship. Reading astrology was satanic. Tarot was demonic divination. And communicating to dead loved ones through a medium? Well, you might as well send a direct invitation to Lucifer himself to possess your soul.

Since the only people who had access to the one true God were white evangelical Christians, any spiritual practice that didn’t arise out of a white, western, Christian narrative — or if it wasn’t considered valuable enough to be appropriated for profit — then it was labeled as evil. Full stop. No curiosity allowed. If you questioned this, you were susceptible to temptation, making you a “stumbling block” to your fellow Christians. Full, devoted, unquestioning obedience was required. This dictated what I could wear, how I moved my body, what music I listened to, what prayers I could pray, what books I could read and this authoritarianism is what pressured me to give up my dream of having creative career in the arts.

It was a cult.

When the documentary Surviving Death crossed my path in the middle of my faith deconstruction, I was insatiably curious. This series explores personal stories and research on near-death experiences, reincarnation, and paranormal phenomena.

The paranormal was something I had been taught to fear, but that fear no longer had control over my life.

The first few episodes about near-death experiences (NDE), mediumship, signs from the dead, and consciousness surviving the body’s demise — it all made sense to me. I even had my own paranormal experiences that I never put words to. Or at least I gaslit myself to believe these experiences weren’t real because they didn’t fit within my Christian fundamentalist framework. Watching this documentary made me feel validated. People shared their common stories with the paranormal. Scientists that study consciousness gave compelling arguments. I was able to give space to admit that these things exist and that they weren’t evil like I had been led to believe. Even though there’s no certain way to undeniably prove it all, it’s able to exist as faith, just like the Christian faith I had devoted my life to. I could embrace the mystery, especially after I read several books by professionals who study these topics.3

Then there was an episode on reincarnation and the idea of our souls living past lives.

Again, it was compelling. It all made sense. But even though I had released my claws from their death grip on my Christian faith, I was so indoctrinated to believe that something like reincarnation does not — could not — exist. I finished watching and had no idea what to do with the information I learned. I didn’t shut it down like I would have in my fundamentalist days. I knew now that to say reincarnation was a lie would be egotistical of me; It would be invalidating of the people who had a very real experience with the concept of reincarnation4 and it would be disrespectful to dismiss the spiritual beliefs about reincarnations held by people of other religions. I was working on embracing mystery and the new spiritual information I learned.

So I just held it…open.

I sat with that openness for a long time, leaving space for it in my daily thinking. It was uncomfortable for a time because I didn’t have an answer. But just because I didn’t understand it, didn’t mean it was wrong. Just because it didn’t fit within the only framework that I knew, didn’t meant that it was a lie.

Holding on to the discomfort I felt from my openness to accept something that challenged the framework I had built about existence and spirituality, was a beautiful, beneficial practice of leaning into uncertainty, engaging my empathy, being curious, and learning about things I never took the time to understand because of my own willful biases.

I chose to open myself up to a world that looked and believed different than I had been taught in order to help me understand, not just the spiritual practices of others, but to also see the humanity in others.

Before long, my openness to accept that the idea of reincarnation was a valid belief would rock my world by changing everything I thought I believed about my own reality.

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About eight years ago I went on a small women’s getaway with a few women from our Bible study at the Baptist church we were attending. One of the women owned a ranch two hours from the city and was kind enough to host us for the weekend. As she was giving us a tour of her property, she pointed out a large oak tree and told us that whenever life seemed really heavy, she would go sit by this oak tree and share with it the weight of her problems and she always left her time with the tree feeling lighter. It was such a beautiful and innocent spiritual practice communing with nature and something that I was familiar with myself.

As a young kid, we would escape the city to spend weekends with my grandparents in small-town Louisiana.1 I had free rein to explore the woods all around their property. When the noise of the loud grown ups talking over their cups of coffee — and each other — became too much for my ears, I migrated into the woods to explore the foliage and my imagination. The trees were my companions on my adventures. Since I can remember, wherever there’s a patch of nature, that is where I can be found escaping from the noise and pace of society.

So when our host described the communion with her oak tree, it was nothing out of the ordinary to me.

Later that night, when she wasn’t around, a few ladies whispered about how talking to nature, rather than straight to god, was a pagan, demonic practice and we needed to keep our spiritual guard up around our host unless we wanted “a pagan spirit” to attach to us and lead us away from god.

I was stunned. I felt the rug pulled out from under me.

If they had known me…really known me…they would say the same thing about me.

Not only was it incredibly judgmental toward our host, and this woman they called a friend, after she was vulnerable to share with us something that was sacred and special to her…they dehumanized her by calling her a pagan and accused her of being a demonic vessel.

I regret not speaking up. But I also didn’t want my connection to nature to be found out if this is how it would be received. I was desperate for belonging so I kept my mouth shut, distanced myself from the group, and spent the weekend wandering the property by myself away from everyone else.

Now, every day when I go to nature — even just the trees, plants, and open sky in my own backyard — and share with it the weight of existence, I think of this story. And my choice to commune with the natural world feels like an act of rebellion against this oppressive and supremacist theology that believes that somehow we humans are superior creatures, who are separate from, rather than inherently connected to, the earth and every living being that shares this space with us.

During surgery recovery I’ve been reading John Philip Newell’s latest book, The Great Search. As I read the introduction, tears filled my eyes when I read why it was important to him to relinquish his ordination as a minister of the church.

“It was simply a decision I needed to make in response to the urgings of the Spirit in my own soul. I could no longer reconcile the formal teaching of the church, shaped by the creeds of fourth-century Imperial Christianity, with the spiritual vision of Earth’s sacredness and the sacredness of every human being that I am committed to following in my life and teachings.”2

For the first time, someone else articulated the exact reasons why I, too, can no longer reconcile myself with modern-day Christianity. And not just anyone; John Philip Newell - a (former) minister and teacher of Celtic spirituality, whose previous work was a critical turning point for me in the last several years.

Several years ago, at the beginning of my deconstruction journey when I was still a Christian and actively involved in church, I read Barbara Brown Taylor’s book, Holy Envy. In the book she contemplates the myriad ways other people and traditions encounter the Transcendent, both by digging deeper into those traditions herself and by seeing them through her university students' eyes as she sets off with them on field trips to monasteries, temples, and mosques.3 As a professor of religion at Piedmont College in Georgia, she elaborates about her admiration and respect for other religions but she always came back to her own faith tradition of Christianity, though with new perspective.

I loved Holy Envy, but I couldn’t understand it at that point in my life; Why, after seeing such beauty in other religions and wrestling with the issues within her own, would Taylor come back to something that she had qualms with for the sake of tradition? I held no judgement, just genuine curiosity. I couldn’t understand at the time the book crossed my path because I had no interest for myself in holding on to something for the sake of tradition if it no longer served me for my highest good. This idea of “Christian tradition” continually perplexed me over the course of time, but I held my curiosity with an openness to understand through my own experience, should a revelation ever cross my path.

I spent the next few years reading books by a diverse range of authors to understand more about my own Christian tradition beyond what I was taught in my limited white, western evangelical Christian-pop-culture world. I had an insatiable need to learn, not just about Christianity, but about other religions and faith practices. I wanted to figure out where I landed on the spiritual spectrum. I considered going back to school to study theology, but that didn’t feel right in my gut. But a Masters-level education was the voracity with which I was intent to learn. So I set intentions to learn on my own. I read Biblical scholars, both Christian and secular and from a wide range of Christian sects, cultures, and beliefs. I read authors of other religions, curious if I would be interested in converting. Some of my favorite books were written by Thich Nhat Hanh and Abraham Joshua Heschel. My desire for learning about the world and beliefs outside of my isolated Christian lens could not be satiated.

In the end, I decided that I didn’t want to trade one set of structured beliefs for another, no matter how beautiful I considered those other traditions to be. And as a white person, I especially didn’t want to appropriate the religion of another culture.4 I still considered myself a Christian at this point in time, though I was wrestling with it and didn’t resonate with any structure that could be found in a church setting. I thought about trying Episcopalian, Anglican, and Catholic churches, whose liturgical structure very much appealed to me in the same way the cyclical seasonal calendar appeals to me (as opposed to following the Gregorian calendar). Liturgy was a stark contrast to the fundamentalist, charismatic evangelical world that was all I had experienced. But the idea of jumping back into a structured Christian system, regardless of sect, didn’t feel right for me.

I felt spiritually homeless in the only faith tradition I’d known.

A few years after reading Taylor’s words in Holy Envy, encountering a massive range of beliefs in Christian theology, and learning about the beliefs held by other faith traditions about Divinity, Newell’s book, Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul crossed my path.

In the book, Newell shares the long, hidden tradition of Celtic Christianity, explaining how this earth-based spirituality can help us rediscover the natural rhythms of life and deepen our spiritual connection with God, with each other, and with the earth.5 He writes extensively about Christian imperialism of the Celts but how the Celts, though forcefully converted, still maintained a connection to their “pagan”6 practices of connection to earth and humanity.

Have you ever read a book and with nearly every passing page, you felt you needed to lay flat on the floor to weep and absorb what you just read?

That was Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul for me.

It felt as if something Bigger than me put that book in my hands and was watching me read the words they wrote to me through Newell. I read it three times in a row; it moved me to my depths. Though I was still wrestling with my faith in regards to the credal beliefs of Christianity, I tried to maintain some semblance of connection to my faith tradition, even though I had no interest of being a part of the System. The Celtic spirituality Newell writes about in his book bridged the gap between my Christian faith tradition and my life-long, soul-deep connection to the natural world that was considered idolatrous in my fundamentalist evangelical world.

For the first time, I understood what Taylor meant by her “faith tradition.” For a while I felt like a homeless Christian. But here was this niche sect of the faith that Newell introduced me to that resonated with me and gave me a tradition to come home to. A tradition that bridged what had always been two separate parts of me - my faith and my deep connection, respect, and appreciation for the Earth. Celtic Christianity was my final chapter within Christianity and gave me a beautiful place for my path to end.

I barely felt like a Christian any more. Though it was the most fitting for me in all my decades as a Christian, even my deep dive into the Christian traditions of the Celts felt like I was forcing myself into a framework that no longer fit me. I resonated with the Earth-based spirituality of the Celts; But just like they were colonized centuries ago by Christianity, I felt like I, too, had been forced to fit into an Imperial Christianity that I couldn’t fully consent to. I was forced to hide my connection with nature. I was forced into heteronormativity. I was guilted into to giving up a passionate career in the arts because it wasn’t “holy” enough.7 I was forced to flog myself with shame as a worthless sinner deserving of death.

In the life I experienced inside of Christianity, I felt I was never set up to be in a position to flourish. I always felt like a spiritual failure and continually had to deny the very essence of who I am to exist within that system.8

When I first started deconstructing my Christian beliefs I made a deal with myself that I wouldn’t leave Christianity out of anger. As I read and discovered so much information about Christian history and theology that was never taught in church — but is taught in seminaries and academic settings — I was angry that none of the common questions and various views about different aspects of Christianity were ever disclosed to me. I felt lied to. Manipulated. And any time I had questions over the course of my life, my curiosity was always received as confrontational and I was fed answers with certainty. I was infuriated to learn that nothing is certain even though I was taught to believe it was.

Still, I didn’t want to leave the faith as retribution. I wanted to make a calm, calculated decision at whatever point my gut felt it was time to leave. And I held on until that moment came.

That moment was at a church event I decided to attend. At the end of the service we read the Nicene Creed to renew our commitment to our faith.

We believe in one God, the Father, the almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.

We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven; by the power of the Holy Spirit he became incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and was made man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered death and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in accordance with the scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the father.

He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son.

With the Father and the Son he is worshipped and glorified.

He has spoken through the Prophets.

We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church.

We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.

We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

Amen.

As I read those words aloud, I felt it. It was the moment my gut said I was free to leave. I wasn’t angry. I simply realized that I no longer believed many of these words. I could choose to believe them. But I no longer wanted to spend my energy placing my faith in these beliefs. Because that’s what it would take - faith. And though I still hold reverence for it for others9, that faith no longer fit within my life as my guiding compass.

At the time Newell’s book Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul came into my life, I saw myself within its pages.

So when I read Newell’s introductory words in The Great Search, his words spoke directly to me again, though I was in a new chapter of my life. I, too, could no longer reconcile the formal teaching of the church, shaped by the creeds of fourth-century Imperial Christianity. For him, maybe it was just a matter of relinquishing his ministerial license. For me, it was that I could no longer accept those creeds as a place I choose to place my faith. And if I can’t accept and believe in the creeds of Christianity, well then, I can no longer call myself a Christian.

That doesn’t mean I no longer know God.

I know God through the awe I’ve experienced, since I was a young child, staring up into the limitless night sky. I know God through my adventurous spirit wandering and wondering through the woods. I know God through the peace I feel from the hypnotizing rhythms of the ocean waves on the beach and the whipping tree canopy on a blustery day. I know God through the nudges I get in my intuition and in my gut. I know God through the textures of the shells and stones and crystals I hold in my palms and when I immerse my bare hands in the soil of my garden. I know God through the stirs in my soul when I see the curiosity of a child or the tenderness I feel when I stare into the eyes of an animal. I know God when I sit in the communal experience of witnessing storytelling through live theatre. I know God through the compassionate empathy I experience when I look into the eyes of a stranger. I know God through the experience of notes coming together to create a beautiful piece of music. I know God through the love I feel for my fellow humans. I know God’s through my communion with the earth and through my communion with others while I’m alive on this earth.

I was taught that God looked, felt, moved, punished, judged, and loved in a very specific evangelical Christian way and that I needed to force myself within this god’s parameters. Now I operate with a different, universal definition of God. God is Source. Spirit. The Universe.

We have so many scientific answers that tell us how things operate, but we humans have been searching for millennia for something bigger to tell us the why. We’ve defined the why as God but in our own religious and cultural ways and, because we’re human, we have the tendency to demonize anyone who doesn’t believe in the god of our why.

Though I left the Christian tradition, the Earth-rooted spirituality of the Celts that I learned about from Newell still beats within me. I’ve come to believe that God can be found everywhere. No one has the monopoly on them. They are too big. Spirit is larger than we can comprehend. God is in the bark of the tree and the line of ants carrying food to their home. Spirit is in the life force of the sun and the pull of the moon that lifts ocean waves. God is in the invisible elements of the galaxies and the gravity that pulls whole planets to and fro. God is in the face of the stranger and the smile of a foreigner and doesn’t abide by man-made boundaries between nations.

And God can most certainly be found listening to the whisper of our burdens to the trees.

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Happy New Year!

Before Christmas I started a series about deconstruction, paganism, and leaving Christianity but it’s been three weeks since my last article on the topic. I plan on getting back to the series this month, but I’ve taken a small break. I shared a Substack note before Christmas explaining my short hiatus.

The surgery? I had a breast reduction the week before Christmas. I thought I’d take a moment to articulate some thoughts I’ve had for a while about body image and having breast reduction surgery.

A breast reduction has been on my wishlist for a very, very long time. I feel that I’ve had a consistently fairly healthy relationship with my body as a whole over the course of my life. I feel very fortunate about that. However, my breasts have always been the exception.

I’ve hated my breasts since I was in fourth grade.

The back pain, neck pain, skin issues, and general pain from carrying around excessive weight from my G/H-sized bust have been my main motivators for wanting a breast reduction.

I grew up as an athlete. I spent nearly a decade of my young life playing competitive sports and was an all-state athlete through high school. Being an athlete has been a part of my identity since I was a pre-teen and I’ve stayed somewhat active throughout adulthood. I don’t hold on to unrealistic ideals about the athletic life and body I had in my youth. Our bodies are meant to grow and change as we get older and I do a lot of hard, intentional mental work to honor and embrace my body’s evolution as I age while still doing what I can to take care of her.

But as I’ve gotten older, no matter what I’ve done to maintain my body, I’ve gotten bigger and saggier and my chest has prevented me from performing at a basic athletic level I’d like. In early 2024 I wanted to get back into a consistent running habit. I tried out several different types of high-impact sports bras but after every training session, my chest was in excruciating pain and I’d literally have to ice my boobs to help the pain. Though my attempt to try running again was the impetus to get me to seriously consider a breast reduction, there are a few other reasons as well.

Growing up in Evangelical Christianity, purity culture hyper-sexualizes girls and women with large breasts and I’ve dealt with a lifetime of shame over my body just trying to exist.

When I was in fourth grade, my breasts started quickly developing and I was made fun of, specifically, by the boys in my class. That’s when I remember starting to consciously slouch my shoulders to try and keep my breasts hidden. Today, my posture is terrible from years of slouching in shame. And from the time I started developing until as late as college, I remember grown ups telling me to hold my shoulders back while simultaneously shaming me for sticking my boobs out. I couldn’t wear normal, basic tank tops or v-neck tops without exposing some sort of cleavage and being reprimanded for showing my skin. And the couple of times I was a bridesmaid, before the bride chose her bridesmaid dresses, they took me shopping to try on different dresses to make sure my boobs weren’t spilling out of the dress she picked. It was considerate, but I hated that so much attention was given to my chest. Especially since I was conditioned to carry so much shame because of my large breasts.

Then, as I’ve gotten older and removed myself from the people in my family that abused and traumatized me, my breasts have been a painful reminder of my genetics and the people in my family with whom I no longer have contact.

My breasts have been a reminder of my abuser, who walked around the house with her mumu tucked under her boobs. Because wearing a bra during every waking hour isn’t realistic, I started doing the underboob tuck out of necessity and I hated it; Big-breasted women can understand that on the days when wearing a bra is too much™, the underboob tuck can be necessary to keep the heat rash at bay. I have no judgement toward people with large breasts doing this; but having large breasts similar to my abuser’s genetics was a torture I couldn’t escape. The idea that I could resemble her in any way has been painful for me for years.

There has also been the body dysmorphia.

I’ve done a ton of work in my faith deconstruction process to examine gender and sexuality outside of the context of Evangelical Christianity. Purity culture and rigid, patriarchal gender stereotypes have done a psychological number on me and, I know, a lot of people in my age demographic that grew up in Evangelical Christianity. And, while I’m still processing a lot of those things in private, I can acknowledge that my gender identity has had something to do with my desire for a smaller bust.

I identify as a woman but gender is also a spectrum. For me, the way I exist on that spectrum has always been connected to the size of my breasts and I’ve felt incongruent on the spectrum for a long time. For me, having large breasts on my body made me feel like I existed in a realm of womanhood, matriarchy, and femininity that I don’t belong and don’t identify with. It’s hard to articulate the feeling exactly. Though, I don’t know if anyone trying to examine and define their gender could articulate on the outside, how they feel on the inside. It’s such a personal experience.

At my consultation, the surgeon asked me the ideal amount of my breasts that I’d like removed and I said 75-80%. I wanted almost all of them gone while still maintaining the idea and feeling of my personal femininity I have in my mind. I didn’t realize that there’s a limit to how much can be safely removed while maintaining other functions. After she examined me, she said that she could probably remove 50-60% and at the end of my surgery she confidently removed over 3.5 pounds. It’s only been three weeks since surgery and recovery is 6-8 weeks. I’m living in a surgical binder all day every day until my doctor gives me the clear. I’ve read that it could take up to 6 months for swelling to go down. Either way, I’m going to try on a B cup once I have the all clear from my surgeon to wear a regular bra, even though I have a feeling that I’ll end up in a C cup. I’ve learned with age to hold on to various size clothes because our bodies fluctuate all the time. I’ll be elated with a B or a C! It’s a world of difference from the G and H cups I had been wearing!

All that to say is that having smaller breasts makes me feel congruent on the outside with how I feel on the inside. It makes me feel comfortably feminine exactly on the gender spectrum where I feel I’m meant to exist.

I feel fortunate that, by having a breast reduction, I’m able to move through the world without pain. And I feel grateful to have some small semblance of control over trying to make the outside of my body fit with the ideal I have on the inside. I don’t take that for granted.

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To listen to this article, click the play button above or follow this link to the video on YouTube.

I’m careful to guard the specific theological reasons why I left Christianity. I don’t want someone to hear my story, latch on to a theological point, ignore the entire journey of my deconversion, and invalidate my entire experience with an apologetics debate1. It misses the point completely. I’m not interested in apologetics, especially since I have no interest in deconverting people from their Christian faith.2

Plus, I’m not writing for Christians who are only interested in proving me wrong or invalidating my journey; I write for the people grappling with their own deconstruction. It can feel petrifying because it rocks an entire foundation on which they have built their belief system about consciousness and existence. My desire through writing my story is to show people how, even in the fear, grief, and the loss from examining or leaving a faith tradition, deconstruction (and even deconversion) can be a path of hope, beauty, and transformation.

In my last article I wrote, “…it would have felt like a rebellion against the work my soul came to earth to do if I chose to ignore what was in front of me [on my deconstruction path] and continue with my status quo.”

Every person’s spiritual journey is their own. That sounds painfully obvious to me now, but that was not how I lived the majority of my life. Spirituality was never understood to be autonomous. There was a spiritual hierarchy and I was low on the list because I’m a simple congregant and a woman. I was taught to be led by a person in spiritual authority over me.

I’ve since left those systems and live my spiritual life as my own individualized experience. And every single step on my spiritual journey in the last five years deconstructing my Christian faith — every book I read, documentary I watched, experience I had, or piece of information I learned — appeared exactly where it was meant to be revealed along the timeline. Every revelation was an opportunity for my soul to say yes to the path meant for me. Looking back there are many moments where one book needed to be read in order for me to have an open mind to process information I would read in the next book or learn in the next existential experience. Over and over, this was the pattern I experienced.

However, before I could have a willingness to be open to explore a wider spiritual world than I knew, I had to learn to look up and I had to crawl over a few theological hurdles within Christianity that kept me fearful of exploring. I do believe that these specific theological topics are worth addressing publicly since the only motive that kept me from exploring them was my fear of divine, eternal punishment for doing so. And in my conversations with dozens of people who want to explore what they’ve been taught to believe, fear of punishment has been their motive for not moving forward. It’s tragic and abusive to me to manipulate a person through fear, keeping them paralyzed from exploring their spirituality. I’m motivated by my integrity to share these specific details so I can be the person that tells anyone questioning their faith that it’s okay to explore doubts and questions without fear of eternal consequence. I had to give myself permission to explore. If anyone needs that permission from an external source, I will be that person. It is never my goal to influence a person to believe a specific theology. The only thing I want to do is tell my story and the information I learned as I have understood it and experienced it, then allow others to come to their own conclusions. However, whatever theological conclusions someone comes to, I also want to remind people to confront the ways those beliefs could be harmful to others.

The first theological hurdle I had to climb was the idea of hell in the afterlife for anyone who didn’t believe in Jesus as the son of God and savior from their sins. I was so scared that questioning the Christian god or even choosing to leave Christianity would result in an eternal life of torture.

The other theological topic I needed to explore was the role the Bible is meant to play in the lives of humans. As a Christian, I had been taught to take the Bible literally and to “live Biblically.” But, you know, only in certain ways that apply to our modern world or that support a modern, American definition of, say, gender roles and stereotypes that support patriarchal systems of oppression.

At the very beginning of 2020, a friend of mine was hanging out at my house one evening and we sat on the couch roaming around our existential thoughts together about life and faith. I vulnerably confessed some theological questions that were tripping me up. Rather than judge me, answer my questions with certainty, or try to convince me that my questions were unwarranted, they inspired me further.

“I’m going to throw another question out there for you.” they replied. “Is hell real?”

From a very early age I have had my misgivings about hell and the idea that humans would be tortured in the afterlife by a god that claimed to love them. When I was a kid growing up in evangelical Christian spaces, I tried to ask questions about my hellish doubts, but because questions were seen as disrespectful confrontation, I quickly assimilated the reality of a literal hell into my belief system in order to stay safe within my family and community.3

“I’ve been meaning to read Sinners in the Hands of a Loving God by Brian Zahnd,” said my friend. “He writes about the theology of hell and whether or not it’s real.”

My friend, who is a brilliant and scholarly Christian, whom I implicitly trust the integrity of their faith, encouraged me to question the legitimacy of hell. Looking back, it’s astounding to me that, in an entire life devoted to Christianity and immersed in Christian spaces, my 30s was the first time anyone in those spaces with me openly questioned the existence of hell. However, it was hushed — as though we had to question and study the topic together in secret.

At that moment, something clicked for me. My friend unknowingly gave me permission to confront my lifetime of cognitive dissonance about the existence of a literal hell.

I immediately bought the book they mentioned, began reading it the very next day, and read it three times over the next two weeks. It was the first time I was given permission to not believe in a literal, torturous hell, not just by a friend and fellow Christian, but by the author — a pastor and theologian. The more books I read on the topic, the more I realized that the legitimacy of a literal hell is commonly discussed in academic spaces but questions and conversations are usually reserved for academia; Its existence is not up for debate in the regular congregation of the church on the corner. It’s either taught as doctrine or its legitimacy isn’t mentioned at all, silently accepting it as true.

I’m not interested in writing about the detailed theological reasons I no longer believe in hell. If you want to come to your own conclusions, there are many books written on the topic.4 Quite honestly, I don’t care about this theological topic anymore. After a lifetime of torturous, paralyzing fear, I no longer subscribe to beliefs in any area of my life that are motivated by manipulation and fear.

I hold convictions about my own spiritual beliefs but I also try to hold things without certainty because I’m incredibly conscientious about where and how I could be susceptible to morph into other forms of fundamentalism and become the very thing I loathe that I left behind in fundamentalist Christianity. Can I be absolutely positive that hell doesn’t exist? No. Can I be positive that it does? No. None of us knows what happens after we die. We have our ideas and our beliefs about it, but none of us can say with 100% certainty because we are still living.5 But what I can follow is my own integrity while I’m alive. And my integrity refuses to live in fear of a Higher Power that would punish people he claims to love if they don’t choose him.

“Oh, so you think your ways are wiser and better than god’s ways?” I’ve been asked. Every single one of us has a subjective idea of “god.” Even when we derive our ideas about the Christian god from the Bible, we’re still reading scripture through a subjective lens with centuries of cultural and linguistic discrepancies. We do our best with the information we’ve been given through the specific English translation of the Bible we’re reading and what we can surmise through theological study. So if the idea of god is one that gives humans a choice to believe in, love, and follow him but punishes the humans that don’t, then that is a god I cannot ascribe to. I would never allow that kind of abusive, manipulative behavior from any human in my life; I refuse to follow a deity that would dehumanize people that way. And if that means that I’d be tortured for eternity if, indeed, hell does exist (which I don’t believe it does), that’s the sacrifice I’m going to make because I don’t want to live eternity with an abusive god.

In my ideas that I have formed about god (or rather, a Higher Power) — even my idea of god when I was in Christianity that I constructed from my intentional, devoted study of scripture — he is unconditionally loving who believes in our potential to evolve into the highest, most loving versions of ourselves in order to love others the way he loves. Hell is antithetical to this message of the love of God. How could I be in heaven knowing a vast majority of humans are suffering in hell? How could I live my life believing in a literal hell and not spend every waking moment of my life making sure I’m doing everything in my control so that others don’t end up there? How could I not grieve their loss and what I believed was their punishment as though I grieved the death of a loved one? Or what’s worse: How could I live my life believing in a literal, torturous hell and celebrate that people would spend eternity there because they didn’t choose the modern, evangelical version of Jesus while they were alive?

I also needed to understand my relationship with the Bible and the Bible’s relationship to humanity.

The Bible was taught to be the only source material I would ever need and that I should take it literally. I sat at lunch one day about six years ago with a “mentor” who chastised me for going to a licensed therapist who wasn’t a Biblical counselor, trying to convince me that my need for therapy, a psychiatrist, and medication to manage my panic attacks and major depressive episodes was merely a symptom of not praying enough, an incorrect reading of scripture, and not reading my Bible as much as I should even though I spent 1-2 hours every morning devoted to the study of scripture.

This mentor was the same type of person across the span of my life who told me that the beginning of existence was found in the creation story of Genesis. The reason evil exists is because Satan was jealous of God so God banished him from heaven and now Satan’s intention is to steal us from away from God. The various languages spoken across the world is explained in the story of the Tower of Babel. The end of the world would happen through the rapture and is detailed in the book of Revelation.6 I was told the answer to all my questions could be found in scripture and anything that contradicted it was a lie that the enemy uses to deceive us.

There were many books by scholars, both Christian and secular, that helped me understand how the Bible is meant to be used.7 The very first book I read about the topic was The Bible Tells Me So by Bible scholar Pete Enns and it blew my mind. I took weeks to read it because it needed to be digested. And once I read it, I read it again. And again. It helped me understand how I should be in relationship with the Bible. In all my decades in church, Enns’ book was the first time I was ever told by a fellow Christian that the Bible isn’t life’s instruction manual.

“The Bible - from back to front - is the story of God told from the limited point of view of real people living at a certain place and time.” writes Enns.8

Enns helped me realize and understand that the Bible is not a rule book to follow; the Bible is a book of one specific group of people, at a specific point in human history, at a specific location on the planet documenting their connection with their specific idea of divinity and the form they believed that Higher Power takes to commune with humanity.

“The Bible becomes a confusing mess when we expect it to function as a rulebook for faith. But when we allow the Bible to determine our expectations, we see that Wisdom, not answers, is the Bible's true subject matter."9

I lived my life in tension trying to believe the Bible to be true while also trusting the work of science and concepts like the Big Bang and evolution that said the earth and humans have existed longer than the Bible indicates.

Once I realized that the writers of the Bible created ideas about existence based on their definition of divinity with the information they had access to at that point in history, I actually had empathy for them. Like most of us, they were trying to make sense of the world. I understand living an excruciatingly painful human life, wondering why we exist, why suffering exists, and looking for answers from a source greater than ourselves but with our limited understanding. The Bible was compiled and canonized before we had access to information that allowed us to understand ways the universe operates — things like the size of the universe, or the reason plants grow, or how our bodies operate, or what causes illnesses. We still only have a molecule of information that there is to be learned in the grand scheme of the universe, but we operate with more access to information than our ancestors did. And even in our modern day, we still grapple with the same questions and mysteries as humans across millennia, and we still reach for answers from something bigger than ourselves.

It’s been a progressive unraveling since these first days of my deconstruction, reading these books that helped me deconstruct my beliefs about hell and the Bible. These aren’t even the theological reasons I chose to leave Christianity. Deconstructing these beliefs doesn’t dismiss my reverence towards the Bible. It just no longer has the same power in my life that it once held. I can appreciate the wisdom found in its pages in the same way I can respect the wisdom in the sacred texts of other religious traditions.

I don’t believe Christianity is a lie. Just like I don’t believe Judaism or Islam or Buddhism or Hinduism is a lie. I don’t believe that any spiritual belief system is a lie. A spiritual belief system is simply a way for us humans to understand our role in the universe, how we think we should navigate our existence, and engage with what we consider Divinity.

All forms spirituality and faith are a way for us humans to connect with something bigger than ourselves. Something Divine.

And the Divine, whatever that Source may be, had a bigger journey for me to take once I learned this new information and chose to keep moving forward on the path that was laid before me.

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