I can’t wait to get my hands on this book.
The full title is Go Only as Fast as Your Slowest Part Feels Safe To Go: Tales to Kindle Gentleness and Compassion For Our Exhausted Selves written by Robyn L. Posin Ph.D. If I hadn’t had the enormous good fortune to have crossed paths with Robyn before I knew of her book, the title alone would have been enough to have grabbed my attention. My soul seeks out and especially loves words like this. Safe. Compassion. Gentleness.
You see, I’m a slow person in the ways that most of our world deems important to be fast. I drive slowly, like an elderly couple on a Sunday afternoon, I’m the one who is leading the parade down Main Street, holding up traffic and keeping folks from their ever-present tendency to rush. Yes, I get honked at a lot and am okay with that. I like the feeling of peace that travels with me now instead of the gut tightening experience of rushing from one destination to another.
My movements are slower now also as I’ve come to realize that my serenity lies within me. No longer am I chasing the carrot dangling in front of me, going ninety miles an hour inside, always reaching, grasping for the unattainable that is out there, somewhere out there, just slightly out of my reach. I now know and try to practice a mindful lifestyle based on the innate wisdom that resides within.
But it hasn’t always been like this. It wasn’t until my body broke that I fell into bed and took stock of my life. Perhaps through lack of any other choice, I acquiesed to the cruel fact that I had fractured and splintered, used and abused, pushed and prodded myself almost to death. I quit my job, dropped out of life, accepted the AMA’s diagnosis of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome/Immune Dysfunction and slept for an entire year. Summer, fall, winter, spring. When I went to bed, my daughter was a high school freshman. By the time I began to come out of my physical fog, she had nearly completed high school.
But this conversation isn’t about my poor choices or the ramifications of traumatized children or even the physical effects of abuse. This is about a woman, who is a part of a movement, that exists to open our eyes to the possibility of acceptance and compassion in relationship to ourselves. It is about physical slowing and emotional stillness. It is about granting ourselves permission to honor the parts of our psyches that are smaller, littler, slower or feeling unsafe. And taking that recognition to a level of loving acceptance.
Even though I haven’t read her book, I’m certain the gentleness of her words will blow me away. I’ve found that to be true when I’ve visited Robyn’s website, For the Little Ones Inside. Her writing and art struck a chord and I felt the immediate desire to slow down, let go, relax my body, relax my soul. My exhausted self needed her. We exchanged a few e-mails, she’s on my blogrool and I’m on hers. Perhaps I just needed to know that beliefs such as hers really exist. That we can, in fact, lovingly accept our smallest parts and don’t have to hide or push them away. That it’s okay to be confused, unsure, distracted, cautious. That it’s okay to just be.
Suggested Link: Words, images and tales created by Robin Posin, Ph.D. at Compassionate Ink
Identity Disturbance is a relatively and equally fascinating new term to me and since I haven’t researched it to my satisfaction to be able to write about it, I thought I would begin here by re-blogging this article from The Bernard Bert-A Borderline Adventure. This author did a great job of streamlining and breaking down the components of this condition. Hoping this continues to shed some light on the many shades of mental illness and reduce the stigma attached.~~Thanks! Little L~~
Identity Disturbance, November14, 2013
Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self image or sense of self.
“Identity disturbance has many different aspects/features making it a very complexed issue even if it is a lone problem, but with the added factor of other BPD symptoms, it can be an overwhelming and complicated thing to understand and deal with!
In a 2000 study of patients with identity disturbances, Tess Wilkinson-Ryan, and Drew Westen identified four types of identity disturbance:
Role absorption (in which patients tend to define themselves in terms of a single role or cause),
Painful incoherence (a subjective sense of lack of coherence),
Inconsistency (in thought, feeling, and behavior),
Lack of commitment (e.g., to jobs or values).
A stable sense of identity means being able to see yourself as the same person in the past, present, and future.Identity is quite broad, and includes many aspects of the self and is probably made up of your beliefs, attitudes, abilities, history, ways of behaving, personality, temperament, knowledge, opinions, and roles.
A healthy identity includes the ability to choose an appropriate avenue for industry, achieve intimacy with another, and find a place in the larger society by having developed a sense of continuity over time; emotional commitment to a set of self-defining representations of self, role relationships,and core values and ideal self-standards;development or acceptance of a world view that gives life meaning; and some recognition of one’s place in the world by significant others.
“Who are you?” - If asked this question, many people with BPD would be unable to answer and will only be able to reply with – “I don’t know”, “I’m not sure” or “It depends on who I’m with.” This uncertinaty makes them feel empty and lost, confused and lonely.
Considering that identity is comprised of stability, continuity, understanding and acceptance of ones self over time, it is painfully obvious to see why this doesn’t happen in the self identity of someone with BPD.Nothing is stable, everything is changing and totally reactive; all that is left is a fragmented self left with a chronic feeling of inner emptiness caused by the inability to integrate into a coherent sense of self identity.
These unanticipated changes can range from relatively minor things, such as changes in appearance, to aspects central to the life of the individual, such as gender, sexuality and life goals.
People with Identity disturbance may experience:
Experiencing frequent changes in sense of self-worth.
Difficulty committing to roles and occupational choices.
Feeling conflicted or unsure about own gender or sexuality.
Feels as though he or she is a different person depending on who they are with.
Does not know who own self is.
Tends to feel empty inside – hollow, something ‘missing’ and a desire to fill the void.
Who they would like to be are unstable and ever changing.
Views & feelings of self change rapidly or unpredictably .
Has memories only available under certain states sometimes feels unreal.
Tends to feel like a “false self” whose social persona does not match inner experience.
Some of the noticeable changes for those who know the person with the identity issue are:
Lack of consistently invested goals, values, ideals, and relationships.
Their personality changes dramatically periodically.
They are “chameleon-like” depending on who they are with.
Values tend to change frequently / does not seem to have a constant set of core values.
Difficulty choosing and committing to an occupation.
Beliefs,actions and behaviors often seem contradictory.
Has trouble committing to long-term goals or aspirations.
As a way to ‘fit in’ they may:
Identity seems to revolve around a “cause” or shifting causes.Defines self in terms of a label that provides a sense of identity.Depend on relationship to a charismatic other. Tends to be in the orbit of a strong personality.People with BPD can be very “chameleon-like” in an effort to integrate.
The tendency to confuse one’s own attributes, feelings,and desires with those of another person, especially in intimate relationships, means that when a breakdown in a relationship occurs it can lead the person with BPD to fear a loss of personal identity.
The large inconsistencies in behavior,over time and across situations, lead to difficulty integrating multiple representations of self, a lack of a coherent life narrative or sense of continuity over time;and a lack of continuity of relationships that leaves significant parts of the BPD’s past “deposited” with people who are no longer part of the individuals life , and hence the loss of shared memories that help define the self over time.
One contributing factor to borderline identity disturbance is dissociation. When we compartmentalize our experiences rather than integrating them into one meaningful whole, our sense of self fragments causing us to feel lost, empty, and confused.
As this empty feeling and loss of inner self becomes more problematic and chronic (in some cases) a refuge world or fantasy self can at times take the stage by means of dissociation from the painful reality the BPD is forced to live in if they remain in their current state consciousness/awareness – making it similar but not the same as DID - Key points of difference are that those who suffer DID (dissociative identity disorder) usually remain unaware of their other fragmented selves (referred to as alters) which are more concrete, unique individuals, accompanied by blacked out memories/loss of time, whereas BPD’s remain more coherent through their changes in persona.
Identity disturbances in individuals with BPD usually reflect efforts to preserve a sense of self-worth in the presence of interpersonal turmoil.
Because of the inconsistencies in what the person with BPD is doing and saying, non BPD’s may accuse them of “faking it” “Lying” or “putting it on” but this really isn’t the case, they just may not be aware of it and by saying these things to them may actually hinder their progress in changing thier behaviour by making them doubt themselves,their worth and their relationship with you and others.
Other issues that may arise are eating disorders, substance misuse or reckless/impulsive behaviours, (these may also a seperate issue for people with BPD regardless of whether or not the have identity disturbance); all which may feel like a form of control over their lives that they are lacking in other areas.
If you have the associated,emotional instability,impulsive behaviour and black and white thinking of BPD you may have difficulty forming a coherent sense of self because your internal experiences and outward actions are not consistent. In addition, many people with BPD come from chaotic or abusive backgrounds which may contribute to unstable sense of self. If you determine who you are based on others’ reactions to you, and those reactions have been unpredictable and/or scary, you have no framework for developing a strong sense of identity.
However, it’s not all bad, on the positive side of things not knowing who you are allows you to start from scratch, experiment, explore and to build yourself up into the person you want to be!
So how do we tackle this issue and find out who we are?
Treatment/therapy with a trained professional is the most highly recommended way to deal with these issues as they can help to guide you through the process of self discovery; but there are also things you can do yourself too.
One way is by observing your own emotions, thoughts, and feelings, in addition to others’ reactions to you.
Questions and reflection on things like:
How do I want to be seen by others?
What are the things most imporant to me?
Who do I admire and what positive traits do they possess that I respect and could incorperate into my own life?
What am I passionate about?
What talents/attributes do I have?
Another way is to try and work out which areas you would like/need to focus on by writing a list which includes:
How would you like to act/react to each section? What can you do to make this possible?
These are the things that help to give us identity and allow us to form a more stable sense of self. Due to the complexity of the issue, the road to ‘finding yourself’ is a life long journey of discovery and one which may take you to some upexpected, intense and even pleasurable places emotionally!
No one can tell you who you are, they can discribe you but ultimatly it is up to you, you are the one who can make the changes, the one who can decide as to how you act and what you believe and stand for. Who/whatever you decide to be/do, remember that you are worthy of love, to be treated with respect and to live a life that you want and deserve.
I hope that this helps explain a little of what and why we feel this way and, fingers crossed, we can start to finally build the jig-saw of ourselves that has been in so many pieces for so long! ~ Emma.”
The Bernard Bert
This post is about highlighting the work of a woman who is making it her mission to dispel the myths surrounding Borderline Personality Disorder as well as mental health issues in general. I find most everything she writes about spot on as far as the struggles the traumatized face in their journey to become whole. Joyce maintains a blog, Make BPD Stigma-Free! on WordPress as well as a Facebook page. It is worth taking a look-see if you or someone you love fights the good fight against mental illness.
And I would encourage readers to take this one step further. Look deep into these words. Try to see past the fear you may feel when reading such powerful messages from a dark place within a person. See if you can connect with their fears, desperation to express and be heard, deepest desires to be whole and worthy. I believe we can begin to work past our fears of mental illness and all its implications by reading poetry such as Joyce’s. Inside, there is a beautiful being speaking some tough but enlightening truths. If you can get past those fears, see the traumatized person with love, the outcome can be the highest expression of divine compassion.
Every morning, I put on my armour,
To protect me from their poisoned tongues,
Each arrow pierces my soul,
With each one I die a little more each day,
How much dying can one take till they are truly dead?
I am not full of life,
I am not dead,
I am numb and feel nothing.
I am past feeling the pain,
Eventually you don’t feel anymore.
How does one feel so hollow, so empty?
A shell of a person?
How do you get past pain to nothingness?
How do you feel less than nothing?
What a curse it is,
To take on the world’s pain upon your shoulders,
Their anger, their fear,
To feel the darkness of a million souls,
All screaming in your head,
And filling your heart.
To feel it as your own.
And you can never stop the floodgate of emotions that wash over you,
Dragon flames licking at your heels,
As you try to climb out of the hell that’s your life,
Only to be pulled back by your demons to be tortured anew,
When will it end?
- By Joyce Savage.
The little boy comes to me with stifled tears, head bowed, chin jutted out, lips pursed together to keep in his words
I lie down behind him smoothing his long graying hair off his neck
He fights so hard; not to feel, not to disappoint, not to let the little boy get too far away from the only place he knows to be safe
I ache for his longings; his undiscovered freedom, stifled passions, joy without limits
I hold space for his gentle heart even when he can’t
He silently slips into sleep as I place a butterfly kiss on his salty neck and watch him come alive in his slumber, leaving tormented consciousness behind
Slowly at first, then with urgency, his legs start to twitch and run
I pray for godspeed to his running soul
and to please find my husband and bring him back
Photo credit: Image from Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak
Peace and joy are elusive to survivors.
We have to learn and re-learn these types of experiences, cultivating the beautiful aspects of life as if we were students in school grasping a new skill. I’ve usually been able to be kind of a joy parasite (not to be confused with a joy sucker) who gravitates toward frollicking animals, playful children or any group or individual who is just laughing unabashedly. I watched and learned what this beautiful emotion was and then set out to mimic it. These situations always felt right and kind to my heart although in direct conflict with my upbringing. Kindness and love weren’t taught or shown but pathology and self destruction was handed out freely and often.
Survivors as a general rule haven’t learned how to play well or experience peace. If we did learn to play, what we were probably experiencing was destruction in action disguised as play; i.e. out of control drinking/drug/food/anger (fill in your favorite addiction or crazy shit here), driving recklessly, giving ourselves hearts and bodies to men that were undeserving of that sacred gift. So many behaviors were masked as “a good time” that it took decades for me to truly figure it out.
During my high school years, I usually found myself gravitating toward healthier families. I certainly can’t take credit for this action for it wasn’t conscious. But I’ve come to believe that living things; plants, animals, people will gravitate toward health and love and I base that belief on some serious reflection upon my past behaviors. I wanted a better life and in many ways, set out to get one even as a child.
One family I attached to had two parents, 6 children who were blissfully crowded into a tiny house with a tiny kitchen. Many families grew up in this fashion in my day, no one owned a McMansion or rarely had a bedroom to themselves. It was customary to share a room and even a bed with a sibling. And this was the way it was at C. J.’s house. She, myself and several other friends grew up in that tiny house; from junior high girls, into high school girls, to brides, then mothers and now grandmothers. We’ve buried parents, sent sons to war, survived cheating husbands and celebrated our re-marriages. We’ve lost touch and reconnected many times, rarely without missing a beat. They are my ya-ya’s, my sisters.
I had the good fortune to spend a weekend with C.J. It’s always an easy kind of experience to spend time with friend from long ago, who knows your stories and your quirks. We’ve transcended needing to explain things as we just know each other that well.
It was the usual agenda; yard sales, thrift stores, food, playing with the dogs and cats, naps, late night talks with the girls. Yeah, girls….56 year old girls. All the good things in life. My last afternoon was marked by C. J. hosting a dinner (and she’s a fabulous cook by the way) for me before I left for home. Her modest farm home was full just as her childhood home was and served as a playground to many activities that day. After an afternoon of swimming with the grandkids, I plopped myself (temporarily of course) on the living room couch where I soon found myself snuggled in and stretched out.
I can’t exactly describe what happened but whatever “it” was, I’ve managed to hold onto “it” for weeks, even sharing the feeling with other friends. Sitting on the over stuffed couch, I found myself sinking in deeply, letting my tension float away and began to absorb the energy of this household. The sheer comfort of the environment gave way to me lying down putting a throw pillow over my face. I became so relaxed and peaceful that I couldn’t resist the temptation to surrender. During the most blissful two hour nap I’ve had in a long time, I floated in and out of the commotion of the grandkids playing and eventually crying, the miffed off weiner dog’s continuous bark to get back into the house, doors slamming, the phone ringing, the parental and grand-parental units shushing the kids to be quiet as to not wake me and the most delicious smells of garlic and anchovy coming from the kitchen. It was a sensory delight. And it was heaven.
The more that the everyday, normal family life noise increased the more peaceful I became. A thought came to me as I grinned under my throw pillow; this must be what its like to be a part of a family. It was okay for me to relax, to feel peace, that loved ones surrounded me, even cooked food to nourish me after my nap. I recalled a long forgotten dream as a child to belong to a nice family. And that simple gesture on C. J. ‘s part became a truly, magical afternoon for me.
I left for home that evening, after my nap and dinner, accompanied by my yard sale treasures and fresh tomatoes from their garden. My most treasured gift was the lightness and peace that I felt.
During the 2 hour drive home, I think my heart actually smiled.
Photo credit: An’ Marie
To view other works by this artist, visit www.callmeanmarie.com
There seems to be light at the end of the tunnel.
I seem to have made it through the latest chapter of dark times.
When I started this blog, I felt lost. Then I found myself through writing and gave myself a voice that I’d never possessed before, at least for myself. I’d been championing for others for decades; animal rights, women’s rights, diversity, environment. It had become painful apparent to me that a great deal of time had been spent advocating for others and not myself. That was a game changer.
Writing this blog has enabled me to find my voice through writing but look several issues squarely in the eye. Honoring myself was one. A simple bumper sticker noticed by the artist, Terri St. Cloud of Bone Sigh Arts. Honor Yourself. Simple words that were nearly impossible to integrate.
The next issue was that I couldn’t wrap my thinking around the fact that someone, anyone would want to read what I had to say. In my mind, my words had to be profound, a literary masterpiece before putting them out for the world to see. Shouldn’t I get a MFA in writing or something or some sort of artistic approval before being so bold as to put my words, my life, my history into words? Well, that answer came soon too. Survivors trickled in, slowly at first, some stumbling and fragmented, some already having honed their beautiful craft of expression. All were worthy and I felt so blessed to be a part of a counterculture emerging for survivors, men and women, who were taking back their power. I wanted to be a part of that. For me, it was coming home.
My most recent absence is due to my utter confusion and re-entry into that dark place. You see, I thought I’d been through it and had emerged complete, or at least complete enough. I thought I was finally, finally in that safe cocoon where I could share my story of abuse and survival with the clarity of hindsight. I was wrong, at least sort of.
This summer I separated from my husband. My fairy tale crashed and I felt that I was a fraud. How on earth could I write stories of hope and love when I had failed at my own love story? Slowly, I moved through the hazy days of summer with my tool bag (purple of course) of rest, solitude, meditation, reading and dark chocolate. I cried when I felt like it, wandered through the library, raged at Grandmother moon in the wee hours of the morning when sleep eluded me, slept any time I felt fatigued and tried, oh how I tried, to find joy anywhere I could. I picked flowers and herbs from my beautiful garden and gave them to anyone I could think of; my church for Sunday morning service, the women at the convenient mart on the corner who are always so kind and make me laugh every time I’m there buying chocolate, my dear friend’s mother who was passing this summer, a friend who works long hours and commutes into the city each day. I gave them just because. Just because in the absence of my own joy, I needed to create that precious spark of joy for someone else and live vicariously off of that until I had my own.
Many, many people supported me though this passage, you will find them on my blogroll and Facebook page. I simply couldn’t have weathered this without logging on to see their daily posts on love, writing, poetry, painting, nature, food. I traveled with several as they made major changes in their lives too and hope that I provided them a wee bit of support also.
Slowly that spark began to burn again. Now I have more words and more insight into myself. I tip my hat to the dark side, purpose well served.
I still live a love story. Really, there is a love story in here somewhere. One that, once again, must begin with myself. With or without a partner, my daughter, my dogs, my house. I can write words of hope because now I’ve lived them again. I’m not a fraud but an innocent person who stumbles and trips often, sometimes sitting in the mud puddle I fell in, squalling and crying. But then there are times, when I laugh and dance around with a soggy tutu.
It’s all good.
I’m a huge proponent of counseling. I’ve been in therapy most of my life and wished that my family had been too. But I was the lone ranger who left the fold, got college educated and beyond and who dove into therapy, resurfacing periodically but always diving back for more.
I’ve had many therapists through the years, as my needs have changed, moving on when the time was right when I had learned as much as I could with a particular practitioner. I’ve had some rotten ones too. Except now, they only get a session or two before I know its a bad fit. I’m sufficiently couch broken.
Right now, I’m in that sweet spot of a great fit. A woman who is intuitive, approachable, caring and funny. I have a great time in our sessions, laughing as much as I cry through my profound revelations. She understands my extreme sensitivity to the world and has taught me skills to survive and thrive in that world based fully on who I am. DBT, Dialectical Behavior Therapy, is what I’m learning, with amazing results I might add.
During this weeks session, we discuss mindfulness and the state of being present to which I tell her I’m doing just okay with the concept. Not great but OK. I’m not unique in possessing a brain that goes at warp speed. My mind is whirring constantly; topics I want to write on, chores that need completion, causes that need my attention, a world that needs me to save it. And worst of all, I’m a ruminator. I have to chew and chew on something, regurgitate it back up, poke at it and begin chewing on it some more. And let me tell you, that is exhausting. The tugging tendencies are so strong and constant even though my therapist has been teaching me to cultivate mindfulness and stillness for over a year now. Understanding these concepts, I’m slowly gaining some control over my mind which is a really good thing. I continue to practice it day by day, hour by hour.
I’m explaining to Cathy that I need to make a plan for the rest of my summer. I feel better with an agenda having given time and thought to my future needs. I tell her how much more in control of my life I feel when I’ve explored my options, weighed them out and know what lies ahead. She listens but quickly replies, ”You don’t have to be battle ready”.
I pause for a moment, thinking I know what she’s said and go back to my diatribe of explaining my need for a plan. She repeats herself, “You don’t have to be battle ready”. Ok, now I need to stop and see what this “battle ready” thing is that she’s repeated to me twice. I tell her to please explain that to me because I don’t see that an absence of a plan is good for me. How could I function without it?
I tear up immediately and she gently explains that traumatized children learned survival by knowing their surroundings at all times. Attempting to detect threats to their safety, they take their cues from the moods of others, the time of day, seasons of the year (fill in the blank here with your own). These children don’t get to relax and trust how a safe world evolves, they must be hyper vigilant constantly to survive.
We have visited this topic often, its a big one for me. My tendencies are still so strong to be alert to my surroundings and feel the need to exert that compulsion toward creating a predictably safe future agenda. I’m a contantly-looking-over-your-shoulder ,waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop kind of person.
I love that she is helping me deprogram. She notices my behavior even when I’m arguing that I’m not exhibiting the behavior. She is helping me notice and understand the neurological wiring that was changed long ago when I experienced long-term trauma. The survival reflex learned in childhood is still alive and operating. But as she continues, I don’t need it now. I don’t have to be battle ready all the time. I can relax and let my body relax.
I love these words and this concept. They feel soft and fuzzy. It isn’t new to me but bears repeating often. A new pattern must be developed in my thinking that relieves me of the knee jerk reaction to grab my sword from my sheath and be prepared for battle. I’m so ready for a reprieve. I think its why I started crying when she explained it again. It’s like music to my ears to hear that I actually, finally, once and for all can put down my weapon and still feel safe.
Suggested Reading: An Emotional Hair Trigger, Often Misread
There are so many wonderful concepts in Terri St. Cloud’s recent blog post, “real feel“. I would strongly encourage you to take the time to visit her site, Bone Sigh Arts, and read the post on her reflections on self love. Near the end of the blog post is one of my favorite parts where she says she wants to swim in the sea of love, but then realizes that she may in fact be more in the pond of love. Ha, I loved that!
Its so easy to be vulnerable and open after reading Terri’s writing and art. She’s a master at self reflection and being vulnerable. Seriously, Brene Brown should be studying her!
Figuring that I have to start somewhere in the monumental task of unlearning unloving behaviors and learning to practice self love, I find myself more in the puddle of self love. Not swimming in the sea of love, or being in Terri’s pond of love but a big puddle of love. Its an okay place to be and I’m happy here. I’m splashing around, discovering what works and what doesn’t, clearing out the muck to see the treasures hidden deep in my puddle.
Following Terri’s lead of vulnerability and self disclosure, I will admit that I don’t take as good of care of myself as I could and certainly not as well as I care for my daughter, husband, pets, garden, friends, community, job etc. And the answer to the why don’t I take better care of myself question is that I haven’t fully learned how to yet.
There is great comfort in seeing that I’ve taught my daughter how to love and accept herself. I’ve been a consistent reminder to her (actually she sometimes compares me to an annoying gnat buzzing around) that she is a beautiful creature with extraordinary and unique gifts. I see how she cares for herself and I feel great pride in that. But still it gets me wondering why I don’t practice it more with myself.
Actually, over the last 5-10 years but self care has increased exponentially. And like Terri, I’ve had so many, many moments where I didn’t know who I was, what kind of life I wanted, what sorts of books I enjoyed reading. For myself, it comes from not only, lack of a role model but actual negative reinforcement to the concept of caring for one’s self. Coming from a family that was bred on stoicism and weaned on martyrdom, I was taught and shown that life was a chore and one didn’t complain about it. It was nose to the grindstone, don’t look up until you’re done, giving yourself a break was a sign of weakness kind of attitude. Any peeks to the inside of ourselves could reveal our true selves which in my family, was the sworn enemy. There was no telling where that kind of selfishness might lead you.
Geesh, so here I am. Solo from my family, learning to splash in my puddle with my friends and acquaintances who believe in vulnerability, authenticity and the power of whole hearted love. I like it here even though it still feels foreign. Making major life changes do feel foreign for a while, until you reach a crossing over point where you look back and can’t believe that you ever lived as you did. As I’m playing in my puddle, learning how I might swim in the pond of self love, I watch and model others who are practicing the same thing. Some are in front of me, while some are behind me. We are all learning at our own rates, blossoming in our own time.
I continue to thank everyone I’ve met along the journey who has challenged my old patterns of thinking and inspired me to adopt a more loving approach to myself. I’m an eager student willing to learn. I send gratitude to the universe for placing the perfect people and events in front of me.