Starting to Heal

Tenderness is a radical act in a world that idolizes aggression. It takes more courage to love than to hate. Forgiveness is the ultimate act of bravery, and self-forgiveness often its most difficult manifestation.

Lately I've been starting to remember my own worth, and it hasn't been easy. Processing grief and loss and coming to peace with the way my identities and needs don't always fit the mainstream has been a journey. More difficult still has been coming to terms with the fact trauma has had permanent impacts on me without judging those impacts or resisting them because of their origins.

Healing can be a painfully slow process at times, and it's never linear. Humans are messy creatures, and never more so than when processing trauma. I'm learning to take my time.

So here's to the journey, and to growth. Here's to relearning how to be alive, to be human, to be the imperfect, messy, worthy people we are. Here's to love, and joy, and tenderness. Here's to honoring softness, and separating masculinity from aggression and ego.

I've wanted to be a quiet force of nature. I too often forget I already am.

Queer, Tender, Messy, Human, and Alive

Site Changes

Changes are coming to The Gayly Nerd, and some have already arrived!

• New posts will be coming more frequently.

• Love Letters have been moved to their own section.

• Posts in general are being pruned.

• A new Poetry section will be coming soon with both written and audio pieces.

• Our Patreon, Twitter, and Tiktok are no longer active and their links have been removed.

• Information on booking James for public speaking opportunities will be added soon.

Celebrating and Supporting the Queer Community

In honor of the approach of Pride Month, I wanted to share some thoughts and strategies for celebrating and supporting the queer community.

Three relevant caveats: First, I'm not as deeply embedded in the community as I once was. Second, I personally tend to use "queer" instead of "LGBTQIA", but it's a reclaimed word and not everyone is comfortable with it, especially when used by allies. And last, this is rather long, so feel free to link back to this and summarize or focus on the most relevant areas when discussing it with others.

To me, a lot of celebrating the LGBTQIA community as a collective by allies ends up coming across as performative or, when it's done by companies, as a sales tactic. When it comes to celebration, I've tended to see approaches that acknowledge and celebrate the individuality of community members as more meaningful than a monolithic celebration of queerness. In a lot of cases, all I have in common with other queer individuals is the fact I'm queer.

Also, it's worth noting that if you replace the word queer in these strategies with the name of another minority community, they are often effective for their members or allies as well.

All that being said, there are a number of approaches people can take toward supporting and celebrating queer individuals. Good approaches might include:

• Are you a non-queer LGBTQIA ally asked to speak on queer topics at a panel? Suggest a speaker you admire from within the community instead (amplify queer voices).

• Do you have a large amount of funds you want to earmark for the queer community? Create scholarships or grant opportunities for queer individuals and queer-focused organizations or projects, rather than just donating to a specific organization, or earmark your donations specifically for administrative/staffing costs. Nonprofits, as a general rule, struggle most to pay staff or afford basic expenses for building upkeep and repair, etc., even if they receive a large amount of funding. Funding opportunities generally explicitly exclude those purposes. As a result, community members, who often have less opportunity for paid employment already, are left with a large unpaid time burden on top of the other discrimination-related burdens they are fighting to combat already.

• Want to celebrate queer people? Although our voices are often left out of history, our queerness is just a small part of our personhood. Which of your personal or professional heroes are queer? Celebrate them, their achievements, queer-focused or not, and the values they embody that you admire. Beyond it honoring amazing people, most effective tactics for anti-queer sentiment focus on dehumanizing queer people or reducing them to their queerness above their humanity. Reminding society of amazing people who happen to be queer both honors awesome humans and reinforces the fact that queer people are people first. Including everyday or local queer heroes (with their explicit permission, as it may increase their visibility more than they're comfortable with) helps on that front as well.

• Be there for queer friends. Recognize that discrimination is draining, and queer folx, along with folx from other discriminated-against communities, may ask for more help at times as a result, whether as emotional labor or otherwise. Maintaining personal boundaries and honoring your own limits are still essential, but be aware that a greater need for those supports is not a sign of weakness or lack of capability.

• Support other discriminated-against communities, not just queer ones. We rise and fall together. Society is entangled, and many queer individuals are also BIPOC, and/or homeless, and/or neurodivergent, etc.

• Amplify non-white and nonbinary voices within the queer community. Discriminated communities unfortunately tend to punch down as much as any other folks. White gay and lesbian individuals often silence the voices of non-white, bi, trans, or nonbinary community members. Gay, lesbian, and bi community members often silence trans and nonbinary voices. Trans community members often silence nonbinary voices. The majority of white queer folx tend to supplant or silence BIPOC voices and perspectives. We are not whole or representative or even all that helpful when we only include the voices "normative" society finds most palatable. Perpetuating societal discrimination in microcosm is no less toxic. Make your support and celebration intersectional.

• Volunteer with suicide hotlines.

• Are you [insert specific queer identity here]? If you feel safe enough, be out and proud. Speak up about how you feel, the values you hold, and the labels you identify with. It can help build community and safety, humanize your community, and provide a broader range of voices so each voice has less weight to carry. Often, vocal voices are forced to become representative ambassadors of an aspect of their identity, rather than allowed to be whole, fallible human beings. The more voices, the more space each voice has to be more than a voice.

• Start discussions with neighbors and friends. Build dialogues at organizations you are part of about common values and the impact of actions.

• Network. The more people you know and organizations you are connected to that share your values, the more impact you can have and the easier you can become involved.

• Support more marginalized communities, and use your areas of privilege to elevate the voices of those with less privilege.

• Push your workplaces and cities, your schools and states, to provide protections for queer folk in their laws and EEOCs.

• Speak up when you see injustice. Silence says something as clearly as words, though it may still be the right choice if it is not safe to stand up.

• Looking for ways to make workplaces more trans-inclusive in particular? Cover trans healthcare, and not just top surgery for trans men or bottom surgery for trans women. Ask trans employees what might be helpful, and be willing to potentially fund some things outside of a plan, as healthcare coverage for trans individuals is almost never at all comprehensive. Some examples of often not-included things that might be really helpful for trans folx: voice therapy, laser hair removal, and breast implants for trans women or nonbinary individuals. Allow trans folk to use the bathroom they are most comfortable with, and defend their right to do so. Also consider implementing a policy of adding a gender neutral bathroom to any new locations or buildings and changing single stall bathrooms to gender neutral, but do not force trans folk to use that bathroom. Provide modules on trans education, harassment policies, and antidiscrimination practices (maybe including examples of questions that are and aren't okay to ask trans coworkers) for new employees and create company procedures for enforcing those policies so it's not just words. Have both legal name and name/nickname sections on an application so employees are not required to use deadnames outside of tax reasons, and a fill-in-the-blank pronoun section. Create anonymous reporting options for employees to minimize reporting fear, or hire an outside organization for investigating discrimination and harassment reports in general.

• Want to make a difference on the policy or politics front in particular? Propose new policy initiatives on topics that matter to you. Phone bank for candidates, for parties, and for issues you care about. Donate to causes, candidates, and parties that reflect your values. Write to elected officials, whether through email, facebook, or snail mail. Thank them when they do things you appreciate and challenge them when they do things that you disagree with. March for relevant causes and laws. Help take over your party, whether it be Democratic or Republican or a third party, so you can direct its policies. Are you a member of the queer community? Run for office yourself. Are you an ally? Support queer folx who share your broader values in running for office. And importantly, if you can, vote. Yes, voting isn't always an effective method for change, but methods are not either/or. Vote in every election, not just presidential ones. Vote as if lives depended on it, because they do.

• Research the values of organizations you become involved with, and don't compromise on the things most important to you. If you can't find an organization that supports the values you hold, start one or work from within.

• Learn more about various issues. Education is the key to understanding.

• Do not normalize discrimination that is happening. Don't forget the anger and fear. Normalization leads to complacency, and action is essential. Build on the momentum instead of forgetting it with time.

• Activism requires balance. Practice self-care so when you are serving in an activist role, you can be present and effective.

This list, although long, is only one person's thoughts and strategies. As such, it is likely far from comprehensive, but it can serve as a place to start.

Within These Walls

I've spent the last few months treading water. I'm grieving, but it's not just that. Or not just my grief weighing heavy on my life. The pandemic changed our world in ways our society has yet to process. Sometimes, I think it just broke us all. But then, I don't believe in breaking. Not permanently, anyway. Pottery can be reglued, people can heal, governments topple and are reborn. Even matter lingers on past death. It just changes form with time.

Culturally insensitive as the book is, there's a scene in "Memoirs of a Geisha" that keeps repeating in my mind. The main character is struggling with a new dance and an old heartbreak, until suddenly she melds them. She lets the weight of her grief guide her movements, slowing them into grace. Grief is given shape. Pain transforms to motion.

I feel frozen.

There's a lesson buried somewhere between pain and movement, but I haven't quite found it yet. I used to think it was acceptance. I thought if I let myself feel my grief it would lose its power over time. Instead, it's grown roots. Maybe some emotions are too vast for a body to hold. I can feel it in my marrow, transforming my very DNA. The grief has become more real than its origins.

I'm no longer treading water. The lake has iced over. I sink.

America has so many myths about prisons and prisoners, but I hear one story over and over from the prisoners themselves. Their cells are waiting games. The rules are violent, but easily understood. There's a rhythm to life in prison, but there's also a countdown, avid and feral. Five more years until release. Two more months. A week.

Today.

All they want is to walk out those doors, until they actually close behind them. Suddenly, they're facing a new world, one that has changed in overwhelming ways. Prison was supposed to be penance, but society expects them to be more cartoon villain than human, and treats them accordingly. Some become the stereotype because at least then they're seen. More than that, at least a villain has a role.

Prison has structures. Prison has schedules. Prisoners know what they need to do at all times. Most of the rules are spelled out in rulebooks and alarms and guards. And prisoners fall within groups and gangs, uneasy as the partnerships might be. They're not alone.

But life outside those walls is isolating. The rules are different, and all of them are unwritten and constantly changing. Their life is choices, and structured to help them fail. Where do they sleep? How do they make money? What do they eat? Who do they talk to? What do they talk about? Living becomes a cacophony of decisions, and it's overwhelming. Sometimes people around them try to help, but they're usually helping a stereotype of an ex-convict, not a person with all the complexities of any other human. Most people, though, don't offer even that. Falling into old patterns becomes comfortable, and as small as a cell might be, at least it's defined.

Sometimes I think my apartment has become its own kind of prison. Life within it is lonely and uncomfortable, but at least it's consistent. I control what happens within these walls. I make the rules and I own the space. I choose who enters it, and who leaves and when. The choices are defined, limited, and structured. Even if I can't control the world around me, I can control this.

When I step through the door, that control is gone. Nothing is predictable. The world is all variables, and the people within it bundles of contradictions. So I hide. My world is lonely, but it's mine. Each day, it's harder to leave the apartment. Each day, it's harder to want to. Even taking out the trash becomes an endeavor.

I'm not alone. The more stories I read of the world around me, the more I see this echoed. Grief has become as much a cultural more as ambition, and loneliness a default. Once, trauma was disorder. Now, it's just a fact of life. I burrow deeper beneath my covers. I want no part of this new world. I am a poster-child for life within it. I breathe. I read. I hide. I tread water. It's exhausting.

When does grieving become living again? I've slowed down. Where is the grace in feeling? When will my heart unfreeze? My limbs are heavy. They do not move. The pain presses beneath my skin. I sink beneath the waters. I do not move.

I try to change things. I try to add new variables. I try to feel. I open my door. I walk down the stairs. I take out the trash. I return to my bed, tired all over again. Tomorrow I'll do laundry. I'll drive to the grocery store. I'll call the doctor. I'll visit a friend.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

A few days pass. I try again. Is this healing? Or am I falling apart? The boundary between progress and depression has blurred. Did it ever exist in the first place? I am grieving. Or am I grief? The cry for change is distant. I still do my best to hear its whispers.

I open the door. I face the world. I try to become more than my grieving. I am more than my grieving. It hurts.

I walk down the stairs. I take out the trash. I drive to the store. I visit a friend.

I breathe. I change. I feel.

Quarterly Holidays

March 15 was one of my quarterly holidays, Day of Blooms. There are three parts to the Day of Blooms:

1. Serving Nature: Doing something to serve the world around us, whether it's planting a tree or picking up trash.

2. Recording Joys and Successes: Writing down all the little (and big) happy or rewarding moments from the last three months.

3. Setting Goals: Setting your goals for the next three months with your themes from the joys and successes in mind.

The next quarterly holiday is Ray Day on June 15. It is celebrated by:

1. Doing Something Kind: Spread kindness in the world, whether through donating to people or a cause you believe in, or volunteering your time, or some other means entirely.

2. Recording Joys and Successes: Writing down all the little (and big) happy or rewarding moments from the last three months.

3. Setting Goals: Setting your goals for the next three months with your themes from the joys and successes in mind.

After that comes my favorite, the Day of Leafs, on September 15. It is celebrated through:

1. Leaving What No Longer Serves You: Whether through a chant, burning a letter, or some other means, ritualistically saying goodbye to an item, person, or belief that no longer serves you.

2. Recording Joys and Successes: Writing down all the little (and big) happy or rewarding moments from the last three months.

3. Setting Goals: Setting your goals for the next three months with your themes from the joys and successes in mind.

The final quarterly holiday is Evergreen Day on December 15. Celebrating it involves:

1. Giving with intention: Giving a gift, whether an item, time, or experience, to someone you care about that will bring them joy.

2. Recording Joys and Successes: Writing down all the little (and big) happy or rewarding moments you can remember from the last three months.

3. Setting Goals: Setting your goals for the next three months with your themes from the joys and successes in mind.

Do you have any holidays you've created?

The Weight of a Phone

My phone weighs 143 grams. I keep it in my pocket when I'm not using it, which means it's almost never in my pocket. When I click it on, sometimes I wait to unlock it just so I can gaze into my fiancé's eyes on the screen. They're blue, highlighted by his glasses, which darken when the sun shines against them. In the photo on the lock screen, his face holds a soft smile. As I type in my passcode, I can see that smile widening in my mind's eye.

On the home screen, our cats are curled up on my old heated blanket, the warmth of my phone mimicking the warmth of the throw. I imagine Casper purring me to sleep, his soft belly under my ear, and blink my eyes clear from a tired blur.

Under the images of cats sit five folders, each with a variety of applications. In one, there are 11 chat programs, each holding words from friends and family and people who fall somewhere in between. The messages come in from around the world. On one chat program, I talk mainly to a cousin in Dubai. In another, I reach out each day to a few people to tell them I love them, and a few reasons why. I don't want anyone I love to feel alone.

I know what it's like to feel alone. It spills out in text apps, in journal entries and memoirs and odes to the healing journey. Last year, I submitted one of them to a contest. A story of trauma, survival, and how my mind stitched itself back together from the bleakest of nightmares, "My Brain: A Love Story" won first place.

My phone's case weighs 20 grams. In the past, my phones have ended their lives battered; screens cracked, stories faded. Over time, I learned from those dents and fissures. More than bruises that phone and body grew all too familiar with in younger years, though, I've learned from the books my phone holds. When I was a child, paper and ink pulled me to safety. Now that I'm grown, the LEDs behind my screen spell out words and worlds of healing.

I open the camera app. I may be tired, but I am alive, and glad to be. I snap a photo, looking up at the lens with eyes that have seen both joy and pain in equal measure. As a smile crooks one corner of my mouth, I'm proud of the smile lines faint around my eyes. I had so many reasons to lack them. But there they shine, just like the light from my phone. Just like the light in my grin. I am alive, and I feel alive.

Path of Growth and Change: A Meditation

Close your eyes, and imagine a path in front of you. The ground is packed dirt, and to each side, there are trees, branches arching over the trail in riots of orange and strawberry and brown. As you travel down the path, leaves crunch beneath you and birds chirp and trill in achingly beautiful song. The air smells of moisture and the subtle musk of season's change.

You move slowly at first, savoring the sights, the gentle breeze whispering against your clothes, the ground even, sloping slowly downward. It's sunrise, and the sky is pinking with beauty. As you move, you can see your breath in front of you. You don't feel cold, though. You feel vibrantly alive.

You pick up the pace. You're practically flying down the path now, smile stretching your face wide. You move through splash after splash of sunlight as it begins to dapple its way through the leaves. The light feels warm and soothing.

Leveling out, you see the sun bright ahead, then hear the chiming burble of a small waterfall solidify into a low roar as you draw close to the end of the path. You look to the right, and there it is. The water splashes and jumps from stream to fall to lake, and you know the trees you followed to this place are nourished by it. You feel nourished too, comforted by the sounds surrounding you.

You move to the lake's edge, slow now, mist from the waterfall softly cooling your side. It's beautiful here. You know that the world is full of life, and sometimes life is harsh, but here there's just birdsong, water, breeze, and trees, and that is enough. Just like the trees, with their old, thick trucks, you will grow to meet problems in your life.

When you need a reminder, the path and water, the birds and trees, and the fall leaves will be here. They will show you that all things grow and change, and there is beauty in that.

Taking a deep breath, you open your eyes and return to the space you are in.

Finding Presence

Lately, my mental health has been in a rougher place, and I know I'm not alone in that. I've found it harder to do a lot of things - focus on my classwork, stay connected, focus on building this. But I've also found some things that are helping me find home in the tough days.

Presence in my body: Recently I got a bike and started riding it. I hadn't ridden a bike since I was ten, and I had to re-teach myself comfort in the movements. I can still only ride a couple laps of the neighborhood, and I return home with wobbly legs. But I also return home feeling alive. I feel connected to my body in a way I'd forgotten I could in those moments. I don't care so much about doing everything perfectly, or whether I'm communicating my thoughts well. I don't think. I just exist in the moment, and that moment is enough.

Presence in my connections: Whether things are feeling rough or happy, my friends are my rock. When I need to vent, I have friends that help me release the stress through conversation. When I need advice, I reach out to friends who have been through similar struggles and soak up their stories. When I'm happy, I reach out to friends to share my joy, and bring joy into their lives with reminders of their worth. Even if it's just one friend, try to identify someone you can talk to in each of those moments. Look for someone with shared values but different methods, and be each others' touch stones. If you can't think of anyone you'd feel safe being yourself beside, look on Meetup or in Facebook groups. Reach out to someone you admire on Instagram with some specific things you admire about them and a question. Comment on a blog or video you love with thought. You might make some new friends more aligned with your heart.

Presence in my surroundings: Sometimes, in the morning before work, I go down to a lake near my house and walk the path around it. I just discovered it recently, but it's already become my go-to for an injection of home and peace. As I wander the quiet path, staring at the mist rising over the water, I can feel myself settling into the nature around me. A couple days ago, a raccoon ran across the path in front of me, screeching. At first, it was startling, but watching it circle a spot on a log then settle in for a rest in the sun like a cat, I almost wept with the beauty and simplicity of it. It was almost like it took being startled to truly home me in the wonder of the world around me.

I'm still stressed. These aren't magic fixes, and some days I can't bring myself to even do them at all. But there's peace leaking in around the corners these days, and that brings me back to the present.

One day at a time, one step at a time, I will keep on walking. I will keep reaching out, I will keep pulling out my bike, and I will keep looking for the small moments and places of wonder in the world around me. And the more at peace I become, the more clarity I have on the sources of my stress, and the more ability to act thoughtfully to address them.

Keep walking with me.

Love, Grief, and Healing

Recently, a couple friendships that had played a central role in my life for many years reached their ending, and sometimes it really aches. I wanted so badly for the friendships to be healthy, but they just weren't, and I had to walk away. I learned a difficult lesson as I said goodbye: Someone can be important and matter without it being healthy and growing.

I remember one day, about a week later, sitting in front of my computer trying not to cry. I decided to write myself a letter in that moment. It would have been so easy to mirror the toxic inner dialogue, the one that was saying, "You shouldn't hurt. You know it was the right decision."

Instead, though, I chose compassion. I wrote myself a love letter. I told myself the things I most needed to hear. True things, but compassionate things. And in doing so, I began to heal.

The letter began, "Hey you. It's okay to be hurt. It's okay to grieve the fact that people you love didn't love you enough to prioritize your safety."

I realized, as I typed those words, how much I needed to hear them. I thought if I was kind enough, tried hard enough, gave enough of myself, was genuine enough, that people would be the same in return. Sometimes, though, people just aren't. Maybe their needs are incompatible with your own. Maybe you're both just at different places in your journeys. But you can be kind to yourself.

Today, I want you to write yourself a love letter. Think about a place inside that is aching, and approach it with curiosity. Listen to your inner dialogue, then change it to a written narrative of love.

It is okay to feel. It is okay to grieve. It is okay to hurt. And it's also okay to begin to heal.

Silence Feeds Violence

There are so many thoughts in my brain, jumbled and tumbling over one another. I want this to be a space of healing, but there is no healing possible without giving voice to experiences of oppression. Silence feeds violence.

Lately I've been trying to step back to hear and read the voices of others, especially black voices. I've been too complacent in my own life up to this point, content to settle for using my own experiences of oppression as a proxy for empathizing with others rather than doing the hard work of examining the history of systemic injustices embedded within the institutions and culture of the country in which I live. While finding points of connection is important, understanding the history and framework in which various forms of oppression dwell is essential for creating effective change, as is elevating voices beyond just my own.

The past is a painful place to gaze upon, but that doesn't make it any less necessary to see it. To that end, I wanted to share some resources that have been pushing me to grow, even when they've been uncomfortable or painful to hear or read.

The first is a podcast series called "Behind the Police." It discusses the history of police and policing in America, and it's been eye-opening for me.

The second is a book by Angela Y. Davis. Titled "Freedom is a Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine, and the Foundations of a Movement," it's helped me to conceptualize intersectionality as more than the intersection of individual identities, but also as the intersection of collective movements, often spanning the globe.

The last thing I want to mention today is a podcast episode of "Unlocking Us with Brené Brown" featuring Laverne Cox. A (rough) paraphrase of a line that keeps repeating in my head from it is "At the end of the day, I'm fighting to make sure no kid gets beat up on the playground." There's a lot more to the episode, but whenever I get overwhelmed by the number of battles there are to fight, I am both galvanized and centered by that succinct summation.

What are some resources you have been finding helpful lately?

Homes of the Heart

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the meaning of home. Is home where I rest my head? The space in my heart my cat fills? Him snuggled up next to me?

Is where my fiance rests home for me? Waking up with him next to me? Is home my apartment, with its many rooms and meditative space? Is home his house, where so many happy memories dwell? Or is home his cat, who we picked out together shortly after we started dating?

Is home the lake by my apartment I sometimes watch the sun rise over? Is it the nearby tree, scarred by lightning, that has greeted me every walk through the park since moving across the country? Is home my parent's house, where I spent most of my formative years?

Maybe home is found in all of them.

For the first time, though, I'm ready to give one of those homes up.

The first night I fell asleep next to my fiance after beginning to move my things into his spare room, I woke up in the middle of the night. I opened my eyes full of wonder at the fact I could wake up in the same house as him from now on, and snuggled closer, falling back asleep with a smile on my face.

Then a second night passed. A third.

I keep waking up smiling.

I brought my cat over. He's been purring on his heated mat when not curled up in my arms. My fiance's cat, skittish and shy, is still adjusting, but seems cautiously happy about the changes.

There is so much that is new about this. Sharing space is not a thing I am accustomed to, but I feel so lucky every day I wake up near this amazing man. So lucky to have so many of my homes colliding and combining. So lucky to be alive in a world with cats and the family I've built. So lucky to be here, in this moment, alive.

Love, Values, and the Stories We Tell Ourselves

Every morning, I rush downstairs to look at my indoor herb garden. I planted it a couple weeks ago, carefully placing seeds for rosemary, sweet basil, oregano, garlic chives, and sage in the soil, as well as some catnip and cat grass seeds for my cat. Each day since, I've started my day gazing at the soil and the herbs as they've begun to grow, love filling my heart.

As I gaze upon the growing herbs, I ask myself questions, running through a checklist in my mind. Is the soil dry? Are the grow lights positioned correctly? Does anything need pruning? Do the herbs need repotting so they have more space to grow? I take care of the plants, tending to their needs, feeling alive and energized by the presence of life.

When I love someone or something, I am present and attentive and consistent. Every few days, I reach out to a few friends to remind them of things I love and cherish about them. I make time to be there for them and to spend with them, and I share the vulnerable parts of myself, wounds and joys, with those I trust as well.

I do this not because I feel I have to, but because it brings me joy and reminds me of the people I cherish and why. Just like with the plants, it is not work, but love.

Often when I struggle to maintain a habit or work toward a goal, I feel like I "wasn't passionate enough." I'll try to learn a new language or try a new form of exercise, and I'll stumble and not restart, and I'll tell myself a story about that attempt: "I don't really care about this thing." Over time, that story grows into a narrative about myself. Often, though, I do care. I'm just telling myself the wrong story about why I'm doing the thing in the first place.

In those moments, I try to remember to return to my values. I remind myself that my narratives for action, and my actions themselves, need to be based around the values that I hold most dear and the visions for the future those values create. And I try to examine those values, as well, to ensure they still fit with who I am and what I want. Then I venture forth in love and act.

#reasons #habits #love #selfcare #stories #values #vulnerability

A Poem of Hope and Connection in the Midst of Chaos

I put out a new poem on Bandcamp today called Diagnosis: Pandemic. It's a bit of hope for a time of chaos, and it's pay what you will. I hope you enjoy.

Joy and Loneliness

I've forgotten much of my childhood, but I remember lunches in eighth grade clearly. A pack of us ate together, sprawling across sidewalks and tables, discussing manga and classes and life. We were the misfits, the kids with hard home lives that pooled together in that concrete wasteland to form our own community. I remember laughing a lot, but also the deep loneliness that gripped so many of us. Jokes mixed with self-deprecation, blurred into talk of suicide, and then something made us laugh again.

For so many years, I wondered how even amidst the laughter, we all felt lonely. We were a community. We were friends. But we still felt deeply, achingly alone. Then, while listening to Unlocking Us with Brené Brown recently, I finally found an answer.

As Brené talked to Dr. Vivek Murthy, he mentioned three types of loneliness:

1. Lack of intimate, close connections, like best friends or partners or family you can be yourself fully with.

2. Lack of friendships, the people you spend your time with and feel connected to.

3. Lack of community, a bigger group and purpose you feel a part of.

Crucially, he pointed out that it's still possible to feel lonely, even if you only have one of those types of loneliness, and even in moments that are also ones of great joy.

I thought back on those lunchtime sprawls. We were a community, we were friends, but most of us were too afraid to trust each other, or lacked models of healthy vulnerability, and couldn't become truly close. I remember reaching out again and again to lackluster or lacking reciprocity outside of the space of lunch hours. I had friends. I had community. But my life lacked closeness, as so many of ours did.

Still, looking back, those lunch gatherings hold a sacred space in my heart despite it all. We built our own joy amidst loneliness and pain, and even if things still hurt while we laughed, we laughed amidst tragedy. And we laughed together.

Joy Amidst Pandemic

This month has been a jarring study in contrasts. It feels like the world outside my living room is descending into chaos while my own life transforms in unexpectedly wholesome ways. Watching the world be wracked by pandemic reminded me that no tomorrow is ever guaranteed, and that's led to me pursuing goals I might have delayed in the past. Whatever happens, I want to know I stepped into my present with all of myself.

In doing so, I've opened the door to so many magical moments. I got engaged to a man I love deeply and who loves me with the same love and intensity. I've had the thrilling whirlwind of applying for a promotion at my workplace, and watching my career goals grow and progress, along with my confidence in myself and my own capabilities. I've kept a steady 4.0 at my college, and I won the first writing competition I've had the courage to enter since I was a child. Life is growing in magical, wonderful ways, and I can't help but wonder if I would have found this much joy if I hadn't looked mortality in the face through pandemic. In the darkest of times, I sought hope and joy and a future. And, more than anything, I sought to live true to myself and my goals.

How will you step into the present with your whole self today?

Engaged

This past week has been a whirlwind. On April 11, I proposed to my partner. He said yes. Every ounce of my being has been radiating joy since that moment.

I feel so incredibly lucky to have him in my life. I didn't know it was possible to feel joy like this, or safety, or to have someone reciprocate all the sweet gestures that I make as a matter of course without treating it as a burden. I hadn't grown along with someone like I have with him before, in ways that made us both stronger and better and more confident people. We trust each other. We love each other. And we communicate.

I wrote all my feelings for him in a poem, and titled it Symbiosis. On Saturday, I shared it with him.

"I didn't understand symbiosis until I met you.
I had forgotten what a scale looked like when it was balanced,
how kindness returned can almost feel like floating.
I had never tasted safety until I kissed your lips,
never grew better for the growth I granted others.

Then there was you, and the way you looked at me.
The feel of your hand in mine, the thoughtful gifts:
Art for art, love for love. I grew stronger every smile,
started dreaming of your touch, started dreaming
of forever. I didn't know that I could love like that.

Love like a steady rock in a storm, like roots
growing intertwined, like fairy tales, only better,
because we talk through our fights and grow closer.
Love like holding each other up in rough seas of life,
because the world is sometimes stormy,

but our love is all sunlight. Love like vitality,
like a wash of warmth revitalizing my life,
like "I can do anything with you by my side."
Love like a ring glimpsed in a dream
of a future I am grabbing with all of my heart.

I didn't understand symbiosis until I met you.
Now I can't imagine life without you by my side.
All this a metaphor-heavy way to tell the story of
the four words pounding in my every heartbeat.
'Will you marry me?'"

As I read the last line, I dropped to one knee and pulled out a ring.

The moment he said yes ranks as one of the best moments of my life, but it wouldn't have been possible without the time and trust and love we'd built. I've been thinking a lot today about all the little moments we were there for each other, and how it feels to be confident in love. To be better for knowing and loving someone, just as they are for knowing and loving you. I've been thinking about how we could be confident in each other because we had the hard conversations, and we did our best to always do so in a way that made both of us feel safe while still being honest with each other.

I've been thinking about how love alone isn't enough, but love and effort and reciprocity, communication and trust and compatibility... all those things can build a home in someone else's heart. I'm glad I didn't settle for less than that joy.

Rules For Myself: Forming a New Normal

It's strange how quickly a new normal can begin. COVID-19 feels like it's running rampant through the world around me, and I'm trying to stay in my house whenever I'm not at work. My coursework has moved online, and so I see no one but my cat five out of seven days a week.

At first it was brutally isolating, and I felt twitchy and very alone. But over time, with the help of a few rules for myself, things have begun to change.

The first rule is to get dressed every day. It's very easy to just crawl back in bed and sink into depression sleep if I don't force myself to insert some normalcy through putting on clothes.

The second rule is to reach out and tell a few people I appreciate them every day. This primes my brain for joy, and sets me up to see what I appreciate about people and the world. It also gives me a chance to connect with other human beings, which helps with the isolation.

The third rule is to set at least one goal for something to achieve. It gives me direction and a vague sense of structure, two things that are always integral to my personal mental health.

Do you have any rules for yourself that are helping you get through the days?

Day of Blooms

This Sunday (March 15) is one of my favorite holidays, and it’s one you’ve probably never heard of. I invented it about a year ago, as part of a series of quarterly holidays. This will be my second Day of Blooms, and I’m excited.

So what is the Day of Blooms? How do you celebrate it? There are three parts to that celebration.

Part one is serving nature. Whether you pick up trash at a park, plant a tree or garden, volunteer for an ecological cause, or something entirely different, do something on March 15 to make the Earth a better place to be.

Part two is to look back over the last two months and make a list of joys and successes. What positive decisions have you made? How have you grown? What are you most proud of yourself for? Big or small, write down those moments that lift you up.

Part three is goal setting. You looked back for joys and successes. Notice the themes in the things that raised you high, and look forward into the next three months to set your goals. What do you want to achieve? How can you get there? What can you do today to start toward those goals? Big or small, envision some things for the future.

Then make them bloom.

Do you have any personal holidays you celebrate? Share them below, and let me know if you decide to celebrate the Day of Blooms as well!

Self Love as Practice

I've noticed in the last few months, even as I've undergone some very real trauma at times, that my confidence in my own self-worth has not wavered. For me, this was a revelation. I spent much of my life struggling with severe flashbacks, anxiety, and depression, and I couldn't summon a clear sense of who I was, let alone love that person. To be at a place where not only could I have a strong personal identity but also a powerful love for myself is something that I could barely imagine in the past.

I've spent a lot of time pondering how I went from there to here, and one thing in particular stood out to me: self love as practice.

Self love is a skill. Like any skill, though, it requires practice to master and practice to retain. That is good news, though, because even if it's hard to get there, it can be learned. It is not beyond your reach.

When I was a child, I made sacred a belief that every day was a fresh start. I believe that any moment can be a fresh start now, but sunrises will always have a special significance to me.

On the darkest days, my brain heard all kindness as mockery, even from myself. Those were the days I would go to bed early, seeking the next sunrise. Clinging to that bit of light kept me alive.

I still kept trying. It was slow going at first. I overanalyzed every kind thought and kind word. I could leech all the joy from it within a matter of minutes. But I felt that joy for a few minutes.

Wake up, try again. Another kind word, or even just a neutral one. The joy lasted a little longer. Sleep, wake. A new day.

There were set-backs, of course. There were the bleak days, and the days the loathing returned. I'd spent so long being treated as less than human. It's hard for that not to take root, and even flourish. It definitely doesn't go away overnight. But gradually, sunrise by sunrise, they happened less often.

Gradually, sunrise by sunrise, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, confidence became a more frequent companion. Eventually the days where I loved myself even began to outnumber the days where I didn't. Then they became the norm.

If you remember only one thing from this, remember this: Every second of that struggle was worth it.

I shouldn't have had to face that struggle. No one should. But every second I fought for myself, every second I fought for self-worth, self-love, and self-acceptance was worth it. Every fall and setback, to sit here, knowing I do deserve to exist and find joy... That was worth the pain. I can't imagine what life would have been like if I hadn't faced decades of trauma, but the past is the past. I am not there any more. I am safe. And I know my own worth.

And you can learn yours.

Conversations, Gratitude, and Healing

I've been slowly listening through the archives of The Tim Ferriss Show over the past few years, and one of the things he said about interviewing has stuck with me for quite a while. When talking about interviewing, he spoke of how he looks at interviews and chooses questions, and said that (paraphrasing) what he seeks in interviewing is to uplift people. It left me thinking about how I approach conversations in my own life.

I think if there is one aspect of my life that fills me with the most gratitude, it's that people seem to feel safe confiding in me. I don't know if it's because I'm often willing to be vulnerable and open about my imperfections, or if it's something in my presence or just that I'm there and willing to listen, but people seem to share their deepest wounds with me, often in our first conversations.

I am always awed and honored when I hear someone, after spilling out a particularly painful moment, tell me, "You know, I've never told anyone that before." Getting to witness that first moment of beginning to heal is a feeling unlike any other. The incredible strength it takes to share something so deeply aching is awe-inspiring, and hearing people's voices recognize their own courage with awe is a gift I hope I never view as anything but wondrous.

We all have wounds, me included, and I feel incredibly fortunate to play a part in so many journeys toward healing.