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

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.

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.

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

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?

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?

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.

Looking Forward: My Third Decade

I turned thirty on the 30th, and I'm excited. Maybe not the normal reaction, but I've always loved the symbolism of new decades. There's so much opportunity inherent in the beginning of something, whether the beginning of a year, a decade, or a journey.

While the future is never predictable and always open to change, here are a few things I want to pursue in my next decade of life, both big and small:

• Researching trauma. Recently, I located a research opportunity that I plan to apply for. If I'm accepted, I'll be doing research on trauma in veterans.

• Graduating with my four-year degree. I am currently studying for a degree in Nonprofit Management.

• Living internationally. Right now, my dream destination is the Netherlands.

• Building a piece of furniture. There's a deck chair I've been wanting to build for a while now.

• Work with folks with complex trauma. I've found a calling in the work I do at a complex trauma shelter in my area, and I want to continue that for the foreseeable future.

• Honor my relationships. I place a lot of value on the people in my life, and I want to continue to grow those relationships that matter most to me.

What are some of your goals in the present? What are some you're working toward over time?

The Road Ahead

I spend a lot of time living in potential. I like to ensure I have a direction to steer me forward. Something to walk into, if you will. Sometimes, though, I'm hit with the realization that those futures, glorious as they may be, only come when I act.

Dreaming is easy. Doing is where the effort comes in, so here are two long-held dreams I commit to this month.

1. I will launch my Patreon.

   For the last year or more, I've been dreaming of starting a Patreon page for The Gayly Nerd. In the past months, I've had people offering to support me through one. But, silly as it seems, the idea of creating an introduction video has terrified me too much to act. No more. By February 14, 2020, my Patreon will be live.

2. I will schedule an international trip.

   From the ages 17-19, I traveled to a variety of countries and continents. In the last 11 years, I have traveled to exactly 0. Although I have moved across the United States, I haven't left its borders, and I'm convinced I've grown less for it. New countries, cultures, and languages give so many opportunities to grow and challenge yourself. By February 14, I will have booked a ticket to visit one of the many countries I've fantasized about seeing for the last 11 years.

What dreams will you act on this month?

Photo © 2019 James Avery Fuchs
Flagstaff, Arizona

What I Gained from Goodbye

Sometimes walking away is the most courageous thing you can do.

Over the last two months, I've walked away from some of the most significant relationships of my life. So many of the people I was building my future around are gone from that future, and sometimes the ache in my chest is so strong it feels like I've been hollowed out. Even in those moments that double me over with heartache, though, I'm still fiercely grateful I had the courage to walk away.

There were so many months of sobbing in my room, terrified and aching and feeling desperately alone before these past two months of goodbyes. So many days and nights in doctors offices and hospitals. But what I remember most clearly of those months is the fear that there would be nothing left if I walked away. No friends, and no future. No me.

What I found on the other side of goodbye, though, was something so much different. I found possibility and light. I found joy and strength. I found an uncharted wilderness of opportunity to create a future I wanted to live in, rather than a steady march of survival through a parade of longest nights. More than anything, I found myself.

When I said the painful goodbyes, I didn't walk away from the future. I stepped into it fully for the first time. Because every one of those goodbyes was also a hello. To possibility. To hope. To asserting my own worth. And every closed door also opened space in my life for new things: joy, growth, and intentionality.

With a loving heart and strong boundaries, I design my future each day. And every time that pain strikes, I look forward, and smile.

Lessons Learned from Poetry

I took a bath the other day, dropping a fizzing bath bomb into the water, redolent of cucumber and green tea, and just soaked, thinking. Sometimes moments like these make all the difference.

I thought about a lot of things, but poetry, more than anything, lingered on my brain. Poems are such a beautiful art form, and like any art, the deeper you dive, the more ways there are to learn and grow.

Poetry taught me about the power of telling a story in a handful of words, and how doing so can bring people closer. It was forming connections between seemingly unrelated topics in poems that that taught me how to forge connections between myself and those very different from me.

Poetry also taught me even deeper lessons. When I first heard some of Guante's poems on consent and rape culture, I finally had words for sexual trauma I endured, and was able to start to heal. Listening to Emi Mahmoud taught me about genocide in a much more visceral way than I'd ever experienced. Poetry allowed me glimpses into lives very different than my own, and in doing so, gave me new lenses to re-examine my own life and connect with others in healthier ways.

I credit poetry, and writing in general, with a large part of my survival.

What poems or poets changed your life and yourself for the better?

Learning to Say No, Part 2: Start Small

But reframing only goes so far. "No" is still a hard sentence to say, and like any skill, it needs practice. So how do you start?

Start small.

"Do you need a glass of water?"

"No. Thank you, though."

"I love this book! I think you'd like it too. Do you want to borrow it?"

"I appreciate the offer, but no."

Once you're used to saying "No" to smaller things, try with something a little bigger.

"Can you give me a ride to work today?"

"No, got a doctor appointment. Sorry."

Practice saying "No" when you feel it, and it'll get easier to give your "Yes" meaning.

Enthusiastically choose your life.

Learning to Say No, Part 1: Reframing

In a world dominated by expectations and external pressures, saying no can be as terrifying as it is important. This can be especially true for women or feminine appearing folks, whose "No" is often used as justification for violence by others. While safety is important, the skill of saying no in the face of pressure is vital, even if it's only utilized in safer situations.

But how do you learn to assert your "No" when the world around you wants you to do the opposite? Aren't you letting folks down?

The first step is to reframe how you view the act of saying "Yes." When you answer "Yes" to something you dread, aren't you less enthusiastic? Do you speed through the task and wonder where time went? Or do you dread it, drag your feet and complain while doing it, and feel miserable and grumpy, rather than engaged with the task and the people you are doing it with?

Now think about the last time you said a "Yes" you meant with all of your heart. How did it feel to say?

How much does your "Yes" mean if it's said when you really want to say "No" instead? The more you say "No" when feeling it, the more honest and meaningful your "yes" becomes.

Wants vs. Actions

One of the most important things I've learned from my boyfriend is the importance of acting with the long-term in mind. In the past, this is something I've struggled with. Sometimes it's easy to fall into the "want" trap and get things that bring me joy in the moment, but don't sustain that or further my goals. Instead, I want to build my future deliberately. While I don't deprive myself of joy as a whole, I try to pick the joys that further me, and to put aside what little I can toward those. I remind myself of this goal with a mantra: "Wants are temporary. Actions are not."

What joys can you bring to your life that benefit you in the long-term? What actions can you take today toward your goals?

Grow and Release

No one is perfect, and neither are our circumstances, but as humans, there is a very real tendency to find shame or blame in mistakes and perceived failures. Neither of these are productive. Blame is an attempt to control that which is out of our control: the actions of others. This infringes upon the autonomy of others. Shame is holding yourself to unrealistic standards of performance and reframing problems with your behavior as problems within your fundamental identity, therefore removing them from your control.

There are other options in response to mistakes and failures, however, and perhaps the most useful is that of growing and releasing. Instead of shaming yourself for your mistakes, learn from them and thank them for what they taught you, then let them go. If someone else makes a mistake that affects you, learn from it. Take the new things you've learned and change or stop your own interactions accordingly, and as you move past the instance, know that you are stronger and more aware for what you have learned.

What is a mistake or failure you have grown from and past? What is one you want to grow and release from?