I honestly don’t know what I’m feeling right now. And it’s a weird sensation for me, because I’ve been doing so much work on recognizing, naming, investigating, and understanding my emotions. But shit, whatever it is, it’s unsettling.

For me, the excitement and exhilaration of a big, inspiring project is only one step away from anxiety and fear over needing to control it. I want every detail to be perfect. For the words to tell the exact right story, for the visuals to evoke the exact right emotions. And I’m afraid that if I’m not intricately involved, something will inevitably go wrong. When I get into a place like this, my anxitement doesn’t just affect me—it affects my team, too.

Coming home, this time, doesn’t feel constrictive or oppressive. It doesn’t feel like I have to revert back to old personas or reactive ways of behaving, and that some other, more angsty version of myself needs to emerge in order to get through it. Instead, coming home this time just feels like I’m visiting.

If I hadn't been digging deep on my own needs and emotions for the past 2+ years...if I hadn't been practicing meditation... if I hadn't been able to recognize that I wasn't in an emotional state to help my daughter at the beginning of her breakdown...if I hadn't shown myself compassion for that...and if I hadn't trusted my husband enough to ask for what I needed from him…I wouldn't have been able to help her.

“Much of what makes a book ‘good’ is that we are reading it at the right time for us.” This is a quote from a book of bookmarks I recently bought for a friend. A beautifully designed collection, each page with a quote or a thought to not only mark the passage of pages, but also spark a little extra inspiration or curiosity along the way.

As my husband and I kept talking and connecting, I felt a sense of calm and acceptance that was honestly a bit foreign to me. I typically feel like no one really knows or sees me, him included. But here we were, talking about things from our past, with no pretense, no agenda, just exploring each other, and the connection flowed like nectar. I saw him, and myself, in a beautifully different light.

My parents were always incredibly overprotective of me, or over-restrictive in what I could do, partly because of my dad’s Orthodox Jewish observances, and partly because of my mom’s…well, I really don’t know why. Either way, I felt like I missed out on a lot of normal kid things. Even when I was in high school, my mom didn't let me go to parties with my friends because she didn't trust the other drivers on the road, or the other parents, or the other kids. “I trust you,” she’d say. “It's everyone else I worry about."

Except...that’s not how it felt.

The first assignment I did with my coach was Inner Goddess visualization exercise. I was supposed to listen to a meditation track and imagine my Inner Goddess, or Spirit Guide, recognizing and showing me all of the best parts of myself. I tried so many times and couldn’t do it.

Until I met the Wind, on November 13, 2021.

Here I am, with a daughter who is experiencing so much of the emotional confusion that I did at her age (and then some), even though I’m doing everything I can to help. I’m taking everything I’ve learned from all of my own inner-work, and trying to walk alongside her as she navigates her experience. But sometimes it feels like it’s not enough.

For the next 8 hours, I do not need to think about, take care of, chauffeur, make food for, or otherwise consider anyone other than myself. Do you know how often that happens? Almost never. (Well, I guess technically once a quarter.)

What I learned about gratitude as a kid was that being grateful equalled feeling guilty. Gratefulness was a guilt trip that only served to remind you of how much worse things could be.

It’s no wonder I have such a hard time with it now.

How is it possible that one of the things I want most for myself (and have been lacking for most of my life)—physical affection—is also one of the things I’m most resistant to giving to (or accepting from) the people I love?

After my initial gut reaction to emotionally-bypass the 50+ contemplations that Olivera poses in her book, I went back and decided that skipping them was chicken-shit. I’ve come too far to get scared-off by some deep soul searching. So my challenge to myself is to work though these contemplations, one by one, and see what arises.

Maybe it’s because I’m nearing 40, but I get more joy from seeing my team nail a presentation, or get a major concept approved, than I do from creating work of my own. They’re what’s rewarding for me. Helping them grow, and learn, and keep rekindling that spark, time and time again.

“What if what you’re feeling right now doesn’t mean that there’s something wrong? What if this isn’t apathy—it’s not that you’re not caring or motivated—but that there’s nothing on fire for you to get swept-up in? What if what you’re feeling is ‘being grounded?’”

Sometimes I’m fine with not finishing things, like all the books I’ve half-read. I feel a sense of growth and accomplishment in being able to let those go. But other things…they nag me. I feel regret and sadness. I wonder what would have happened if I had finished them, and if I ever will.

A few compassionate reminders, courtesy of Instagram.

I started working with a life coach right around the same time I stopped seeing a regular therapist. In a lot of ways, I feel like it’s been a much better fit for me. Less talking about the past, more focus on the present and the future. But I’ve replaced more traditional therapy with therapizing myself. And I am definitely not qualified for any of that shit.

After finding some space to breathe, and to rest, up at the mountain this past weekend, I’ve been thinking a lot about all the different versions of my selves that show up at different points in time. Not “Myself,” the singular entity with a capital M, but my “selves,” in multiples, and all lowercase.

The idea of “purpose” has become so all-pervasive in our society that not only has it lost its original meaning—one’s intention, or the reason that something exists—but its been so completely hijacked by capitalism and hustle culture that (I believe, anyway) it’s become more of a confinement than a calling.