Reflections: The act of writing, the power of story, and your inner child.
Welcome back! It’s been one month since shifting priorities, and I wanted to share some honest reflections transparently about the writing process. Initially, the withdrawal from social media and re-channeling of creative energies helped me to organize my story, build a table of contents as an outline, and produce a gripping prologue. There was new energy, excitement, and momentum. However, I’ll be honest, the reality of showing up for the work has not been so successful. In the aftermath of our wedding, an immersive love extravaganza witnessed and experienced with family and friends, I’ve found it easier to turn away from the industriousness of grinding out sentences and pages, and instead, turn towards those people and priorities, reflecting back on the fun and joy of celebrating love. I’ve noticed that instead of committing to the act of writing, I will often drift to simpler tasks - answering emails, jumping on calls, sending texts, and smaller to-do’s that I can complete easily. Checking the boxes became the priority, and the easy win. It felt much more palatable than the slow, continuous act of not writing enough. With writing, when a chapter feels like the box to check, it’s easy to get judgmental about my “daily failings.” Which means, distractions are prevailing and writing is flailing. But, this awareness is giving me an opportunity to recommit to both my discipline and the practice.
Committing to the act of writing has also been an incredible opportunity to discover what kind of writer I am. What works and what doesn’t. More importantly, these little “failures” are a reminder to reinforce my character - what kind of a person I am. John Wooden, one of the most successful basketball coaches of all time, describes the cornerstones of his Pyramid of Success as: industriousness and enthusiasm. I get to show up for the work - hard work - with enthusiasm. Ultimately, showing up and giving it my best every time is all that can be asked of anyone. Despite all the recommendations on “how to write,” I’ve had to discover what works for me. As frustrated as I have been in certain aspects of the writing process, I am also grateful for learning what does and doesn’t work for me. A great metaphor for life.
The purpose of my writing has never been to indulge in my personal story, but to share my experience, strength, and hope. That is the gift and the reminder of why I chose to write. We all experience strength and struggle as part of the human experience. We all have our stories and unique circumstances, but we also have the capacity and power to derive meaning from our experience. We haven’t failed until we stop trying or start blaming and making excuses. Story has the power to heal, to create connection through shared experience, to invite in inspiration and a willingness to change, and to build language that translates and simplifies the ambiguity or complexity of our own unique challenges. I’ve always aspired for my story to be an invitation for anyone to dive deeper into their own healing.
“We haven’t failed until we stop trying or start blaming and making excuses.”
The process of writing is something I could outsource to a ghost writer, but the act of writing is a practice of discovery. Many insights occur when we ponder and reflect about our life and our experiences. It is an opportunity to define and refine meaning from the moments in our life that range from painful to pleasurable. And so, I persevere on. To extract any and all meaning so that we as a community can grow together through the power of story.
Without further ado, I want to share with you a small excerpt (first draft) from an early chapter focused on my family of origin. For context, this event occurred when I was six years old. It may not be exactly what happened, but that is beside the point. It is how I remember it; how I’ve held it in both my mind and body. Me at this age – six years old – is how I envision, interact, and support my inner child. Inner child work is something I learned about from the Hoffman Institute and mastered through shadow work with my dear friend, Kristan Sargeant. For those clients who have worked with us, a regular practice we encourage is helping clients to identify and nurture their inner child. It is an opportunity to reparent and heal the traumas of our past. The inner child is often a bellwether to the circumstances around our developmental trauma and the conditioned beliefs and behaviors that emerge as consequence. It can often help us to discover and name our deepest core shame beliefs as well. The experience shared below helped me to discover the origin of my core shame belief, “I am not enough.”
"The inner child is often a bellwether to the circumstances around our developmental trauma and the conditioned beliefs and behaviors that emerge as consequence."
Excerpt from Heal it Before it Happens: Creating the Conditions for Love and Light to Shine:
“Like many memories prior to that day, I have a hazy recollection about the objective facts, but a visceral connection to the emotions I experienced. My mom and dad were a united front. I remember them sitting my brother and I down to talk. I remember the cold tile on the bottom of my feet as we walked from the entry hall to the brown carpet of the living room. My mom sat cross-legged on the carpet with me in her lap. My dad on the couch with my brother next to him. The formality was unsettling; I nervously ran my fingers and toes through the carpet. Neither parent had spoken a word yet, but there was something in their faces and body language that worsened the growing pit in my stomach. My dad opened in a soft, solemn tone, almost a whisper. I’d become familiar with this tone several times over our lifetime together, this is the place he landed when he was in deep pain. “Your mom and I are going to separate…”
After that I don’t recall what anyone said. My mind went blank, their voices started to muffle, I felt myself dissociating from the experience. I remember feeling outside of my body searching their faces for reassurances. I saw the tears on both of my parents' faces, my brother contracted inward with matching tears. I gave my attention to the carpet – it was neutral with its soft fibers. It didn’t hurt me or make me cry harder. My brother and I were lost and confused, our attachment to our parents suddenly ripped apart. We are drifting, searching, trying to find something to attach to. “Who are we going to live with?” They tried to reassure us that we would see each other frequently and often. The encouraging message didn’t match the fear and sadness we were all experiencing. It didn’t land. How could it when you’ve lost your foundation?
I don’t know how long that moment lasted, but it felt like time concurrently expanded and contracted, lasting both an eternity and a fraction of a second. I don’t know where I slept, if I was by myself, with my brother, or a parent. But, I do remember feeling alone. Not alone like your friends are busy on a Friday night and you have to entertain yourself. Alone in the sense that everything I knew and trusted had abruptly been stripped away. Alone in the sense that I was naked in the world and left to fend for myself. The foundation and safety I knew no longer existed. My connection to my parents suddenly gone, and with it, the visceral sense of security that comes from being intimately connected to them.”
Thank you for your time and attention. If there is anything that resonates here, please don’t hesitate to reach out and share. Stay tuned for more excerpts and insights. I’m grateful for each and every one of you.