Christmas Eve I found myself sobbing in the shower, begging my beloved Grandma Joyce to give me the strength that she didn't have in this life to push forward. All day long thoughts of wanting to leave this earth thrashed around in my mind; not because anything was horrendously wrong but because I let the stories brew like a hurricane.


Over the past few months I'd been standing out among the cloudy sky as it got darker, gluing bricks down, smiling, pretending I couldn’t feel the wind. Each brick was inscribed with my internal dialogue:


“I'm so tired but I'm still not doing enough."

Spreading mortar on the brick and placing it perfectly on my neat row...

“I’m being selfish and lazy. Maybe if I just get the house in order, perfectly clean every day, we’d all feel happier, calmer and kinder.”

Plop. Another brick.

“If I just book more clients, our budget can breathe, I can breathe.”

Squish. Another brick.

"My art feels stale now because it's forced. I'm not creative or inspired enough."

Thud. Another brick.

“Other women can manage kids, a business, a home and friendship, why am I suffocating?”

Slam. Another brick.

"Too chaotic, needy and desperate for other women to truly want to be my friend. And clearly too insecure.”

Before I knew it, I'd boxed myself in with cold, hard walls, closing off from any true connection or meaning.


The hurricane that occurred Christmas Eve was necessary. It uprooted my self-imposed prison, not just ripping away the walls, but shredding my heart open. My grandmother must have heard me, because the moment my husband entered the bathroom, I fell to the shower floor while mustering the strength to barely mutter the ugliest, darkest lies my mind was having me believe; that everything is pointless and my family would be better off without me.


Ideations aren't foreign to me. 2019 was the first time I faced them. I got help immediately. I'd be lying if I said wishes of not existing didn't cross my mind on a monthly basis (thank you, hormones), but they hadn't gone as far as morphing into the how's, when's, where's and why's. In these two instances however, I remembered the heartbreak my sweet grandma left behind and this time I remembered the commitment I made in 2019 to not ever let that be my own fate and heal the story. I don't know why my grandmother felt so heavy that she couldn't stay, I don't know her exact feelings and things she personally faced. I sometimes wish I had a journal of hers to read, but knowing what I know about her and her life, and the challenges and feelings I face in my own, I can only imagine.


My grandmother has been showing up in my life a lot this past year. I feel her in the seemingly coincidental moments. Like when doing an art therapy practice on generational trauma and the maternal line, creating a collage from magazines at the Sedona retreat I helped to facilitate, where I saw my grandmother in the image of a dancer collapsing and could almost hear her say to me, "The demands, the weight of expectations, it was all too much." And then I look up and notice a large photograph hanging in plain sight in June's home that I hadn't noticed before; it was the same photo.

Whatever the weight she carried, I choose to release my own burdens for her. I choose to heal the tendency to suffer in silence for her. I choose to heal the fear of speaking up for her. I choose to heal the habit of putting others' thoughts, feelings and needs above my own. I feel and see what effect her absence has left on her family and I choose to stay for my own.


...


As my amazing husband talked me through the hurricane and it passed, I was able to settle back into reality. After some much needed rest over the following weeks, I reflected on the rubble. How do I move forward? How can I really heal this story and not come to this place again? Where am I not honoring myself, my needs and desires?


In truth, I don't have all the answers. I've still faced chronic existentialism and feelings of intense apathy over the past 3 weeks (obviously nothing is ever healed overnight). However, I do have hints and sign posts showing the way as I've returned to the essentials of self care (hydration, sleep, nutrition, routines, movement, presence with the breath and ritual), listening to the Audiobook, Pussy: A Reclamation by Regina Thomashauer and seeing a chiropractor/witch doctor who I swear is magic and in one session opened me up to freeing up more energy each day. I've also had to just disappear from the world and my business on some level to free up space for myself to just be.


In simply taking care of my basic needs, I'm reminded of my greatest teacher in all of it: sensuality. While the world is chasing after their hardcore new years resolutions, I'm devoting the next period of healing to sensuality and remaining consistent in my self-care. I feel most myself when I include sensuality in my routine and in returning to my senses and the present moment, I remember I'm more than my thoughts and that I deserve to enjoy this precious life. I tend to be my own cruelest tormentor when I'm numb and disassociating, but when I feel the tingles on my skin, the breath in my lungs and joy in my heart, I remember to give myself permission to slooooooow down and be kinder to myself.


With that said, I've taken my foot off the gas and have chosen to host some soft experiences this month to reconnect with my community of sisterhood to be reminded that we're not alone. One experience is the women's circle at Beetle Bodega (in partnership with Innate Wisdom Circle) and the other being a collaborative Goddess Gathering (by invitation only for the time being, as I need a break from the pressure of marketing).


If you made it this far, thank you for taking the time to hear me.


Xo,

Sarah