Who am I now? Today, I’m taking to meditation and aura photography to find out.

I’m on a mission to let myself be seen today. In an hour, I’ll pay a stranger $36 to rest my hands on electromagnetic plates, stare into their camera’s black eye, and drop the walls to my inner world. Every part of me is welcome in this photo: every flash of shame and sex appeal, guilt and greed, every gash and wound and shining star in my energy field that tell the visual story of who, exactly, I am today.

I shuffle onto the Manhattan-bound Q train. I take my seat, first noting where my outer world met my inner against the cool bright yellow plastic before I drop deep into my own inner world.

Immediately, trauma memories flood my heart space. Flashes of a devastating relationship breakdown, amid a previous partner’s mental health crisis. Memories surfaced of the conflict that began nearly two years ago: watching this beloved person struggle to contend with the difference between trauma and trigger. Memories of taking myself to my own therapist frantically: does this happen? I begged her to answer the world’s most unanswerable question: Why?

There are some events in our lives that create such meteoric craters in our hearts — our sense of emotional safety, sovereignty — that impact our ongoing ability to believe in what others say when they tell us they love us; our willingness to believe them when they claim they love themselves. These events can take years for our bodies to comprehend. My body is contending with the anniversary – a date my mind didn’t even clock. Now two years out, I’m waking up to the true magnitude – a truly seismic impact – of the day I learned that my partner’s new therapist was fanning the flames of her relational trauma wounds, rather than helping her understand the difference between a traumatic event and a trigger.

There’s still evidence of the heartbreak, in here — the ways in which my own ability to love and trust were impacted by this clinical negligence, that became the end of a relationship I thought would last a lifetime. This grand unfurling I feel in my chest now pays tribute to the love I gave then, the peace I was able to glean through the madness and shock of loss, and every loving interaction I experienced in its wake. These parts of my heart in movement may have thought they died that day, but they now strap on bikinis, sing at full volume on the sidewalk, and dutifully hoist the rest of my body around on a Pilates reformer (non-simultaneously). In other words – these parts are well, and they’ve made a full recovery.

There are other parts of my heart that froze that day, and have yet to be thawed. They cower and collect dust in that cavernous impact zone, waiting for an agitator to activate them, so they can react, grieve, and ultimately be set free.

While the rest of my body patiently awaits their spontaneous arrival, I can anticipate their behavior: them with their amenable parts on parade of devastation, likely sobbing, feeling both abandoned and neglected and sure that their perceived brokenness will be the very reason they die. When the fateful day comes for them to reveal themselves, and we begin our process of recovering together, I’ll greet them with a cup of tea, a hug, and a song. Until then, I’ll be here: meditating on the train with a backpack full of journals, Lena Dunham’s Famesick, and an herbal cigarette en route to my aura photographer.

Growing more comfortable with this ongoing, weighty churning in my chest, my throat catches my attention. Ah, I let the insights come in. My body just made me aware of a subtle link here: I know that the photograph taken of me today will contain both the grief still echoing in the caves of my heart, and also my throat’s unique blocks, coping with the lingering fear and shame that prevents me from telling this story fully. I wonder if the photograph will show the block that I feel choking me here, coiling my throat like a boa constrictor.

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My attention drops to my root. My left butt cheek on the yellow plastic subway chair, my right hovering just above: my crossed legs cramping and numbing under the wait of an adult body trying to fold in on itself. As if contorting my root and sacral chakras into knots will spare me any part of coping with what she did to my body, there; as if her sexual ritual to dissociate and disregard my “no’s” hadn’t eroded the strength of my sense of safety, or etched messages of worth within walls of my vulva. Messages that I can now only rewrite through deep meditation like this, and/or safe, loving sex with my current partner.

I take a breath and ask myself: Is there any ease I can invite to this part of my body today? I consciously uncurl my legs, and evenly distribute my weight between my feet on the subway floor. Noticing my attention shift between my hips, and knowing there’s more work needed here — I put on a root chakra healing frequency, through Spotify. I briefly grapple with the guilt pooling in my gut — how can I divest more from Israel? I need to prioritize this — and allow my attention to remain where it found itself, in the beltline between my root and my ego.

Hey, creative center. Sexual pleasure awaits, whenever I choose to allow it. I shift the music to a sacral chakra healing frequency, and watch as my body sensations shift to the left side of my temporal lobe, with a painful lob and pinch. Ah, so there’s trauma here. I let the shackles between my mind and pleasure center rattle ever so gently, before working my fingers over the dense links, now ready to be studied and dismantled. I call in my guides and angels for help. Can you — ah. They untangle my energy field, immediately. Thank you.

My attention slides back up to my throat. All the times I loved someone and didn’t tell them; wanted someone sorely and never said a word — every unspoken declaration of want and need and hope and love is rotting in the back of it. Feeling the glow of my heart just below, and the newfound strength in my lower chakras, I hum.

I hum until the air circulating in my mouth tastes enough like regret before I drop my jaw, and let the sour breath find its own way out. Like taking out rotting garbage, the relief is immediate. Even if I waited way too long to let the truth out, it’s outside of me, now. My home – my body – immediately smells better. The air is clear, and I can breathe.

Muscle spasms trickle along my spine, as my body integrates this work. Breathing deeply, I wiggle into my newfound posture: rolling my shoulders back, wagging my jaw, and circling my hips. I carry my body off the train and down the sidewalk to my destination: dropped in, clear, and willing to be witnessed, exactly as I am.

I may not know who I am today — who this funky little creature is, about to be photographed in fuller color than most naked eyes can see — but I know they’re freer than they were twenty minutes ago. I know they’re shining a few watts brighter.

Author’s note: After my aura photograph was taken, the lovely photographer asked how I manage to have such a grounded, symmetrical energy field while living in New York City. I assured her that energy work is my vocation, and that tending to energy is pretty much all I do.

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Rest easy, beloveds. We’re in good company.

We endured the darkest days — now, granted fire with the sun’s slow return.
The sun rises, illuminating us; shedding light on a community weary, tired, and hopeful.

We’re all caught off guard — a bit more and less ready than we imagined we’d be, when the time finally came to answer the call.

All our cupboards are a loose mess
our shoes worn, hair misshapen, nails uneven.

All our hearts are grieving and healing
shedding and sparking new, loved, all the same.

All of our mothers are a bit of a problem
our fathers, responsible, just as we are.

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We pour a glass to — perhaps the first generation of — queer and trans folks welcomed home for the holidays.

We raise a glass to those who were not — those who bravely created their own home, crested a new family, and are ushering in the first beloved Theydies and Gentlethems of their lineage, beginning with themselves.

We pour a glass out for our elders, who perished at the hands of the state.
We haven’t forgotten, and we won’t.

We drink water for the recovering alcoholics of our lineage.
Who knows what their hearts longed to be free of?

We cut our hair, for we’re free to release and experiment.
We rest easy, for we love and let love.
We give freely, for we trust it all returns multiplied.

We fear not the future, for we’ll shape it, just so.
We link arms, ready ourselves – body, mind, and soul
For the fire horse before us, after the year of letting go.

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I see your emotions, body sensations — I see the fear you’re gripping in your stomach, the way it churns and coils as you try to digest your life’s experiences.

I see the playful fire that licks at your hips. I see the way it dances, destroying nothing, and creating in its wake. I see where the edges of its flames are snuffed out and choking, beneath the weight of creative criticism, pleasure-robbing, and shame.

I see the joy blooming in the center of your belly, bright yellow flowers that open and close as they feel the heat of resonance. Drawn to sun and sun alone – I see where you shine. Where your energy meets the vital ease of daylight, what your body seeks to feel wanted, assured, and home.

I see the longing, love, and patience blooming in your chest – the chest once organized, wired, and wed to your caregivers in childhood, now reconfiguring itself in a world of your own personal design. Bright greens, purples, and pinks – I see the gold heart within you, and all its resilience against a scarred, mauled surface where it meets the work of the world. I see the hope that lives there; the gentility of your true nature, as a known brethren of all things, sentient and non.

I see the pool of blue cosmic vacuum, swirling at your throat. I see its history – the glories you’ve known when expressing yourself wholly, and all the things you’ve left unsaid, now rotting in the nape of your neck. I see the trickle and shimmer of blue – a sea of sparkles, ash, and dust – that is ready to find its way, up and out, through and into the ears of those patiently waiting to be impacted by your truth.

I see your beliefs, darling dear one. I see your intuitive knowing, your curiosities and skepticisms. I see the knowledge you carry from generations and lives before this one, lurking in the genetic code of your skull like an ancient, well-stocked library.

I see color. Color, texture, sheen – and I hear you, too. I hear the music moving through and of your body, the yells and screams that have gotten stuck in the process of metabolizing great harms and excitement. I hear your marching orders – your soul’s instructions – as you wake up to the depth of your own willingness, and power.

When I look at you, I see parts: an infant, a grandmother, a teenage boy, and a teacher. I see an artist, a worker bee, a saint, and a shadow. I see your birth mother, genetic father, and all those who were more mother and father to them, now alive in you.

When you wiggle on the table – coughing, writhing, or relaxing, as you do – you are releasing all that’s in the way of seeing and hearing yourself clearly. Such that you can see yourself how I see you: infinite, and immaculate. And I – a mirrored channel for the great cosmic kaleidoscope – am awarded the blessing of showing you what I see.

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I dreamt someone was setting a timer, and it could go off at any time. I didn’t know how much time I had, so I had to focus on completing the task at hand: answer the question fully, truthfully, and completely.

The question: what do I feel my purpose is? And how do I know when I’m fulfilling it?

I answered: By loving, and learning. I don’t believe I have a purpose — maybe none of us do. If I do have a purpose, perhaps I’m barred from knowing it. Maybe I do have a purpose and I’ll never know what it is. The best I can hope for is resonance, along the way.

If earth is a school for learning to love — and an extremely difficult school, at that — perhaps the closest I get to living my purpose is being willing to learn lessons in love. And maybe those lessons are linear; maybe they’re cyclical, and often feel as healthy as getting caught in a cyclone. Maybe the best I can do is experience the cyclical lessons, and trust they’re re-do’s from God. Maybe the point is just to learn and be willing, no matter how ‘round and ‘round I go. Be willing to love, each day, better than before. Knowing some days we’ll love worse than before, despite our efforts. And be willing to be willing, again and again.

I have no purpose. My purpose is to be here, do my best; live in accordance with true nature: mine, and that of those around me.

Maybe my purpose is to help others feel like themselves. Maybe it’s to pick my nose.

I’m resigned — and equally, restless — to the idea that maybe I’ll never know. Maybe I’m just out here, living, learning to like it, and learning to love.

Maybe that’s enough. Today it is, anyway.

A falling leaf knows exactly what to do.

A falling leaf doesn’t cling, or wait, or hold out hope, or suspend disbelief. A falling leaf doesn’t pretend we’re in another season, or that there’s anything else to be done. A falling leaf doesn’t fill their day with other activities, chores; they don’t shout to all the twigs and falling leaves below and ask a thousand questions about the surety of their descent.

A falling leaf just, falls. They do it every year.

And when they fall, they protect the ground. They settle into a new role in life: a new job. A task, at hand and at full body length, to be, now, on the ground. To serve as a barrier between the foot of the people and the crust of the earth. To cover the plants, protect them from frost, and, in time, become compost.

A falling leaf is neither happy, nor sad to do it.

A fallen leaf, simply is: a leaf, fallen. A leaf, now on the ground.

The same, and yet by way of detachment, transformed.

When I embrace who I really am, I embrace my ever-shifting status as a fallen leaf, falling leaf, compost, bud, and blossom.

When I am a falling leaf, I am tempted to shout to the world: “HEY!!! I’M ABOUT TO FALL! I’M REALLY SCARED ABOUT IT, AND I NEED YOU TO KNOW! DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! Don’t ask me questions! Ask me more questions! Help me write and make art about it! Don’t offer any opinions or perspectives on my writing or my art! Catch me! Don’t catch me!!!! Let me be brave! Don’t ‘let’ me anything - you’re not involved! This is my journey! Witness me! Be here with me! Do it for me! Don’t do it for me! FALLLLLLLLLLING I’m FALLING.

(falls, looks around) Hey, I fell. It wasn’t that big of a deal. Wasn’t it cool? Did you see that? I bet you weren’t even looking. Why weren’t you looking? Did I look cool? I don’t care how I looked. Stop evaluating how I look. I’m on my period!”

I’m emotional. I’m a human! I’m simply the way I’m meant to be. I only get messy when I resist my nature; when I let fear dictate my actions, rather than flow, and love. So, today, I’ll take directive from the fallen leaves.

I’m a fallen leaf. In my most centered, loving place, here’s what I say:

Dear community,
I fell! It was my time. I love you.
See you down there,
Milo.

I believe I can manage that.

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When I was four years old, I frequently cut my own hair in a tree. I’d tuck a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer into my shorts, singing to myself, sureness of foot carrying me down a dirt walking path to my favorite white oak tree. I’d nestle myself in her low branches, sturdy and accommodating, and sit cross-legged, or sometimes lie on my back. With a carefree snip, I’d introduce new fringe into my world.

I dutifully collected every fallen strand I could, fisting small clumps of white-blonde, stick-straight hair in my left hand. My hair was so light, the sun’s direct shine made it nearly translucent. I remember watching my hair fall and catch the sunlight, and in small moments, look like falling glitter. My palms would go slick with sweat, working in the summer sun, tufts of translucent, shimmering hair in a tight fist, no larger than an apricot. My whole body felt magical as I transformed myself. Tending to myself in this way felt so deeply like self-love, even at that age.

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When I finally felt ready to part with my fallen hair, I’d slowly open my fist and release each bright, sparkly strand to the earth’s floor. My mom once gave me permission to this, offering that maybe the birds would use my hair for their nests. Eager to contribute, I sang to them as I relinquished this material that was once part of my body – there you go.

I still cut my hair in trees, when the moment calls for it. More commonly, my friend Anna cuts my hair now – or at very least, joins me on video chat while I cut my hair myself. Unlike me, she gets it right every time.

Anna is a trained professional, of course, but her work is resonant to the parts of me that seek magic in the process beyond skill alone. Anna is a sensitive creature. Deeply observant, powerfully present – we always begin with a frank discussion of what I want and need, and how I hope to feel about myself. Anna inquires: what are we doing today? What are you liking? What’s bothering you? She listens intently to my responses.

Equally importantly, Anna studies my hair, and learns about my needs from my hair directly. Understanding that my hair is a part of my body, and therefore holds memory of its own — Anna reminds me to center what my body is asking for as my mind, heart, and spirit make some creative choices. Anna’s process pushes me to engage more consciously in the process of self-study, gratitude, and letting go.

In these ways, haircuts remain a sacred ritual to me, and a process of incredible alignment. It’s only until we are all ready – my mind, body (hair), and spirit, and each of Anna’s as well – she reaches for her instruments, and we begin.

Using a myriad of tools, Anna blends everything I want, need, and am growing toward into one singular, transcendent style. It’s always a bit masculine, a bit feminine, punky with soft edges, and honors my natural texture, wave pattern, and cowlicks.

When she’s done, I feel refreshed and look markedly different – better – than I might have imagined on my own. She gives my hair a true style that only I could ever have. We hug goodbye, and I thank her for witnessing me and my growth, and for honoring all of me with her work. I thank her for her hand in my personal embodiment practice: for “helping my outsides match my insides”. I leave, embodied, fresh, invigorated. Hot, and grateful.

May we all have friends, such as these. And may we all cut our bangs as many times as we’d like.

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On Tuesdays, I’m a boy. I like to wake up, throw on a loose, soft and crumpled cotton tee-shirt over my otherwise bare, similarly loose chest. I go go go. Do do do. Play in dirt, make a mess, howl and snort and chortle. Fuck others, as in give and poke and prod for their pleasure. Provide — give, baby, give. I might shave my head, or stink up the room, or protect the community. I’ll avoid the laundry, in favor of doing some thing else — “working”.

But on Sundays — oh, on Sundays. Mondays, too — and on Fridays — I’m a woman. I comb my hair with rose hip oil and cycle seeds to aid my menses. I sing to the moon and I weep. I comb my fingers — lithe and dainty — through loosely tangled trussles of the willow trees. I leave offerings to the fae. I bless them; they take my rocks and jewels, and I giggle. I trust they take only what they need, and I give. For I know, surely on my walk home, I’ll be next to receive.

On Wednesdays, I write. Voice sharpened by Mercury and no gender in sight — I simply let the sun burn, the moon shine, and write all the things I lived in the days before.

Some days according to the sun, others a girl, ruled by luna herself. On Saturdays, I take the day off.

It matters to me — this boy, this girl. They’re together in here — proverbial lovers, holding each other, and on for dear life. Sworn by sacred vow to tend to one another for all eternity.

They’re madly in love. They struggle in marriage — their vows need renewing. But they’re made for each other, ultimately — as all true lovers are.

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It’s my thirtieth birthday, and in honor, I’m inviting my twenty year old over for a chat. I want to see her — it’s been so long. I barely remember the details of her face, her energy, what she likes these days. I’m excited, and some part of me needs to check in with her. I feel a warning must be issued. I want to prepare her – I know I can’t spare her the decade ahead, but I might be able to spare her the shock.

“Michelle?” I invite her. “Sweet girl, come on out.”

Michelle joins me. Lithe, strong, playfully crooked teeth, gorgeous long, blonde waves. She’s beautiful. Her green eyes are bright, though her left a bit dissociated: in and out. But in, when I call her to presence. So very in.

“How are you?” She embraces my thirty-year-old body by way of answering. “Sit sit sit sit sit.”

“First of all,” we say in unison, “Happy birthday.”

Twenty laughs. “Thank you! Woah - so this is—”

“Yep,” I say. “This is thirty.”

“Damn,” twenty circles me - takes me in. “Your boobs are bigger?!”
I roll my eyes, shrug, let out a gruff half-cackle, half-groan. “Oh my God, I know. They never stop growing, apparently. Gravity has its way. Everything just grows—down.”

Twenty finishes her lap around me and returns to her seat, beaming. She sits at attention, and scooches her chair a little closer.

“It’s so nice to see you!” she chimes. “I never imagined being 30!”

“Me neither,” my voice wavers, watching the twenty year old before me take in more of the world around us.

“And are we…in New York?!”

“We’re in Brooklyn, New York, yes.”

Twenty studies the details in her periphery, visibly calculating how we might have ended up here. I laugh to myself at the genius girl before me, readily exercising her imagination and coupling it with calculus. That’s right, I think to myself. Her two favorite things: stories and math. I breathe into the portal of trust and timelessness between us, readying myself to continue.

“Hey Michelle, I…can I pull you for a chat?”

“Pull me?” she says. Oh, right - she hasn’t seen Love Island, yet.

“Talk,” I laugh. “Can we talk about something?”

We settle into chairs facing one another, holding each others’ gaze all the while. Right, I remember. That used to be a very easy thing to do.

“I’m so glad you’re here. There’s something – it’s sort of uncomfortable – there’s something I want to talk with you about. I want to talk about your twenties. Can we do that?”

“Of course!” she chimes. This girl’s a believer.

I steady the energy zipping through my lungs, and begin.

“So — well first, congratulations again on the full ride scholarship. I am so proud of you. I see how hard you’re working: 18 credit hours, working 30 hours a week…I know you’re starting to get tired, and you’re anticipating it all getting much easier soon. I—I want to talk with you about that.

I know you think you’re on track to be a policy analyst for a midsized, progressive city,” I’d offer, gently. “And that you’ll join a new band, buy a safer car when you graduate, maybe get married, become the next Chicago northside Walsh, and complete a triathlon, or something.”

Thirty year old me notices the glow of the twenty year old’s chest at the mention of these things, and clocks the flicker of concern in her brow as I continue, gathering the courage to be honest; direct. I want her to prepare. I want her to have a better shot at making it through, willingness to proceed intact. I want her to make it out of her twenties a believer.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut, I muster the courage to say what I came here to say. “It’s not quite going to shake out that way.

“Instead of enjoying your senior year of college, you’re gonna start graduate school coursework, for reasons you don’t quite understand. You won’t attend your own college graduation, because your dad will serve you papers that morning, and you’ll feel so afraid of existing in public that day that you’ll opt to stay home, instead.

“When you’re 23, you’ll graduate at the top of your master’s program and bring down the house with a commencement speech about who has power, who doesn’t, and why. Then, you’ll move to Chicago, alone, for other reasons you’ll never quite understand.

“You’ll have a few good months there, though your job will destroy your health. You’ll start making friends you love, but then, a global plague will slip through the shadow realm and lock you inside for a few years. You’ll be so confused about your “work” in the world. But, for the first time in your life, you’ll have space and time to figure it out.

“You’ll enjoy the space, in many ways – you’ll learn you like peace and quiet. Mostly, it’ll suck. You’ll cook every meal yourself, wash every dish, and launder everything. You’ll try to navigate being exploited by your job – the very job you thought would be your reward for having worked so hard before. You’ll be so tired and bewildered throughout the whole experience, you’re not sure what'll kill you first: the disease you’re all afraid of contracting, or your own confusion. You’ll be pretty sure one of them will kill you. Neither will.

“Then, for other reasons you’ll never quite understand, you’ll start seeing ghosts everywhere. It’ll be terrifying and awesome and deeply fucking weird, and you’ll fear you’re going into psychosis. You’ll tell your friends, therapist, and neighbors, but most of them won’t believe you. The few who do, will see them too.

“One day, you’ll remember you used to experience the world this way as a child. You’ll remember who you were, then, and all the things that made you, you. You’ll befriend that little person, and you’ll contend with your spirituality and queerness in new ways. You’ll play with trees, gender, and spirits again. You’ll try to bring your spirituality and queerness to your siblings and friends from yesteryear, and most of them will say things that make you feel immediately rejected and unsafe. It’ll break your heart in ways you didn’t know your heart could break. You’ll think it’ll kill you. It won’t.

“Maybe most importantly, you’ll learn that you’re psychic, which is properly weird. You’ll be angry about it, at first. You’ll learn that what you’ve buried and blocked deeply within your own intuition and labeled your “imagination” is actually a force of unbelievable knowing and healing – both for yourself, and others. You’ll fight this knowing for about six years, resisting all its good and power, before it finally breaks loose from the dams inside your mind and spills into every conversation you have.

“You’ll concede, eventually, and study it instead. You’ll be absurdly good at it, all too quickly. You’ll remain quiet about it all, though, terrified of losing more people you love, of ostracization, of enduring persecution the way that many “witches” have before you. You’ll stay awake most nights, wondering what so-and-so would say about you, if they could see you now: the star policy student turned energy healer. You’ll torture yourself with these projections for a couple years, despite your best efforts to allow yourself grace and love as you change. You’ll think it’ll kill you. It won’t.

“Eventually, you’ll learn you can help other people reconnect with themselves, and this will turn the rest of your life to dust. You’ll try, but you’ll never really be able to work in government again. Even when you find other jobs you absolutely love — like a social impact strategy lead in a creative studio — you’ll only be approached to help your vice president channel their deceased grandmother. Then, you’ll get laid off for reasons you’ll never quite understand. And when you find other jobs you believe you’ll love, you’ll hate them, do them anyway, then lose them for reasons beyond your control. And, on the same day you lose them, a small handful of people will ask you to help them connect back to themselves. It will perplex you. It’ll devastate you. You’ll love it.

“You’ll finally concede that you only feel like your realized self when you’re working with someone’s energy field, or when you’re writing. You’ll lean into your business and creative work, purely so you feel like yourself in the world. On your 29th birthday, a team of creatives and literary world people who believe in your work will begin to assemble themselves around you. You’ll finally feel like your life is starting to look and feel like yours, and that you’ve found a way of existing in the world that feels honest and correct.

“As you grow more sure of yourself, what’s left of the world you know will crumble around you. You won’t know cardinal directions, clock time, or routines anymore. The aspects of your life that used to bring you comfort will now feel like cheap plastic pacifiers, and you’ll have to greet each day, unsure where your feet are taking you, feeling a bit more lost and a bit more found than the step before. You’ll never know where you’re going. You’ll think it’ll kill you. It won’t.

“Nearing thirty, you’ll keep helping people, and writing, because — God, what else is there to do?! — and you’ll keep grieving, witnessing the world, writing, and grieving some more. You’ll feel the parts of yourself you thought were gone for good, slowly come back to life. You’ll start to fall out of touch with others. You’ll tend to them each, painstakingly, one by one. You’ll be confronted with pain every day — yours, your client’s, your lover’s, your neighbors’ — and you’ll just have to sit with it. Be with it. There will be no other, healthy alternative. You’ll think it’ll kill you! It won’t!

“And every day, you’ll endure this — this experience of feeling so many painful and wonderful and bewildering things, like you’re nearly dying, until one day, someone with a few more years than you tells you that this particular sort of suffering — this agony of being — is actually what we call ‘living’. And that the more you watch people hurt, the deeper you’ll hurt, and the more you’ll feel like you’re dying — but feeling it, letting that pain move through you, is actually what makes you more alive.

“It’ll suck! It’ll devastate you! And the worst of it is: the deeper pain you’ll feel, the more you’ll be able laugh, and that’ll feel like dying, too, because it’s much like wailing: you’ll lose control of your breath. And you’ll have to practice this — this ‘being alive’ thing, that feels like dying but is actually living — every day. From now, for the rest of your life!”

At thirty, I’m heaving, now. Silence falls between us. Winded, I fix my eyes on twenty and wait for her response, prepared to witness catastrophe.

Twenty nods, doesn’t blink. An easy smile spreads across her face.

“Okay,” she says, breezy and warm.

“What?” I react, voice clipped and confused.

“Okay,” she says nodding, easy and sure. “I trust you.”

At thirty, I’m bewildered. Did she not hear me? Maybe she dissociated halfway through and missed everything I said? I open my mouth to emphasize and insist on my perspective, but I’m interrupted by the twenty year old, raising her hand to my heart—

“Surrender,” she says.

At thirty, I flinch and recoil. She’s telling me to rest, and I don’t want to hear it.

“Die to it,” she says. “This life, that is clearly ours to live, that’s so wildly different than you imagined? Die to it.”

Twenty drops her forehead to mine, hand pressing deeper into my heart. My thirty-year-old body stills. My breath evens. I feel love pouring into me, from the hands and brilliant mind of the girl before me.

“Surrender,” she repeats. “Think it’ll kill you?”

As breezily as she came, twenty drifts herself back into my being like fog. With an effortless promise, she assures: "It won’t.”

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“Tell me now,” they demand, settling across from me, energy squared to mine. “It’s time for frankness.” They lean forward, dropping their chin to hold my gaze, firm and unrelenting. “What is going on?”

The rest of me concedes immediately. I know better than to resist my higher self. It only isolates and disables me further when I avoid their questions.

With a deep breath, I drop my walls. I meet my own gaze unflinchingly, allowing myself to be witnessed by the only person who knows what it’s like to inhabit this mind, body, and spirit.

“I’m terrified,” I respond with equal frankness, as requested. “I’m deeply afraid of being an adult in a fascist state. I feel paralyzed with indecision and being in slow processes—my own, and those of the people around me. I’m losing my ability to cope well, waiting on clear ‘yeses’ from other people; holding out hope for offers and contracts and collaborations that just might never come through.”

My higher self knows there’s more, and so do I.

I start first by decoupling my identity with my emotions. “I feel terrified. I feel terrified of this experience I’m having. I seek guidance: advice, wisdom, instructions from an elder who has survived the descent into fascism and a world war before.

I crave safety and peace. Some semblance of stability—certainty. I’m struggling to create stability and certainty for myself in the context of my reality right now. I’m hungry for a more grounded, consistent, nourishing, reliable daily life.

I feel caught in an experience of survival in a holding tank. As though I’m waiting for some sort of sign—some neon green flashing ‘go’ light: a job offer, an explicit invitation, something externally imposed that tells me ‘this is it, do this, this is right for you.’”

My higher self nods, listening intently, observing the emotional and physical unravelling they prompted.

“And what else do you know?” they ask, as firmly and directly as before, and no less loving. The question surprises me, as does my ease in answering it.

“I know that I am the sign I seek,” I respond without hesitation. I learned the lessons of my twenties. And though my mind often forgets, my body and soul always remember. “My emotions—my desire for more stability, guidance, and care—are all the signs I need. The neon green, flashing ‘go’ light I seek is my own heart, granting the rest of me permission to follow it’s lead.”

My higher self holds their gaze on me, still fixed on witnessing. They nod in understanding and agreement.

“Thank you. Yes!” My higher self is grateful for my trust and honest participation. “This is ‘adulthood’: the bravery of trusting and being led by your energy, feelings, and emotions. Your call to courage is to believe and trust in yourself as your own, best guide.”

My higher self reclines, continuing the conversation with renewed trust that they’re speaking with an adult who cares for themself. They reach for a pitcher of water, their gaze still fixed on the rest of me, and continue. “Do you trust yourself to figure it out?”

“Yes,” I respond, easily. I do.

“Do you trust yourself to hear these inner cries for stability, consistency, and peace, and devote yourself to getting these needs met?”

“I do.”

“Do you trust yourself to follow your intuition and heart, above all else?”

“No,” I admit. My mind still loves to dominate my heart and my soul, on occasion. These parts of me are still in recovery and relational repair—a process that mustn’t be rushed. “I’m still building this trust.”

My higher self nods, satisfied with my honesty. “Good,” they say, not in judgement of innate goodness or badness, but in pure encouragement that I’m honoring the work that’s mine to do, in the nick of time. “Build it now.”

How’d this resonate with you? I’d love to know in the comments. — milo

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Chicago is quicksand to me.

I take one step off the tarmac, and - whoop - my toes slip under.

I’m okay, I console myself. It’s just my toes. It’s immersion; it’s good to settle in.

I board the blue line train. I can take it to block 37 to board the red, or Addison to catch the bus, or Division to see Bryan. Anna. Anyone.

I bundle up. Goodness. The wind rips through the heat of my body, taking my comfort with it. This wind is gonna knock me off my feet. If only I felt - I dig the soles of my shoes a few inches deeper into the earth - a bit more - I lock my ankles into the crust of the earth - grounded.

I breathe. Heave.

Is this…better? I ask myself. But the sand is warm and my ankles otherwise exposed, so I forfeit my feet to the shifting earth, and trudge on.

I’m running late. Meant to be up north, you see. For “Bachelor Tuesday”. A dinner. A brunch. I drag the rest of my body above the surface, my full weight anchored in my ankles, and scrape along. If only I could center my gravity a bit lower, I think, I could move with more certainty. I’d make better time.

I flinch, snap my jaw, and grind my hips back and forth until my shins are one with the sand. At this depth, the sand, once warm to the touch of my bare feet, grows colder, and sends gentle shockwaves through my achilles, my ITB bands. “O…oh," the sound breaks free from my throat. This is colder than I thought. Harder. I swallow. I can’t move, can I?

Mustn’t be late, the white rabbit in my brain reminds chatters on. Right. Grind down. Use my calves. Trudge. They’re waiting.

When I arrive, a sea of warm, pleasant, slightly quivering faces smile at me. “Meech! Michelle!" they chorus. We hug. They, too, are nearly knee-deep in sand. They seem to mind less.

“We’ve missed you.” They look me in the eye. There is love here, no matter how limiting. "Where did you go? What did you do?”

Reminded of my time away, my legs begin to itch. Burn, really. I look down on them with remorse and begin to question why, and for whom, I forfeited my mobility. My lightness. My ability to dance.

“I went far”, I offer. “I learned more words. Sensations. Flavors.” This satisfies them. They move on.

I missed them, too. I look on their faces longingly, adoringly, while they tell the tales of their nights out with their boyfriends and the ways in which they hope to invest their wealth. Believing myself to be sinking into conversation, I bypassed the rush of sensations tickling my waist. Minutes later, I glance down to check the time. I realize I’d sunk in sand - itchy, dense - down to my hips. I’m still sinking. I stare in gentle horror, frozen as fills my naval like an hourglass.

The sand slowly consumes my abdomen when he texted. Called. Reminded me of the spare concert ticket. Requested i meet him for drinks.

My abdomen, my heart.

At this depth, I begin to panic. My heart glows green just below the crust of the earth, fighting for its right to be free and love who it loves. I use my hands, my arms crumpled and achey with tendonitis, and claw at the earth, trying to recover my body from the sand. The swifter my movements, the lower I sink. The more I fight, the more I’m consumed.

I go to the room I pay rent to call mine, and pull myself to my computer. I send my resignation letter. “It’s an offer I can’t refuse,” I begin to absolve them, then remembering I don’t have to, add, “and I wouldn’t want to, anyway”.

I thought this might free me, or inspire my thighs to wriggle me from the sea of grains. I sneak a glimpse of the quicksand around me, careful not to sustain eye contact and trigger any further engulfment.

I don’t sink any lower. I don’t raise higher, either.

I blink twice. It’s nearly March.

It’s time to do my last free load of laundry, hug them goodbye; time to attend the farewell dinner at Sun Wah BBQ. It’s time to tell him I’m moving. Invite them to visit.

My heart, no longer glowing beneath the sand, begins to tear in my chest. The sting of it pulses through my throat and pricks my eyes.

How will I leave? I pose the question to myself in the mirror, gentle and curious. How can I bear it? Is it even possible?

I look for clues, signs of how to extract myself from the shifting earth.

I look at myself, in earnest, and try to visualize how I’ll find movement again. I’m all shoulders and hair.

I prod the flat surface of the screen. My eyes scan the room, catching on my partner asleep next to me. Partner, I think to myself. It’s a new word for us. I haven’t been a “partner” in a while. Not since her. I notice how distant I feel from her and the experience of her – the tension and confusion that punctuated our coupling, living together, and uncoupling. I feel my body tense and grip against the peace in the room, then relax into it all, and begin to metabolize another day of felt difference – how different this relationship feels in my muscles, bones, and tendons; how relaxed my body feels, sleeping and waking, cooking and eating, working and laughing and flirting with this person I love. I search the center of my being for fear or hidden messages – any trace of they shouldn’t be here; we shouldn’t be together – but nothing rises. So I commit this feeling of difference to memory, press my lips into their shoulder, and lift my body from the bed.

I dress. I release Poppy from her crate, scanning for cues she’s hit another growth spurt and needs to be rushed outside. She’s settled; I feed her, then myself. I thank my waking partner for leading the majority of required routines and rituals this morning: walking Poppy, moving the car for street cleaning. Leave the dishes, I say. It’s my turn.

An hour later, I’m in the courthouse.

It’s my first jury duty. My first summons? It is, indeed, the first time I’ve ever been asked to a courtroom. I wore my favorite stretchy pants, shit-stompin’ boots, and protective jewelry. A witch with a master’s in public policy analysis walks into a courthouse…I think to myself. I giggle. I groan. I simultaneously know way too much and way too little about what’s about to happen, here. I notice how, in so many ways, my being here feels very much like living.

I’m my usual fifteen minutes late, but that never matters here. New Yorkers accommodate for the realities of time. I lift my gaze to take in the seal of the State of New York presiding over the hallway as I wait in the security checkpoint line. Eagles, women, excelsior. The blinded justice figure, holding the scales. Whaddup, Libra? I think to myself. It really is shocking how directly government symbols and tarot employ the same language. Perhaps it’s not so shocking that in my studies of power in this world, I’ve inherently studied both.

Minutes of slow weaving come and go. Nearing the front of the line, I scoop my belongings into the smallest rubber tub I’ve seen in a decade. I scan the person dressed as a police officer on the other side of the computer, then greet them with a head tilt and sustained eye contact. I train myself to see a person, in there, under the weapons strapped to their body. I wonder how they got here, and why. I wonder what they believe themselves to be doing. Serving. Next - they invite me to walk through the scanning frame. Another magic rectangle, I think to myself. I wonder if their eyes are tired. I wonder if they’re screen addicted, too.

I breeze through the security checkpoint with my empty coffee mug, daily planner, headphones, and copy of The Artist’s Way. I shuffle up the stairs, following the signs for “Jury Service”. Club Penguin prepared me beautifully for this, I laugh to myself. Shuffle along the guided path, waddle into the rooms available to me, sit down, observe. Chat with someone if I feel I must; which, of course, I don’t. No one chats here. In a room of 100+ people, I hear the shuffle of papers. Again, I let my body take in the felt difference of being in this environment, over others I’ve inhabited. New Yorkers are keepers of one another’s solitude; protectors of privacy. I let the gratitude for living in New York City melt in my mouth like lemon drops.

A woman steps forward, scanning the room before settling into a platformed black leather chair. An altar – a stage – betwixt New York State flags and clear plexiglass panes, separating her from the air we breathe. She greets us, immediately commencing her routine. She dismisses a series of demographics from the space: folks who forgot their summons letters at home, find themselves struggling to understand and communicate in English, live outside of Kings County, and aren’t citizens of the United States. The rest of us are subjected to the video.

The video plays, citing the right to a fair trial by jury as a privilege in this country – a privilege that other countries yearn for. I feel myself flinch, grimacing. I feel blood pooling between my legs, saturating the cotton lining between my body and my favorite pants. What have I done, I think to myself. If I ask around for a tampon, will I get kicked out? I take a moment, find my sense of center; of power. My body is free – in this space, of all spaces. With any luck, I’ll make a mess.

Committing to not speaking to anyone about the trial, not reading about the trial in the news or on social media, and voting in accordance with my understanding of the law. Under trump, in a judicial system fundamentally flawed, broken, biased, racist, discriminatory, and conducive to the mass incarceration of marginalized people for slave labor. Is that what I’m committing to? Seriously?

A Thomas Jefferson quote – a trial by jury is the only time a government is held to the principles of the constitution. Applying the law fairly and unbiased. Listening to the Perception Institute – the idea crosses my mind: can I do energy healing for the wrongly accused? Can I offer Reiki to this space?

I think about texting my friends, who I came up with in policy school. I’ve been summoned to jury duty, I might say. Knowing I’m receiving propaganda, trusting I’m under-informed to engage this particular procedure, I might add, What should I know? What should I do?

I stop myself from asking for their perspectives. I’m wary of bias from any source that might reshape my ability to receive information, sit with it, and make my own conclusions. We’re all afraid, these days. Many of us, bitter. I practice trusting myself, and my capacity to be a compassionate, analytical witness. I trust myself to not know.

The video goes on. What are my implicit biases, these days? Whose character do I make assumptions about, based on their demographic profile? What do I believe about people anymore? I reflect slowly, then spiral.

I barely understand the world and those who inhabit it. I barely know what I believe to be fair. And you want me to do that, determining someone’s fate? In accordance with rules that I didn’t write, don’t make sense to me, and don’t believe in? Rules that are, essentially, threats made by an occupying military? In a country openly failing its people, and countless others across the world?

I hope to the gods this is an opportunity for me to do some good. To rebalance the world in a small, loving way. To be fair and impartial, kind and loving, supportive and useful to the society in which I live.

The video ends. A chorus of bored and conflicted New Yorkers shuffling in their seats commences. An advertisement for the Brooklyn Public Library starts playing. A person walks by in a hooded sweatshirt with angel number 33 on it, as the librarian plugs the archives at the Center for Brooklyn History. I would, indeed, like to go there.

There’s no way of knowing what happens next.

Like any other moment in life, I breathe. I feel the churning in my chest. I practice sensing my feet on the floor. Cool air flowing into my nostrils, warming around my heart, and leaving my mouth, warm and sticky. I relax into the experience of being guided – out of control. In a flow I didn’t seek and don’t recognize. In a life I don’t recognize, yet. As the Sun rises higher in the sky, and the Wind blows. As Mercury retrogrades, and Saturn returns.

Jury service is from 9-5. We’ll break for lunch from 1-2 PM. If placed on trial, the judge may change those hours. In case of emergencies, call (347) 404-****. This is a busy courthouse. If called up to a courtroom then dismissed, we are to come back down here. Our names may be called more than once. I can’t bring glass containers in the building, if I bring my lunch.

We’ll be paid $40 a day for our service. $40 a day won’t cover transit and lunch, I calculate. $40 a day – that’s about $5 an hour. I think a tampon in the bathroom is $2. Half the room protests; if they miss work for $40 a day, they won’t make rent next month. Paid jury duty would bankrupt them. I notice, a beat too late, this is probably true for me, too. The vocal ones are heard – this, too, is routine. They are dismissed.

The rest of us shuffle up to the court room. We proceed, introducing ourselves. We answer questions.

It’s a sexual assault case, they finally tell us. A man raped a woman. The evidence is extensive.

A crack rips through my chest. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and feel my heart wrench. Breathe into it. I won’t dissociate. I can be here, I think.

I open my eyes and notice the man’s lawyer, noticing me.

He asks me a few questions. I answer as neutrally as possible, but it’s too late. He made up his mind about me, the moment my humanity showed itself.

We break; re-enter.

I’m dismissed.

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Usually, I can look down at my feet, notice the disconnection between my feet and other parts of me, and pause. Sometimes, I’ll interrupt myself, finding that I don’t need to complete the journey or visit Rock Bottom at all. I’ll simply hitch on my feet and make my way toward a different path. Sometimes, the new path will lead me somewhere else. Sometimes, the new path will still lead me to Rock Bottom.

Occasionally, I won’t notice I’m on the road to Rock Bottom at all.

I probably visit what feels like Rock Bottom twice a year - even more so in my twenties. Life is hard! Being embodied doesn’t change that. Embodiment just changes our willingness to feel our pain, or by comparison notice our numbness, and catch ourselves avoiding truth. And avoiding our truth - often synonymous with avoiding our pain - just means we’re headed toward Rock Bottom, to learn what our truth is.

Let me be clear: there is nothing wrong with Rock Bottom. Rock Bottom is a deeply spiritual, connective, loving place. It’s just the last stop on the path to contend with our fear of the truth. And so, we have come to (perhaps wrongly) to find Rock Bottom scary. It doesn’t have to be scary. In fact, Rock Bottom is often very safe.

When we arrive at Rock Bottom, we always know it. We know we’re there, because we feel disconnected from ourselves and our knowing. So, to find ourselves and our knowing once more, must learn to work with the magic of Rock Bottom. We must learn to arrive there, practice presence, and learn.

For this experience to feel healthy, having a protocol can help. You’ll develop your own protocol in time, rooted in what you want and need as an individual. As you develop your protocol, you’re welcome to borrow mine.

When I find myself at Rock Bottom, the first thing I do is say: “I’m at Rock Bottom”. This is a very important step, and a very tempting one to skip. Don’t. Allow yourself the dignity and respect of affirming your reality. Let your integrated self confirm what your mind/body/spirit are telling you. Something — some aspect of you — feels that they are in Rock Bottom. Tell the part of you in Rock Bottom that you hear them; they’re in Rock Bottom. Tell them you’re present with them, and that it’s okay they’ve found themself here. Tell them you’re glad they’re telling you, and you’re glad to witness them. It matters.

Next, I close my eyes, and visualize myself at the rockiest, bottomiest Bottom I can imagine. It may look cartoonish, or it may look a bit like a cave in a pit in a valley in the salt of the earth. Whatever it looks like, I sit there. I breathe there. I notice I am alone, in the rockiest, bottomiest Bottom. As I breathe, I let myself feel whatever I need to feel. If fear comes up, I notice and feel fear. If shame, disgust, disappointment, or denial comes up, I notice and feel the shame, disgust, disappointment, or denial. Maybe it’s grief, that surfaces. Maybe repressed love, or longing, or anger. Whatever the rising sensations and emotions are, I feel them and emote, until something shifts. And it always, always shifts. Typically in less than 30 seconds.

Next in my visualization, I call in my support system. I ask my most trusted friends, ancestors, guides, doggie, and neighbors to join me. Upon their arrival, I let them see me. I don’t explain or justify myself. I simply let those who love me witness me. And they always do, with compassion and total understanding. (If there’s anyone in your visualization who does not arrive and witness you in ways that feel compassionate, loving, and understanding, congratulations! You’ve found your first truth at Rock Bottom. This truth is likely about your sense of safety and belonging with that individual. Thank them for arriving, and kindly ask them to leave. More on this in a moment.)

Then, in a circle with my beloveds, we light a fire. The fire feels warm. I let myself sense into the warmth, however much I want and need. And then, in the light and warmth of the growing fire, I begin my mission to find the truth. I use my hands, my feet, my vision, my hearing — all my senses in my search. And — perhaps most importantly — I allow myself to actually find the truth. I, in good faith, let the truth be found; whatever it is.

When I find the truth(s), I look at the truth directly. Sometimes the truth appears to me as a memory, or an object, or an individual that my body recoils upon seeing. When I find the truth, I feel my body’s response to it. I practice staying with the truth, feeling what there is to feel, knowing what there is to know. I don’t hide from it, or try to shuffle it away. I simply observe it, while observing myself. All the while, the truth remains as it was, but now grateful that I’ve found it, and begun paying attention.

When my body and the truth are ready, I begin to collect the truth like treasure. I continue to look around Rock Bottom, collecting all the truths I find. Each time I find a truth — indeed, a hidden treasure — I’ll gather it by writing it down, or putting it in a bag. If I struggle, I’ll call a friend over to hold the truth with me, or hold my hand as I tell them about it and invite the truth onto a platter for greater examination. Or maybe I’ll ask an ancestor to tell me more about the truth, or sing with me as I offer the truth to the fire. But I always start with looking at the truth directly, asking what the truth needs me to know before moving toward action. And my action is informed by whatever the truth needs to be integrated in my life; whatever the truth needs to be incorporated into my world, and not resisted, I do.

Sometimes the truth wants to be burned and released. Occasionally, the truth will ask to be integrated into my heart, or mind as a memory. Sometimes, the truth wants to be collected in a backpack with all the other truths, and worn as I climb out of Rock Bottom. Sometimes, when I’m climbing, the truth will fly out of my backpack in the form a free bird. Sometimes, I get to the sunny breezy Water Topland, pull the truth out from my backpack, and we laugh together.

Always — and I mean always — the truth I find has something to do with a need I must get met to be well: a new habit, a breakup, apartment, mentor, friend, medicine, new job, etc.

Once I’ve asked the truth what it needs to be honored and integrated, and I do that thing, I am ready to thank my community and begin my journey from Rock Bottom. With the truth in tow, I find it remarkably easy to exit; it may feel like a climb for a moment or two, but pretty soon, it feels like walking. Then floating. Then standing still, while the world around me changes in response to my acceptance of my truth.

Life is a miracle, in this way. Our coldest, darkest, wettest, rockiest of bottoms are ripe with fruit and all things good. Sacred truths can be found in Rock Bottom. The deepest alchemy of our lifetimes occurs when we can sit with ourselves in Rock Bottom, sense our sensations (including numbness - numbness is an incredible teacher), feel our feelings (including despair and hopelessness, my gosh, what powerful emotions they are, pointing us directly to our hopes and desires for change), and notice our points of contact and continued connection with the outside world (my my, what sturdy earth hosting us with love and stability here, at Rock Bottom).

A much simpler way of explaining this is: I’ve found that if we can simply observe ourselves at Rock Bottom, and allow our truth to be what it is, and remind ourselves how loved we are, even there — we can recover, learn, and grow from anything.

Then, we can find gratitude for the cold, dark, and wet. And in time, we may gain the wherewithal to recognize when we’ve veered onto the path that leads toward Rock Bottom. We may learn that we can find the truth on the path to Rock Bottom, without needing to visit Rock Bottom at all. We may not, and we may be due for a clearing in the deep, intense magic that lies there. Maybe, we learn that a particularly awesome pair of rain pants and a headlamp help us love the cold, dark, wet, and see visits to Rock Bottom as meditations in feeling the depths of human emotion. Maybe, we just so happen to never visit Rock Bottom again. Who knows! The choice is up to you, and of course, it isn’t. A scheduled visit to Rock Bottom may be up to fate, or God, or the Universe, or the global political climate.

The point is not to demonize or resist Rock Bottom. The point is to love Rock Bottom, and find gratitude for the wisdom available to us, there. Maybe someday, we’ll learn other methods of gathering sacred wisdom sooner in the journey, without needing to visit Rock Bottom at all. Maybe we’ll find that the language we’ve developed across our bodies, minds, and spirits helps us stay on other paths; paths we prefer, paths that may not lead to Rock Bottom, or at least not quite so regularly. Regardless - we must admire Rock Bottom for the brilliant utopia of truth and love she really is.

A visit to Rock Bottom teaches us two things: First, that the only thing we are afraid of, really, is the truth. And second, Rock Bottom shows us that the only thing we really tend to avoid is ourselves: our true wants, needs, desires, power, tenderness and pain.

And we can, of course, witness ourselves and our truth. It’s what we’re here to do.

We are embodied, after all.

I’m in love, and we’re moving in together.

The relief I feel is born of a sweet reality: we’ve been sharing this space for the better part of two months already, and truly enjoying it. Taking concrete steps toward the sharing the labor of living – the work of maintaining a home, nourishing our bodies, taking loving care of Poppy the Dog, and nurturing both our creative pursuits – feels aligned and simple. And movements toward the aligned and simple help my soul relax.

This is not my first time entering a cohabitation experience with a romantic partner. I know the pragmatism required to be a sound housemate. I know what it looks and feels like to set up a Splitwise account to manage shared expenses, reorganize closets to suit the household’s needs rather than an individual’s. What I’m not used to, however, is a months-long, methodological consolidation of belongings.

So far, I much prefer this version. I like my life now: fewer expenses, truer calls, generally less stuff. I’m operating on a concept of “space as abundance”. It is a challenging adjustment, however, and requires consistent, measured shedding of the old; a willingness to continually let go of the things to which I once clung.

My partner has been muttering the name Marie Kondo with increasing frequency. Inspired and committed to make space for the new, I’ve been thumbing through my books, trying on all my clothing, and rummaging through the drawers of my home. I’ve been sure to move slow enough to feel the subtle “no, I don’t need this” arise in my body.

Surprising to me — though perhaps not to my loved ones who witnessed me grow these last few years — I feel a “no” arise with most of my belongings. All that really resonates with me now is my writing desk, my green glassware, a selection of natural fiber clothing, my fluffy towels, and my raw edge walnut coffee table. And even still, I can imagine letting these go fairly simply. But it’s time to make space. I must start somewhere.

Thus, I find myself sitting in a pile of mugs and tea pots from yesteryear. I space the mugs and teapot evenly across my desk, light candles, and sit - solemn and sure - with the ceramic history of my twenties.

The first mug in line was handmade by a ceramicist in Bloomington, Indiana. This ceramic sunset of a mug was a gift from a former therapist. They bought it for me nearly a decade ago, as I was navigating the first waves of estrangement from my family of origin. I cherished this mug as a physical manifestation — evidence — that someone out there cared for me, and believed I had a future. It looked like a sunrise. That mattered to me.

Another, I purchased from a gorgeous co-op grocery store in Lexington, Kentucky. Teal on the inside, covered with pinecones, ferns, bears, butterflies, trees, owls, and deer on the outer. This mug takes me back to a time of tremendous depression; a period in which the elements of my home life (the apartment I shared, relationship I inhabited, and city I endured) were depleting me beyond recognition. I bought this mug, covered in elements of the earth I love, one month before I realized I could leave.

Another is a topographical map of the Kaaterskill waterfalls in New York state. It is honeydew green on the inside, cream outer, punctuated with black trail lines and pink dotted hiking trails throughout. I bought her on a lovely day of hiking with a previous romantic partner. She loved to hike, and I loved playing with the trees. We challenged each other that day in interesting ways. I thought the mug honored what she was teaching me about orienteering. I thought it honored what I was teaching her about appreciating local artisans, simple beauty, and investing in home goods that remind her of joy in life. Shell-shocked and withered, I packed it in the break up. It mattered then, that I hold on to something that reminded me of the good times we shared. I don’t need such tangible reminders, anymore.

Two others were gifted together in a set with a teapot from folks who left my life with drama. When my gaze falls to them now, I feel my frontal lobe split with a headache. I feel nothing but confusion over their generosity-turned-disappearance that confused me into oblivion. Even more so — I remember how the maker spoke down to me when they handed me the gifted tea set, explaining something to me faster than I could retain it. I remember how they mocked me when I asked for clarification: “You’ll figure it out.” Nearly a decade later, I finally let the gratitude I forced upon myself melt away, and allow myself the honesty of my preferences. I don’t like the shine, the density of the matter, the dark colors, the asymmetrical shape. I don’t like how any of these folks treated me - forcing a gift upon me, then mocking me for not understanding the pace of exchange. Gratefully, thirty-year-old me can allow for my own standards and preferences to outshine any lingering sense of obligatory gratitude and receptivity to stuff I don’t want — no matter how technically “nice” or “expensive”.

I let the emotionality of it all ring out, true and simple. I just don’t want to feel the way I feel when I hold these works of art, anymore. And I’m so grateful to know that I don’t have to. I’m grateful to know how to free myself, in all these subtle ways.

I take a few more deep breaths, tracing my fingers over each textured surface, feeling all the ways in which the energy each piece triggers something within me. I let myself feel the exhaustion that rises, having survived such gnarly connections (and subsequent disconnections) in my twenties. I let the memories, sensations, and emotions wash over me for the last time. I take a moment of silence for all we’ve endured together; this weird little art, and me.

“Thank you,” I say to each piece. And I mean it.

I place each ceramic outside my door, lining the hallway (the New Yorker’s version of hauling them to a donation center) with hope and trust they’ll bring others joy. I imagine the lives these pieces will live now, perhaps as surprise gifts for others, or the first mug a child owns, or the delight someone might experience as they gather the pieces of their very first tea set.

What a sweet goodbye, I think to myself, acknowledging that this is one way in which my lack of object permanence really serves me. Because by morning, all of these will be gone. By morning, I’ll tick on the kettle, reach for a mug, and feel joy.

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The terms “integrated self” and “higher self” are making rounds these days. I believe they’re worth unpacking.

To me, “integrated self” means sum of the parts, not your best (see also: favorite) one.

One’s “integrated” or “higher” self refers to the sum of each part of you; not the part you think is most favorable, cool, zen, accomplished, or impressive triumphing over all others. And this is an important distinction – living as one’s integrated self requires that we be all that we are, hiding from nothing, disavowing no part of us.

This whole concept hinges on a sacred truth: each part of us has an equally important role in our lives. We, simply, are not ourselves without each version of us in coexistence. Without embracing every part of ourselves – especially the parts of us we resist – we can never be fulfilled. It’s only when we allow our full selves to be integrated - when we bring every weird little kid within us, every whiny and defiant teenage part, every heartbroken twenty-something, every missed infant, every overconfident and cringe and delightful and sexy and disgusted and angry and inspired part of us, everywhere we go - that we actually arrive.

That’s what I mean when I say “integrated self”, or “highest self”. I’m not speaking to some supreme, God-like part of me that transcends the rest. I’m speaking to the supreme, God-like infinity within me, that includes every horrifying haircut, harmful thing I’ve done, embarrassing thing I’ve said, silly and wholesome moments I’ve enjoyed, birdlike songs I’ve sung, and moments I took my own breath away.

I’m also speaking about the parts of me that have inherited conditioning to practice violent supremacy over others. My integrated self - my God-like infinity - includes parts that contend with the power systems I’ve inherited.

I live in a body that inherited the culture of white supremacy; of dissociation, violence, and the militarization of rules created to oppress others. My integrated self requires that I not only acknowledge this, but that I work with these parts of me to be my most alive, most effective self. In practice, that’s what we call “restorative justice” work.

Still with me? Let’s think about the difference between “integration” and “segregation”, for example.

In American history, “segregation” refers to a period in which people of different races and ethnicities were forcibly separated by geographical borders. White Americans - descendants of Europeans that colonized the land and became an amalgamated, dominant culture at the time - violently forced separation among their communities and communities of color - notably Indigenous tribes of Turtle Island and Black folks, whose lineage was enslaved and captured to occupy and labor over the colonized land. By living in a culturally and racially segregated society, white folks were able to create power structures that favored them and systematically abused Black folks. Even worse so – segregation allowed white folks to dissociate from the reality they had created, by never having to visibly see or contend with the harm they were doing unto others, perpetuating cycles of harm that robbed every human participating of their awareness of their part in the whole.

That sort of cultural rupture is anti-human - anti-life - and is spirit-killing by design. The system of cultural and racial segregation was designed not just to disempower communities forced to live here against their will and entrap them in a culture of servitude; but also, to ensure those who did the disempowering, forcing, and entrapping to never have to look at those they hurt. By creating a culture in which those who did the hurting lived over here, and those who got hurt lived over there – white americans created a system through which those of them who knew better could feign ignorance, those who didn’t could default to complicity, and those who were sick enough to actively harm others could do so in perceived privacy – which to them, meant not having an audience of their more conscious white peers, who were likely to tell them they were committing atrocities and to stop.

With integration, such harm can never persist. Such anti-human behaviors can never survive. And in the case of American culture, true integration – true freedom, kinship, and neighbor-hood – is still in fight. We now call it Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. And white supremacists – dissociated white people who resist feeling pain, witnessing the pain of others, and practicing collective responsibility – are upholding their goals for dissociation. They’re fighting for what they believe their birth right to be: dissociation, power over others, and the ability to commit genocide without witness, accountability, or retribution.

I believe that white Americans resist reckoning with America’s horrific racial and genocidal history, not just because guilt and shame and responsibility are difficult emotions to feel. I believe that so much of the white American experience – upholding patriarchy, capitalism, and white supremacy culture – requires dissociation. And upending that dissociation - becoming associated, integrated people – can be deeply painful work. It's work that requires us to contend with emotions, realities, experiences, oppression, betrayal, and pain far more life-changing than many folks feel capable of withstanding.

And, we can. Of course we can. In fact, we must.

My integrated self contains an 8 year old boy in the trees, a 23 year old girl who thought she’d be mayor, a 26 year old nonbinary person who craved belonging, a 29 year old sorcerer who knows true love, a 4 year old who doesn’t understand why my family doesn’t know where we immigrated from, an 11 year old who is confused about 9/11 and the efficacy of the “war” that followed, the 14 year old in me who is bewildered about my dog’s behaviors, and the 7 year old in me that is baffled by the rules of white suburban culture and just wishes they could swim in the pond behind my house.

Showing up as my integrated self also includes a reckoning of my lineage’s part in the genocide they inflicted on the Indigenous people who lived on this land before them, the enslavement of Africans, and the ongoing economic and spiritual warfare waged on people with darker skin who were forced to live here. Part of me doing my work – whether it be in the Mayor’s office, at my desk at home, or in the classes I teach – is tending to the ancestral lineages alive within all of us, with this racial reckoning in mind.

It’s okay to be a fucking mess, inside. That’s part of the inescapable reality of being a human being. Observe the mess. By observing the mess without judgement or vitriol, you’ll gain the ability to observe the parts of you that are not a mess, too. You’ll see the genius within you. The inner artist. The doting partner, loving child, affectionate sibling. You’ll bring all of you, everywhere you go.

Our culture is no different. It’s essential to acknowledge we are a fucking mess – miseducated, under-resourced, misguided, and sick with technological indulgence and distraction. Acknowledging our current state is the entire point, right now. When we can observe our state without judgement or vitriol – when white folks can observe our shame and disillusionment long enough to see our neighbors in outcry and tremendous pain – we associate. We come back to being alive. We feel the pain and shame and confusion for a moment, we learn our true history, and we become loving neighbors.

We integrate: first within ourselves, then within our communities, then within our world.

And we must. We must.

Poppy tells on me. 

Poppy will take every inch you give; dance within it.

Poppy needs to hear your “no’s”. She needs your set boundaries; else she roams, unfettered, inhabiting all, and and, and and and and.

Poppy doesn’t know any better. 

Poppy, too, is free. 

Poppy learned from me.

I’m twenty-nine years old now, and here’s what I know.

I know that I love to write when I open my eyes each morning, before taking a step or saying a word. I know that shimmying, humming, and moaning while eating are behaviors well beyond my control. I know that — in my world — books have souls, trees talk, and what comes to me in dream is often more instructional than what comes to me in waking.

I know that walking my dog, Poppyseed, to the park each morning saves my mind from itself, while absolutely destroying my back. (Please drop your gentle leader recommendations in the comments.) 

I know that shaking my ass to music in broad daylight is transformational medicine. I know that cutting my hair, particularly in trees, is ceremony. I know that procuring simple, beautiful goods  – a bar of handmade soap, a tiny silver spoon for a salt cellar – fans the flames of my love affair with life. I know that indulging my senses will always be my path forward. I know that romance is essential.

I know I believe in magical mundanity. I know that my attention is the most valuable currency I have, and thus, I pay very, very close attention.

I know what is structurally and spiritually important to me, versus the fleeting thoughts, sensations, emotions, desires, and distractions that tap on my mind. I know that allowing the fleeting hoopla to flow over and through me, while not acting on its musings, is what makes me emotionally responsible.

I know how to identify goals and, with time and sustained effort, achieve them. I know how to leverage resources to create stability, beauty, joy, and adventure for myself and others. I know how to detect uncertainty in myself, pause, and make courageous choices in my own sweet time.

I know that I am a fluid soul in an ever-changing body. I know I am here to be, create, lead, and do. I know that I’m here to do nothing at all. And I know that I must, for the sake of my sanity, always do something.

I know that I am an exceptionally sensitive creature, highly attuned to the energy, moods, intentions, and body sensations of others. I know that I must actively protect myself and my peace, or risk being flooded with others’ energy at all times. 

I know that it’s my responsibility to experience and receive the wisdom of others, float it through my own body and mind, feel around for my own wisdom there, and heed the difference. 

I know I attract exceptionally kind, loving, sensitive, creative believers into my life, as I occasionally do folks on the other ends of these spectrums. I know that everyone is my teacher, and I, theirs. Among them all, I know that I have a duty to provide myself a sense of belonging. I am responsible for allowing myself to be who I am, seen and celebrated, known and supported. Only then can I gloriously see, celebrate, know, and support others, free of mutual projections onto one another. 

I know that I have loved and been loved, though not yet to the magnitude of my potential. I know that the love I give now is channeled through a deeply rooted heart, and all love given returns to me multiplied. I know what it feels like to live with all vessels open to give and receive — painful, plentiful, and gorgeous may it be. I know that I’m ready for more.

I know the sorts of looks, timbres, touches, and words that bring my body pleasure. I know that I prefer when romantic intimacy and sexual intimacy flow freely together. I know what I want in romantic and sexual relationships, what I am willing to try, and what I will not be trying again, thank you very much. 

I know how to say yes, maybe, and no — to trust my answers, and be impeccable with my word. I know how to forgive myself and others when we all, invariably, change our minds. I know that none of us are perfect, all of us are trying, and most of us are doing our best.  

I know I believe in humanity, mother nature, our shared consciousness, and my duty to be my unique self amid the collective. I know to honor balance and harmony by way of embracing expansion — a full spectrum of existence on display — rather than vying for cohabitation in a shrunken, amalgamated, palatable “middle”. 

I know that regression, conflict, disappointment, pain, forgetfulness, brain fog, dissociation, heartbreak, and grief are welcome friends. I know that, the more I value their role in my life, the more they come and go with timely ease. I know they gift me with the wisdom of the dark, when they visit me. And that my relationship with the dark evermore clarifies and contextualizes my relationship to the light.

I know that my body, mind, and soul have endured significantly more than my cognitive mind allows me to remember. I know that this is a blessing; that my mind releases all the memory it must, and that “forgetting” doesn’t deny me “knowing”. I know that all my mind has forgotten has been integrated in other aspects of myself — that some part of me always remembers. I know that, when I’m in need of information I can’t recall, I can ask my body and the world around me to show me. My world, inner and outer, will faithfully remind me.

I know that I am free, now, though I wasn’t before. I know how I liberated myself and how to ensure I will never be unfree again. I know how love myself in ways more embodied, practical, and actualized than I previously realized necessary. And I know that the time to practice love is now, and will forever be “now”, for as long as I’m alive.

I know who I am in this moment, and the likelihood that I’ll change every day for the rest of my life. I know that parts of me will never change, thank goddess, though I may wish them to.

I know everything I need to know, including the likelihood that I know absolutely, truly, nothing at all. 

I know that I simply do not need to know.

Twenty-eight cheers to me, to my comfort with all that is and isn’t, to the peace I’ve created living among my questions. To love, liberation, and the bone-crunching, soul-stirring, heart-wrenching wonderment of being alive in this world at this time.

To twenty-nine. And to many, many more. 

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Growing up, my older siblings and parents never knew what to do with me. Other kids were always absolutely baffled, too. And I get it, I exhibited confusing behavior – I would just sit there, quietly brooding, frustrated that the neighbor kids just didn’t understand my vision for the epic Barbie : Ken showdown of 1999. “It’s because he didn’t show up for her,” I’d try to explain. “Just because he came doesn’t mean he showed up for her, how she needed him to!” 

I always felt a little odd at school. One day, my favorite teacher stopped me in the hallway. “Michelle, Michelle!” she chased me down. “I found this new podcast you will absolutely love. It’s called “Forever Thirty-Five”.  

That one hurt. But she was onto something - I did love it. I’ve never really been good at “acting my age”. Generally, I really like this about myself. I feel at home and settled in my mind, like I’ve been here long enough to fully furnish the inside of my brain. 

I really started to feel this way in college. I started trusting my independent mind, and I, like so many queer folks, began to understand that it wasn’t really safe for me to be near my biological family anymore. So I started distancing myself progressively and quietly, and have been on a mission to find other old souls that will eat hazelnuts and drink tea and debate the importance of going for walks without electronics. I grew more comfortable with distancing myself from my bloodline, but I always felt stung around the holidays. I never really knew where to…be. 

In college, the easiest way to handle this was to pick a boy, date him, and follow him home for the holidays. It was like magic for a while - my silver-bullet solution - until I realized I didn’t really like dating straight boys, and discovered that every lady, theydy, and gentle-them that I dated similarly felt uncomfortable at “home”.  

I really hit my stride in graduate school. I was “adopted” by an older queer couple, who I called my fairy godparents, and I absolutely adored them. They invited me to Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas - yes, both! They’re a delightful half-half situation - they filled me to the brim with food and joy I’d previously never experienced; they taught me to braid Challah and made me trifle on my birthday. For the first time in my life, I felt myself settle into the company of other old souls. In their company, I basked in the glory of being seen and understood - even if I stayed up an average of four hours later than them each night. I was at home with the elder-gays. 

To this day, some of my closest friends are in their sixties. It’s true! When they visit me in Chicago and I take them to Women and Children First Bookstore, they say things like, “I came here with my girlfriend in the 80s”, and it makes me cry. My heart soars! I feel so seen and affirmed that the folks I love have walked in the same shoes I wear, and our shoes carry us to the same places - even if they’ve had these shoes for thirty years longer than I have. 

I love the elderqueers. They are my people. But, no matter how beautiful our time is together, the reality always hits: they go to bed at 9, they can’t hang out on Saturday night, and they spend holidays in far-away places. 

Eventually, the time finally came when I knew I needed to meet more queer folks my age and start forging my own traditions. A few years ago, I was ready.  I decided to get in touch with my best friend from grad school to see what he was doing over the holidays. He was an ex-Muslim from Tajikistan, so I thought, as far as finding someone to hang out with over Christmas goes, he seemed like a pretty good bet. His name is Sher and he is the only 30-year-old I know who has also been an adult for 50 years. 

Sher lived in Boston at the time and we decided to spend the week of Christmas together in his apartment there. My favorite thing about spending time with Sher is that we’re both incredibly independent. We can walk around a city together and both have entirely unique experiences. We’re also both very comfortable voicing when we need time alone. 

My least favorite thing about spending time with Sher is that he tends to need time alone at the precise moment I need some company. So, as you can imagine, Sher needed alone time throughout the entire afternoon and evening of Christmas, and to respect Sher’s space, I needed to leave the apartment. On Christmas, in a city I didn’t know, with nowhere to go and absolutely nothing to do. I was terrified. 

I got all bundled up and tried to figure out how to fill my time. Walking around Boston alone, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast I felt between myself and my peers. I walked around the city alone for hours, passing folks walking hand-in-hand with partners, children, and in packs. I grew sad. For the first time in my life, I acknowledged the reality of my situation: My soul was old due to survival. I was forced to grow up at far too young an age, and felt alone in my life in ways that most people simply never do. Other twenty-somethings didn’t spend Christmas alone. They didn’t wear three layers of pants to go on slow, laborious walks in the snow, leaving people voicemails and eating Werther’s Originals. They felt young. They acted young. 

I started really examining this fully-furnished brain of mine. Is this really how I wanted to be? Did I want to feel this established, this fixed, this old, forever? Just what my maturity was doing for me? Yes, my maturity was born of necessity, I had to raise myself into the adult I’ve become, but, something was starting to shift. The maturity I clung to - the “old soul” label I had donned so proudly, was starting to feel less like a badge of honor, and more like a straightjacket. I was yearning for some freedom, some childlike wonder. I wanted to flail around a little more. I wanted to feel young. 

So, I set out on a mission to grow-down. I was benjamin-buttoning. Have y’all seen that movie? He’s born an old man, and grows down into a baby. It’s very weird. But the metaphor stands: I needed to Benjamin Button. So I set out on a mission to grow down.

My first stop was the liquor store. I drank whiskey from a paper bag alone on a park bench, catching snowflakes and watching the clouds, until I was just tipsy enough to teach myself how to whistle (pause: whistle). Yeah, it didn’t go well, but that wasn’t the point. 

When the evening came, I knew exactly what I wanted to do: see Greta Gerwig’s “Little Women” shot in 35 mm format. It didn’t exactly fit into my new mission to Benjamin Button, but the characters were all in their twenties and I had a crush on every single one of them, so I really wasn’t too far off-mission. 

But when I walked in, I started panicking. There wasn’t a single person entering the theatre that looked my age. I thought, ah boy, I already foiled my plan! How am I supposed to grow down, when my instincts are all wrong? How am I supposed to start acting my age if I can’t figure out what people my age are into? 

At this point, the whiskey had worn off and I just felt raw. I took my seat in the theatre and started to journal. I wrote about how alone I felt. I wrote about how, since leaving my fairy godparents and moving to Chicago, I couldn’t seem to find people who really saw me. I always felt on the fringes of life; that even when things happened around me, I was too far removed from my peers to really feel alive and in community. 

As I was writing, the theatre started to fill in and buzz with conversation. I kept my head down in my writing, determined to get down on paper just how alone I felt. The theatre kept filling in, and I thought, damn, people are way too loud. The crowd started to bubble with laughter and applause. I was confused and honestly getting pissed! I thought, why is everyone being so loud? Show some respect, I’m trying to feel alone and brood over here. And why are you clapping? The film hadn’t even started yet!  

That’s when I realized - hang on - the film hasn’t started yet. I put my journal down and looked up. In front of the screen was this stunning, regal, immaculate red curtain that the theatre manager was trying desperately to tear open. The noise of the crowd fell into context as I watched the manager curtsey and climb a fifteen foot ladder with a pair of scissors. Something shifted in me and giggle slipped through my lips as I watched her climb and start gnawing at the rope that prevented the curtain from opening.

As she sawed at the rope, I joined in the noise. Together, we all hooped and hollered at the manager’s performance. When she finally cut the curtain free, we danced in our seats. When she descended the ladder and pulled the curtain to the floor with a woosh, we laughed like children. 

And I was there - we were all there -  giddy, eyes darting, taking in the colors and textures of a new place, basking in the glow of someone else’s silliness and joy. And in that moment, I knew I had done it - I had Benjamin Buttoned. It didn’t matter that they were strangers. For in that moment, I found my kin, and in their company, I laughed. And I learned to feel young.

I don’t mean writing a list to check items off, though that’s certainly part of it. I mean “standing on business” as in acting with utmost integrity and fidelity to our personal and collective goals. “Doing the work”, as in the labor necessary to love ourselves and others well. Performing our “habits”, as in ritualizing behaviors in service to what we want and need. 

Routinely. Daily. Minute after minute, hour after hour. Often without witness or immediate reward, and at the direct cost of our old ways. While excited, fearful, joyful, numb, and tempted. As if our lives depend on it. Because, indeed, they do. 

Sober communities teach that “reinvention happens small before it happens big.” That our smallest behaviors and habits produce drastic life changes, and that the “real work” is in the anonymous, daily drudgery of it all, rather than the major events. The difficult part is not in the sweeping life changes, but rather in commiting to the mundane.

Speaking for myself, I find it wildly tempting to abandon self-loving chores for much less than miracles. It’s worth noting, too, that there are infinite ways in which taking care of myself is not enough for me. And that’s entirely the point – diligently tending to myself is not enough for me to be fulfilled, but it is exactly enough to keep me here, present and willing to persevere in the delightful agony of allowing miracles to emerge in time. In a world of cheaper highs and readily available dopamine hits, it’s easy to pretend delayed gratification isn’t worth it. But it is. Of course it is. 

This practice can feel lackluster and exhaustive, sure. But it offers a hushed heroism, too, for the work is both much simpler and harder than it seems. We’re called to triumph in quiet tasks, indefinitely, believing all the while that showing up for ourselves in the tiny moments will make trusting ourselves in life’s big moments feel effortless. If we can just choose the healthier habit in a given moment, we’re cultivating the space, time, and staying power for miracles to join us in our daily life.

In this perspective, our daily habits are the most sacred rituals we’ve got. 

So. That’s the work, and it’s ours to do.
What say you? Wanna co-work?

“Don’t let people steal your belief in magic.
People are gonna use this word “impossible” and beat you with it your entire life.
They’re gonna say that the things that you dream of, the things that you want, the things that you are, are “impossible”.
And “impossible” is a foot soldier to the status quo.
Have faith that the very reason that you’re on this earth at this moment in time is because you’re anointed.
Have faith that divinity is not just there available when you die; it’s there, available when you put in the work.
And what the work is, is love.”
- Alok Vaid-Menon

If you want or need support exploring what healthier habits might look like for you, I’d love to help. This is where individual energy work really shines: Energy Healing Sessions.