I’m Not OK — You’re Not OK

“These things will be hard, but you can do hard things.” — Glennon Doyle

I’m not OK.

You’re not OK.

We are not OK.

I know, this sounds dark. Because it is. Because things are super dark in our world right now. Growing darker with each grain of sand that passes through the hourglass of the year that is 2020.

For those of you who are just tuning in and those for whom this weekly series is a source of hope and positivity when all seems dark, I hope you’ll bear with me and hear me out.

I’m sharing this because it’s what’s true for me. And if I’m feeling this way, maybe you are too. My hope is that maybe in reading this you feel a little less alone in the darkness we’re all collectively experiencing right now.

That maybe it gives you the courage to say out loud all that you are feeling inside.

That maybe it gives you the courage to be courageously and contagiously vulnerable with those you love, giving them permission to do the same.

Because in my experience, giving voice to our inner struggles brings them out of the darkness into the light. Makes them more manageable and keeps them from getting bigger than us. Gives us the inner strength and external support we need to face them.

Because in my experience vulnerability is strength and sharing it with others — making it contagious — strengthens us, our relationships, and our communities. Unites us as we face hard things.

It’s been fucking hard lately— the hardest few weeks in this year of unimaginably hard things — and I’ve been quiet. Nearly two weeks have passed since my last piece.

I’ve been struggling to honor my commitment to you. The commitment that is the foundation of the Contagious Vulnerability Project — to make meaning from and give voice to my authentic experience even when it gets hard in the hope that doing so is of service to others.

It’s hard for me to share this — to say this out loud for all the world to hear. Because I’m normally the strong one.

The voice of hope.

The calm in the storm.

The light in the darkness.

It’s hard for me to share this because of my mother’s journey. Because I had a front-row seat to her 20-year battle with depression. Because she lost that battle at 71 when she took her own life on Mother’s Day in 2008.

It feels scary to admit that I’m not okay because I’m about the same age she was when her descent into darkness began. Because it’s a scary time of life to be feeling lost and adrift. Because doing so means admitting more similarities between us than I normally feel safe doing.

And, in sharing this — in being courageously and contagiously vulnerable with you as I experience these dark weeks of the soul — I am doing what she could not. In sharing this, I am grounding myself firmly in the light and strength of vulnerability.

Rooted in a massive web of loving and supportive heart connections.

Keeping the darkness at bay.

Ensuring my story will not be her story.

I’m normally a card-carrying member of the “We Can Do Hard Things” club — my grit and determination paired with rose-colored glasses. But lately, all the things feel hard.

I’ve been drowning in a sea of anxiety, feeling lost and disconnected from my joy. An emotional state that’s both new and old for me.

I had a lot of anxiety as a child and young adult. I was afraid of and worried about absolutely everything, plagued by a toxic combination of self-criticism and self-doubt. But over the years, I’ve taken on fear after fear, conquering them to become relatively calm and fearless. Even in the face of extreme circumstances like 2020.

Until very recently, I’d been managing to stay strong in the face of all that 2020 threw at us.

Then the fires happened. Fires that turned my beloved California into a Golden State of conflagration. Fires burning closer to me than any I’d experienced since moving up to my redwood sanctuary in West Sonoma County. Fires that took the farm and homestead of two beloved friends.

Then the magical convention of hope happened. A glimmer of light in the darkness. An amazing thing to witness. A reminder of how things were, how they still can be if we #voteblue to #voteforchange in November.

And yet the week of inspiring, hopeful speeches — of change and leadership we can believe in — was bittersweet. Tinged with a growing fear that good may not triumph over evil this November. That our descent into darkness might require four more years of hell to find rock bottom.

Then came the deafening cacophony of shrill, shrieking harpies, of fascists and their sycophantic enablers kicking off the alternative-facts surreality show that was the other convention. Screaming “bad is good and good is bad”. A depressing and disheartening reminder that in 2020 evil seems to be #winning.

Then another innocent Black man was shot and paralyzed. Right in front of his three children. And an automatic-rifle-toting teenage, white vigilante took it upon himself to help “keep the peace” by murdering two souls protesting the theft of another Black future. Of another Black father. Of another Black life that should have mattered.

Then I found out that one of my heart sisters — a luminous being who journeyed with me on a 30-day pilgrimage around the world in 2018 — took her life recently, leaving another of my heart sisters and fellow pilgrims, her young daughter, motherless.

Then our beloved Black Panther — our first black superhero — died.

I’ve been absolutely flattened by it all. Living with a pile of essentials by the front door for nearly two weeks. My ears on constant alert for the “High-Low, It’s Time to Go” warning signal. Feeling completely out of body. Disconnected from my heart, my voice, my self, my hope.

Forget trying to find beauty in the breakdown, I’ve been struggling with even the most basic of things. If there’s an opportunity for transformation or hidden gems in here, I’m not in a state of mind to find it.

The saying goes that in a room full of shit, there has to be a pony in there somewhere. But finding that pony is a mission for another week.

Yes, we can do hard things. And sometimes all the things are hard. All the things these past two weeks have felt like hard things. And that’s okay.

Sometimes, all you can do is focus on the littlest of things. The smallest things that lie at the intersection of “achievable at current energy levels” and “likely to be soul-soothing”.

Celebrating small victories like getting out of bed. Making coffee. Taking a bath. Getting dressed. Listening to an audiobook.

Doom-cleaning rather than disaster-checking and doom-scrolling. Hey, at least after doom-cleaning, you have a clean house and that feels good.

Doing whatever keeps the anxiety and restlessness at bay. One little hard thing at a time.

I don’t yet know what this is all about. What this experience has to teach me. When I’m meant to know, I’ll know.

For now, my focus is on surrendering to the experience. Letting go of the need to fix. To transform. To do anything really.

Not a lot of doing going on. Just being.

Because in the face of extreme anxiety, striving is like fighting against a powerful current and it sucks what little life remains right out of you.

For now, I’ve stopped struggling and am letting the current carry me. Trusting that when the time is right, my instincts will tell me to act.

I’m not OK.

You’re not OK.

We are not OK.

Nothing about this is OK.

And it’s OK to not be OK. As long as you don’t keep it bottled up inside. As long as you free it from the darkness and bring it into the light.

And, if you need someone to listen, I’m here. Always, forever, no matter what. Book a curious conversation to explore what the Vulnerability Doula can do for you.