there is room
Tag: healing
stuck
i can’t get moving today. i’m stuck in one place. literally and figuratively. i have so many things i want to do. it’s the second day of summer break but i’m frozen cross-legged in my bed, unable to move. i’m weighed down by everything. i have laundry to fold, laundry to do, things to organize and put away from the end of the school year, winter clothes to take to the attic. but i’m glued to this spot.
my inner critic says i have to compete with all that i did yesterday. i had accomplished so much yesterday morning that by noon i felt drained.
but you know what i did today? i connected. i let out my heartache. i made a plan to “cope ahead” for a hard weekend (father’s day). i cried. i felt. i rested. i slowed down. it’s not even 10 am. my day isn’t wasted. it’s not ruined. i’m not lazy. i’m human. i need to give myself grace and listen to my body.
unmasked
when no one’s asking anything of me,
when i disrobe from my appointed roles,
this is who i think i am:
i feel things way too deeply and most of the time i can’t explain why.
so i turn it into poems. metaphors. art.
i notice everything. the way the sky looks before it rains. the way someone’s voice changes when they’re holding back tears.
i want so badly to be understood,
but the walls that surround me are ten stories high.
i’m soft and angry. sarcastic and sincere.
i want to be held and i want to be left alone.
i’m sad, i’m hurting, i’m raw, and vulnerable. i’m grieving my dad.
i’m working on showing up for myself, even if it looks like barely getting out of bed.
i’m lost and looking for a light to guide my path.
i’m finding my way.
i’m learning that i don’t have to disappear to make other people feel okay.
i hold onto dark humor, quick-witted quips, and unhinged honesty.
i find beauty in what’s cracked and half-finished and real.
i’m slowly learning how to listen to the little version of me and let her draw outside the lines without fixing it.
when no one’s watching, i’m not performing.
i’m becoming.
yellow isn’t the only color
for a long time, happiness felt out of reach—like something loud and golden and far away.
in my head, happiness always looked like the color yellow: bright and shiny, something you couldn’t look away from.
i craved it. i chased it.
but no matter how hard i tried, i couldn’t find it.
i used to think happiness meant feeling amazing all the time. big joy. obvious joy.
now i know that’s not always possible—especially when you’re grieving, or healing, or just trying to make it through a regular tuesday.
so i started redefining it.
i started setting the bar lower. on purpose. not out of giving up, but out of survival. out of honesty.
i started noticing the micro-moments—the ones that don’t sparkle but still carry warmth.
the breeze in my hair. the sun on my face. sweatpants after a long day.
these are the moments where the pain feels less heavy. where i can breathe a little deeper. where life softens, just enough.
happiness isn’t always bright and shiny. sometimes it’s the soft cluck of chicken. sometimes it’s clean sheets, or a warm blanket, or the absence of struggle—even just for a minute.
this list is still growing.
so am i.
finding me
i’m not who i was before.
and that’s okay.
i am learning to take off the labels and discover who i am. to indirectly quote my phenomenal therapist, i am focusing on “who i am” rather than “what i do”.
before, i ignored my needs, i pushed down my feelings. i didn’t take care of me. it was easier to focus on others than to try to work through the mess that is my own mind. i knew the coping skills. i knew that my thought processes were unhelpful, but i didn’t know anything different. i didn’t reach out on bad days because i felt like a burden. i’m a school counselor, i thought, i should know how to apply the skills i’m teaching. i should have it all together.
i still wrestle with a lot of that, but i am learning to hold space for it. it’s still easier to focus on anything but myself, but i can say that i am actively trying. therapy is no longer just 45 minutes of me placating my therapist and avoiding sharing what i really want to say. i process and i am able to take away new and effective skills from my sessions.
i’m more authentic with my students. doing this hard work to find me and focus on me has allowed me to be even more empathetic than i thought i was before.
i still isolate. i still struggle. here are still days that i can’t get out of bed, but i try to remind myself that rest is productive. i’m not perfect, but that’s not my goal. my goal is to be my true self, and i am on my way to finding me.
chicken therapy is real. here’s how i know.
it’s hard to explain how much a chicken can help you heal until you’ve ugly cried in a lawn chair surrounded by chickens who don’t believe in personal space.
but it’s real. chicken therapy is real.
some people have emotional support dogs. some have cats. one lady in joann’s fabric store had an emotional support iguana. i have emotional support chickens.
in the days, weeks, months following my dad’s death, when my grief made it impossible to get out of bed, they still needed to be fed. when the weight in my chest was too heavy to carry, i still had to haul water buckets and refill feeders. and when the silence in the house got too loud, i’d step outside and be greeted by a cacophony of excited chicken noises and chaotic flapping. when i couldn’t feel much of anything, they reminded me how to laugh. their personalities shone brighter than ever and we created an irreplaceable bond. they didn’t ask questions. they didn’t judge me. they were just there.
in the middle of all this loss, there’s something healing about being needed, pestered, and gently pecked from all sides by something that’s just existing. loudly. dramatically.
my chickens didn’t save me.
but they definitely didn’t let me disappear, either.
