When you change, the relationship changes

I have been obsessed with relationships my entire life. I considered changing the word "obsessed" there, but that is the immediate and genuine way that sentence came out, and who am I to placate for perception's sake? It's true. Ever since I was a kid, I have loved discussing and processing and analyzing relational dynamics and the human psyche with my friends; I heavily gravitate towards character- and relationship-driven books and TV and films (My So-Called Life, anyone??); I have diary entry upon diary entry from age 10 onwards, mining the circumstancial and emotional landscape of whatever relational situation I was in at the time. Platonic and romantic relationships—investing in them, tending to them, psychoananlyzing them, and yeah, stressing about or grieving them—have been a if not the most primary focus of my life.

Relationships have also been the most painful realm of my life. Where my most primary wounds were created and reinforced and, in ways, still lie. For some, personal growth through difficulty comes in the container of negative work situations, or health crises, or identity-hinged systemic oppression. While we all encounter challenges across the spectrum of life, there is typically a concentrated realm in which our most recurring and transformational pain patterns lie—the primary channel through which we are forced to confront our histories and ourselves.

It comes as no surprise then that what sent me to therapy for the first time in my life—at age 24 and only as a result of the dogged imploration of a friend—was extreme difficulty and emotional distress within two significant relationships: my then-partner and my dad. 

Working through relational dysfunction with family is so hard, for so many reasons. Everything is unbelievably charged; patterns and dynamics are so deeply ingrained; and there is often a feeling that parents, being...the parents, should know better. Be able to do better. And more often than not, that is not the case.

I did a lot of angry blaming my first year+ in therapy. To be fair, it's not that the people I felt hurt by were not to blame. And. Blaming others gets you literally nowhere but stuck and looping in your own frustration and distress. Back then, I was adamant that it was my dad's responsibility to show up differently. To take accountability. To do better. To change.

One of the harsh realities that I had to confront in those early days of therapy was this: you cannot change anyone but yourself.

Here's the key though—the glimmer of light in that seemingly bleak and often frustrating truth, which my then-therapist spoke to me like a beacon in the night: when you change, a relationship changes. 

When you change how you show up in a relationship, the relationship changes.

Was I resentful that the work of maturing and becoming better to shift the dyamic between me and my father was on me? Sure was! My 24 year-old self was super pissed about it, thought it was ridiculously imbalanced and unfair. And, if I wanted things to change (which I did), it benefitted me to integrate this key—this thing that would unlock a better path forward. If I committed to changing, my relationship with my dad would change. De facto. Full stop. Without him self-reflecting or healing or doing literally anything.

Relationships are created moment by moment through an exchange of energy. Cause and effect. Action and reaction. One nervous system attuning to and responding to the other.

When I stopped escalating my tone to match my dad's, the moment changed.

When I took a breath and disengaged instead of getting defensive and continuing the argument, the moment changed.

When I explicitly and kindly named what I was and was not available for and then stuck to it, the relationship changed.

I am not going to lie and tell you this was an easy process, or quick. Change is slow, both internally and relationally. It takes effort and repetition and time. It is also often wildly uncomfortable because the new behaviors/responses we are implementing are unfamiliar and don't feel viable or safe to our nervous systems. Sometimes, you asserting new boundaries or ceasing to devolve into historic dynamics can also make the other person more triggered. This is all part of the shape-shifting process. 

All relationships have unique dynamics. In some, you may be triggered and become the instigator, the chaos-maker, the reactive or explosive one. In others, you may be the avoidant, the one who becomes passive aggressive or shuts down and retreats completely. All of these responses make sense from a nervous system and trauma perspective, and, we are all ultimately responsible for ourselves. For choosing how we want to show up for ourselves and for those we love. For consciously and gently stretching ourselves into new choices, moment-by-moment, to create the relationships we want for ourselves in this life. Not everyone will be able to meet us there. There will be grief in that. And. Even with the people who cannot rise to the occasion, you changing how you show up to be in greater service to wellbeing rather than dysfunction will create a shift. And there is both immense love and immense power in that.

• // • // • 

Questions to contemplate:

~ What does showing up as my best self in my relationships look like?

~ If there are relationships in my life that feel dysfunctional, problematic, or out of balance — what is my role in creating or perpetuating that?

~ What is one behavior, reaction, or way of engaging I can shift in one relationship that will help it feel better to me?
 

On Fault vs. Responsibility

Sometime during the extended pit of darkness that was my (and many of our) 2020, I read the book The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, by Mark Manson. It was not a book I would naturally gravitate towards, but it had been enthusiastically recommended by my ex's octogenarian stepfather, who was...a pastor. All of which was enough to make me curious to read it—especially later, at a point of extreme distress in my life.

I was unimpressed by and critical of the book on the whole (have you read it?? Send me your thoughts!), but Manson made one point that struck a piercing chord, particularly at that time: you are not responsible for what happened to you, but you are responsible for what you do with it. How you handle, heal, move on, and rebuild from it.

Ugh...so annoying.

In my late 20s, a few years into our work together, my first ever therapist called me out on being self-victimizing. For being overly and incessantly "woe-is-me." 

As hard as it was to hear that, and as much as I may have protested...she was right. I feel things so deeply, and I also have a tendency to sink. To bottom out. To drown.

Let me be clear: many of us, in many circumstances, are victims. The damaging, hurtful, harmful, disrespectful, and traumatic things that happened to us were not our fault. We didn't deserve it, we didn't cause it, we didn't create the conditions to make it happen. And. Having a victim mentality in relation to what happened  (that "woe-is-me" vibe) absolves us from any responsibility to the sanctity and care of our own selves; to our agency in the aftermath; and to our power. 

It is so much easier to feel like a victim than it is to change your life.

I say this with loads of compassion, as it is a state I know well. Firstly, it relinquishes you of any effort, which is a super cozy place to be. Secondly, it eliminates risk of failure. It is wildly vulnerable to try. To try anything. And especially to try to heal—because that is so personal, and what if it doesn’t work out? What if our efforts fail and then show us that we actually aren’t lovable, or deserving, or capable of happiness, or wellness, or growth? What if we try and nothing changes—proving our story that we deserved those bad things all along?

We are afraid of who we might become when we heal, because that person isn’t someone we’ve known. That person doesn’t have our well-worn defenses, our safety in smallness or masking or posturing, our limiting beliefs. Doesn’t buy into the stories that our past consistently tells. That person believes in possibility. And goodness. And that we are sacred enough to be caretaken, to be valued, to be loved—by others, and even moreso, by ourselves. And that is fucking terrifying.

And. That is what life asks of us.

To hold the unfairness of life and the hand we are sometimes dealt with awareness that we did not cause nor deserve it, and still to rise into the grudging requirement of our responsibility to ourselves in its wake.

Faith, Trust, & Control

One of my favorite views from one of my favorite neighborhoods in Asheville <3.

This past Tuesday, July 1, was my four-year anniversary of moving to Asheville. Each year on this day, I spend time reflecting on the year passed—major events, milestones, setbacks, growth. What felt eviscerating and what felt like magic. I do this because I am contemplative by nature, but even moreso because moving to Asheville was major for me—a timeline jump, a rather drastic commitment to a belief in a new life. I moved to Asheville by myself, sight unseen, without knowing anyone. Signed a lease prior to my arrival from over 2,500 miles away. If I'm honest, I was moving away from a bevy of things as much as I was moving towards different ones. A second truth is that what I was moving towards was anchored purely in intuition, hope, and faith. I had no concrete reason to motivate or "justify" moving here; only a geyser of a gut feeling and a series of events that so effortlessly aligned, it could only be interpreted as the universe saying yes, this. So, I leapt.

The unfolding of my life in Asheville has been both nothing like I imagined and (almost) everything I hoped it would be. 

This past year was hard though. This past year was not at all what I hoped or expected it would be.

Last Wednesday, the moon was new in Cancer—an already sweet new moon that was amplified by Jupiter nestled beside it. This celestial setup was being lauded as the "best" astrology of the year. The most affirming. The most life giving. The most supportive to work with in making intentions a reality.

Jupiter is known as The Great Benefic. It is a generous and gift-giving planet, expanding whatever it touches.  As the natural ruler of Sagittarius, Jupiter also engages Sagittarian themes including optimism, wisdom, and faith.

As I sat in ritual on the new moon last Wednesday, reflecting on my incredibly difficult past year and letting the energies of the celestial setup wash over me, I thought to myself:
 
Can you have faith that good things are coming?

In widening my astrological view, I noted that the auspicious cluster of the sun, moon, and Jupiter was sitting in a square (90º angle; a tense relationship) with Saturn. Saturn is a task master, a disciplinarian. Saturn brings reality checks, setbacks, delays. It governs time. While Jupiter expands, Saturn constricts. It asks you to put in work. To mature. To show up to grow up.

This configuration, these two disparate energies that were pushing against each other in the cosmos,  got me thinking about the relationship between faith and effort. Surrender and control.

I thought about the many ways that this past year challenged my faith. The expanses of time in which I lost it completely. I thought about my frequent grasping for things that are out of my control. And I thought about what is actually within my control. And about how that also matters.

Attention is our most valuable currency. Where attention goes, energy flows. When you put forth effort and don't achieve the results you desire, it can be devastating. When you ache for something for your entire life and it keeps not coming to pass, it is so easy to feel forgotten, resigned, hopeless—to lose trust and faith, while also clinging for dear life for the thing to materialize. It is so real and human and also such a disempowering state to be stuck in. So much of the timing of life's unfolding is not in our control. While a harsh truth to hold, accepting what is out of our control allows us to channel our energy towards what is: our efforts, our wellbeing, our connections, our creativity, our activism, our rest, our joy. Our growth, our integrity, our love. How we show up to this world. Which is its own act of creation, of materialization, of magick.

Faith is as much about believing in the benevolence of the universe—that spirit hasn't forgotten about you—as it is about believing in the wisdom gained from the singular winding of your own path and that the efforts you put forth will yield, in time. It is allowing yourself to grieve the losses fully, and then accept them. It is the returning to yourself, to your life, and to infinite possibility, over and over again.

You don't need fixing.

I have spent much of my life wishing I were different than I am. Less sensitive. Less emotional. Less serious. Since my teenage years, these traits felt like they separated me from the majority of my peers. They made life feel unbearably painful and relationships exceedingly hard.

Over time, I began to crack myself open and let myself fall apart with the support of containers that could hold me, could accurately reflect the beauty and implicit rightness of everything I contain—spaces including therapy, yoga, meditation, astrology, ritual, and kindred mentors and friends. Slowly, my relationship with myself began to shift, and I grew able to meet these traits that seemed to cause me so much pain with compassion and tenderness. Eventually, I began to view and love them as gifts. This sensitivity, my system's motherboard, wired to notice everything—a beckoning pattern of light, a bug in the far corner of the room, the most subtle shift in someone's facial expression or tone or mood. My ability to so effortlessly attune—to my environment, to other people. My depth of feeling, inviting me into the fullest spectrum of the human emotional experience; this emotional fearlessness that gives others permission to crack open, too.

Even still, I struggle with myself sometimes. Parts of my psyche remain judgmental and self-incriminating. They experience situations in my life play out differently than I would like or hope, and blame myself for them. If only I could have held this relationship more lightly, could be more "chill." If only my attachment system were different. But I don't hold relationships lightly. And my attachment system isn't different.

Some of how we are is our personality. Some is our soul expressing itself. And a lot of it is our nervous system. These pieces are interwoven. The more we work with our nervous systems to address protective patterns, the more we can move through life in alignment with the highest expression of our personality, our values, our needs, our wants, our soul. And the better able we are to discern which is which.

In Sacred Circle for Girls last week, we talked about boundaries. It came up that it can sometimes feel impossible to assert a boundary for fear of hurting the other person's feelings. This is an infinitely intelligent self-protective mechanism; it is the nervous system saying, "I know how to keep myself safe." If upsetting a parent or primary caregiver in early childhood resulted in loss of love or safety (physical or emotional), our systems take in that information and integrate it into our foundational blueprint. As we grow, we find it difficult to assert ourselves or prioritize our needs over what we perceive another's needs/wants to be, because the potential of upsetting them does not feel safe at a subconscious and autonomic nervous system level.

Dynamics like this imprint within all of us and show up in our lives repeatedly until we heal the root of them. These loops may feel exceptionally painful for those of us who are sensitive. When we feel more, everything is amplified. When we think more complexly and deeply, we can be that much harder on ourselves. Especially when the same hurtful dynamics recur through different people, different scenarios over time. It can feel endlessly frustrating as we develop greater self-awareness and understanding of our needs and our values. This is not what I want, so why do I keep encountering it? Why can't I change?

Carl Jung said, "Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate." The unconscious is as much about our psyche as it is about what imprinted itself into our nervous systems in our formative early life. Until you create safety and capacity within your nervous system, you will not be able to choose differently—even if you are aware of a pattern. It will still feel impossible to breathe through your system's instinct to shut down and open into vulnerability with someone, even if they have earned your trust. Or to soothe your system's primal fear of separation end a relationship that is not serving you—whether romantic, professional, etc. Or to honor your boundary over another person's comfort.

I have spent a lot of time thinking about what parts of how I am are rooted in wounds and what parts are innate—and don't need "fixing," even if they've felt like they've made life impossible, at times. 

There are still moments when I feel so broken. When I believe I am too sensitive, too intense; when the depth and profundity of that which I seek feels impossible and wrong to want. And, in my regulated state, I know that those are not the parts that need fixing. There is no healing or changing or transforming to be done there; only loving. And honoring. And, alongside that, compassionately working with the wounds and nervous system wiring that get in the way of that embrace.