A Little About Me and How I Work

I want to tell you about how and why I do what I do, but it's one of those things that hides from words. I know that whatever I put down here won't measure up. It's my hope that you will be able to bring it to life in a way that my words cannot. Maybe if we work together we can get close to it. Most people find me gentle, and caring and open, probably about what you would, and perhaps should, expect from a therapist. I can also be sarcastic, and even irreverent at times. I'm not everyone's cup of tea, but who is? I do bring all of me into the room when I work, and most people seem to like that. The feedback I get around that is that this is what makes my style of therapy work. This post might give you a little more of a sense of how I can show up for you.

I don't have a "professional persona" that I put on when a client walks into the room. To be clear, I am professional. I have a very high level of personal and professional integrity that protects both me and my clients. I also tend towards colorful language, and I may kick my shoes off and curl up in my chair while we are working. I don't own a tie.

I cannot expect you to be real with me if I am pretending to be someone I am not. So, you get all of me. 

Keeping in mind that every session is different, and every client is coming from a slightly different place, most folks come in because there are things they want to look at that they don't feel comfortable sharing with others in their life. Other times they just need some guidance or some different tools to work with what's showing up. I work with lots of both, but this post focuses more on the former...

It's an honor for me to hear people's stories, to learn about where they've been, how they got to this place, what's working for them, and what's not. What wakes them up at night, and what keeps them up. (not always the same thing). The stories don't tumble out in our first session, it takes time, they need to trust the space that we create together. It's always on your time frame, and it usually doesn't take long.

I get to sit and hear about what's really going on. We don't do small talk, we don't chat about the weather. I say "I get to", not because it's easy, but because it's an honor. Because it humbles me every time. The courage my clients show when they risk enough to speak their truth is a gift. The gift is mostly to themselves, because of the freedom they find hidden in it, but it's also a gift to me, because these are their jewels, their treasure, that they are sharing with me.

Good therapy isn't just about listening to secrets, although I do believe there is a great value in just that simple, yet impossibly brave act of giving voice to the unspeakable. Good therapy is about being able to speak directly to whomever is showing up to tell that story. When we tell those hard secrets, we speak from that moment in time. There's an opportunity in those moments to directly address that person at the moment of the event. Maybe it was last week, maybe it was 40 years ago, it's all equally valuable.

Sometimes they just need to hear that I believe them, that it wasn't their fault. Sometimes they need to see that I can hear about something they did that was hurtful or harmful to another person, or to themselves, and that I'm still here with them. I'm not disgusted, I'm not angry, I'm not scared. I'm just here and holding that and I still see all of them, the good, the bad, and everything in between.

It's not the sharing that we fear, it's the reaction.

It's the fear of rejection, fear that we will see them the way they too often see themselves, fear that the worst of what they think of themselves is true.

Sometimes, in the space between the roaring in their ears when they share something scary, and the silence of the space between us that can hold it, something shifts for them. Just a little wedge of light that whispers to them that

Maybe you are not just this thing that happened.

It does not need to define you.

It is a part of a whole.

It's OK to let it be there, you are not alone with it. 

This is a slice of what might unfold in my office, other days it's a recap of the week and an exploration of what worked (AKA, that was a good move) and what didn't (AKA that was a bad move). I tend to move back and forth from diving deep and holding space for the hard stuff, to "how was your week?". Then we get to see if we can connect the dots.

I've written other posts about therapy and group work, please check them out if you're interested and get in touch if you would like to schedule a session.

Self on the Shelf

Sometimes we can't take it in when the people in our lives tell us good things about ourselves. There can be lots of reasons for this. Maybe we've never heard that we're good at this or that particular thing. Maybe we're moving too fast to stop and let it settle in. Maybe we don't think very highly of the person praising us, so their opinions don't carry much weight. Perhaps we don't feel they have the full picture, we think if they knew the whole story, they wouldn't be so complimentary. (See this post for more on that and why I think group work is so amazing) Much of the time, we can't take it in because it bumps up against a core belief that we're not OK in some way.

We're not smart, we're not beautiful, we're not strong, we're not worthy, we're not lovable...we're just not...enough.

So no matter how many times we hear that we really are OK, often we just can't let it in.

I invite you try something. The next time someone gives you positive feedback, and you find yourself ready to toss it away, put it on a shelf. You don't have to take it in right then and there, you don't have to accept it as truth. Maybe you never will. That's OK.

But you don't have to completely disregard it either.

Put in on the shelf, and allow the possibility to exist that it might be true. Maybe you're not all things to all people all the time. (nobody is). But maybe for that person, in that moment, you were just what was needed.

Put it on the shelf, then, when you feel ready, take it down and play with it. What would it be like if this thing were true? If this thing were true, what would that mean for other parts of your life? What would it take for you to accept this?

You may find that the second or third time you take a good look at this, you will be able to take it in. Or maybe, it goes back on the shelf. Your choice.

One more thing, think about a second shelf. One where you put the negative things people say, or even the things we say to ourselves. Sometimes the negative things are far too easy to accept as true. What if we put some of that on a different shelf?

Instead of immediately accepting that we are not good enough, not kind enough, not generous enough, not...enough.

Put it on the shelf. 

Accept the possibility that this thing that hurts, this thing that defeats you, may not actually be true. Again, you don't have to believe it, not all the way. Allow the shelf to just hold the possibility, that maybe, perhaps, this doesn't fit you as well as you have always thought.

Think of these shelves as simply an invitation to another possibility. Just a thought that perhaps you are strong enough, beautiful enough, kind enough, maybe, just maybe...

you are actually enough. 

Group Love

A new session of Dream Group started a couple of weeks ago. On the first day, I asked 6 people who had never met to look around at each other. I asked them to notice what was coming up for them. What kinds of judgements were they making? What were they afraid the others were thinking about them? Then I told them that they would all fall in love with each other. Furthermore, that I guaranteed that this would happen. There were some amused and uncertain looks.

By the end of the second session, they knew I was right. 

As they opened, and told their secrets, shared their sacred stories, put their fears on the table and let their masks fall away, the container was set and we were already falling.

Most of us work very hard to build an outer shell that is designed to repel judgement. "Hi, how are you?" "I'm fine, and you?" "I'm great, thanks for asking!".

Bullshit.

In group we ask "how are you?", and we get real. "I'm scared that my love doesn't love me, and I don't know who I am without them. I was overwhelmed last night, and I cut myself, like I've done so many times before. It's been a rough week."

We let ourselves sink down to the bottom of the lake, where it's dark and and sometimes scary. We sit down there and listen to what needs to be shared. It's safe, because we're all there together. It's scary, because we're all there together.

There are two important parts of group work, the first is being able to share the unspeakable. The second is being able to hear feedback on that.

"I feel like I'm unlovable"

Out in the "real world" this comment would be met with "oh, don't say that! You're awesome! I love you!".

But deep inside, there's this voice; "if they really knew you, they could not love you. They love the image that you project, but you know that's not real".

So the idea that we are unlovable persists, because we have created an environment for ourselves that doesn't feel genuine.

Jung said, "the psyche does not suffer deception well". We know when we are being lied to, and it's uncomfortable, and it happens all day long.

So part of group work is calling bullshit when we see it. When someone shares some hard stuff, and they end with "but it's fine, I'm ok". We ask, "what is it that makes you want to box that back up right now?. How does it feel in your body to have shared that and know that we saw through your mask?. What are you afraid we're thinking about you now? Now that we know your secret?". Let's just leave that wound open, let's not cover it back up just yet. We don't need to fix it, that's your work to do, but we can just sit here with that. And it's ok for you to let that happen. This is safe, even though it doesn't feel like it. 

Group is not for everyone. You need to be ready. You need to be willing to shed your skin and stand exposed, and let the group blow kisses that can sometimes sting. 

Once we feel like the group really knows us, knows all the parts that we run around all day trying to hide, then, and only then, can we start to believe it when they say;

You are lovable

You are enough

I see you

I see all of you

Until you can hear your own strong voIce telling you you're ok, I want you to use mine, and believe it.

Bittersweet 16

  When my first daughter was less than a month old, I wrote her a letter.

I remember feeling so connected to her, it was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and I knew it wouldn't last. I knew it would change and shift as she grew. When she was a week or so old, I remember lying down on the couch with her as we listened to Joni Mitchell's Blue album, still one of my favorite albums of all time. It's one of those memories that has stayed clear and crisp throughout the years. It was a moment in time when everything seemed to be in the proper place.

It's a bitter / sweet thing, to love a human so much, and know that to do right by them you will need to step back, to let them fall, let them hurt. Sometimes they need you close, sometimes they need your absence, it's a delicate dance.

On the outside of that envelope, I wrote that it should be opened by her on her 16th birthday. When I wrote that, I was probably thinking of myself at 16. Ready to be done with my parents, ready to have more freedom, ready for "real life" to start. I assumed that as Maya and I both aged, it would be harder to connect, that I might not be able to communicate all of the feelings I was having in this moment, with this new baby.

I wanted to make sure she had those words at a time when she might most need to hear them. 

I wanted her to know how loved, how deeply cherished, she was, and that she still is.

This weekend that envelope will get opened, and we both get to see what I wrote. She doesn't know it's coming. I don't remember exactly what's in there. I do know that the relationship I have with her is not what I feared it would be when I wrote that letter. We're closer than a lot of parents and teens that age. Still, there is an awkwardness when I tell her how much I love her, how proud I am of her. I see it in her face, an appreciation and gratitude for that, along with an embarrassment and a desire for this talk to be over.

It's OK for it to be both.

It's been the greatest joy of my life, to parent two amazing humans. I still find an occasion to parent here and there, but for the most part, they are who they are, and my part in shaping that is rapidly fading. I'm proud of both of my girls, more so than any other single thing I have ever had a hand in.

Most parents probably think their kids will grow up to change the world. Those of you who know Maya know that she's a person who could actually pull it off.

I don't know how her life will unfold over the next 16 years, I can't imagine the challenges and gifts those years will bring. I know that I will see a lot less of her in the coming years, and there will be others that will be lucky enough to gain her presence in their lives. I know she will continue to challenge the status quo. She will continue to bring joy and comfort to those around her, and she will keep raising the bar for what an educated, thoughtful and driven woman can accomplish.

Getting Curious

It is often said that curiosity killed the cat, but what fate awaits those with a lack of curiosity? As a therapist, my own curiosity is a powerful tool. When discussing cases with my supervisor, she often will tell me, "get curious". When I'm sitting with a client, it's essential that I pay attention not only to what they are saying, but how they are saying it, and what else is going on. If they tear up, if their facial expression changes, if their body language shifts, I will often ask "what just happened there?". It's an opportunity for us both to get curious. What did we touch on? What's going on with your body? Something shifted.

Outside the office, My curiosity tends to have more of an inward focus. If, as Plato said, the unexamined life is not worth living, I'm safe, at least for a while. It's become a large part of who I am, curious about myself, questioning my reactions to other people and environments.

I tend to surround myself with others who value this kind of curiosity. For me, it's one of the ways we care for one another.

How are you? What's important? What's hard? Who are you in this place, in this moment?

My wife's parents are good at this. They ask good questions, and listen to the answers. Perhaps it's due to their Quaker background. They know how to sit in a moment. I've always been grateful to them for that.

A dear friend from high school came for a visit last night. I hadn't seen him in 26 years. Within minutes we settled, we listened. We got curious about each other.

Where have you been? What have you experienced? How does that inform who you are now?

Curiosity is a gift, it's what keeps us moving forward, as species, as a community, as two old friends on the couch.

Showing up

How do we show up?

I've written before about being enough, you can find it here.

(Go check it out, I'll wait)

On a related note, I had been doubting some of the ways I've been showing up. At work, at home, for my friends, even for myself. I've been feeling more tense than I like, I've caught myself being short, sarcastic, even dismissive. This is not how I like to show up. I like to be present, grounded, open-hearted. I want the people in my life to know that I'm here for them, and that I see them for who they are. On a good day, I accomplish this. I can meet at least some of their needs, and I get some of mine met as well. Lately though, I just haven't felt all there.

Yesterday I got some feedback from a client that let me know that however I thought I had been showing up (or not), it was enough for her in those moments. She felt supported, and safe and able to do her work because I was there with her.

I needed that.

The day before, I came upon a young woman who was in the throes of a panic attack. I invited her into my office and I was able to help her get back under control. We did some orienting, we tried some breathing exercises, but I think what actually did it was that I was really there with her. We were connected, and she felt that.

In short, I showed up.

Two messages in two days that I am, in fact showing up. It doesn't mean that I can stop worrying about how I'm arriving for the people in my life. However, it's good to know that maybe I'm not as checked out as I have thought.

Inevitably, how we enter that space that gets held between two people is going to shift. It changes based on how we feel, how they feel, and what's happening in the moment. The greatest gift this work has given me is an awareness of that. Having the curiosity, the courage and the desire to address the questions of "how are we doing with each other? What do we need to attend to?" is a gift to both of us in that moment.

I'm grateful to ask it, and to hear the answer, and to go from there, every time.

It's always worth it.

All the Difference

There are times when I am touched by what I read. It doesn't happen often enough, perhaps I don't read enough of what touches me. As a graduate student, the opportunity to read what comes to hand and catches my eye is rare. Over the past few days I have been blessed again and again by a book. When Women Were Birds is exquisite. For a man who cherishes the relationships that women have with one another, it is a gift. I have often romanticized women's connections with one another. I freely admit it. Although, in my process of putting those relationships on pedestals, I have come to understand what I idealize, what I find sacred and essential. I know that women can be mean and petty and shallow and manipulative in their dealings with one another, just as men can be. I also know that men can be tender and supportive, and love one another in a deep and profound way. I have been blessed to have some women in my life who have let me in. Who have allowed me to be in relationship with them in ways that most men are not allowed. We have done a great disservice to intimacy in our culture by sexualizing it. Sex can be intimate, without a doubt, and hopefully is often. But there are many paths to intimacy, and I believe the gate that guards the door is not sex, but vulnerability. This is why I feel there is a gender gap when it comes to true relationship. Most men often don't do intimacy well, especially with other men, but too often even with their female partners.

It's too scary. It's too...vulnerable. 

One of the most powerful things about my work is the opportunity to model vulnerability, especially with male clients. It's hard to nail down what this means, exactly. I know what it's not. It's not weakness, it's not submissive, it's not disingenuous. It is perhaps simply the absence of a mask. The moment when you leave it all out there, and you're ok with the result, whatever that looks like. It's easier for me with some men than others, and sometimes we never get there, but that's the goal.

Intimacy is often one of the bravest things two humans can do together. 

There's something about the therapeutic environment that allows this, maybe even demands it. Most men struggle with this, especially with other men, because we have been taught that it's not safe, and often it's not. What this means however, is that we have generations of men who have never been fully seen. Hundreds of millions of individuals who have never gotten feedback on who they truly are, because it's too scary to really put it out there. The result is a nation of men who are uncertain about themselves. Men who, when they feel "less than", put on more masks, get more violent, more angry, more abusive in a desperate attempt to prove that they are ok. All the while, they slip further from their goal.

Terry Tempest Williams' book brought all this around for me. Her writing woke voices I haven't heard in a while. Whispered between her words, were the voices of the women in my own life who made an impact. some by their kindness, some with their humor, some with their judgment. Voices of women that have loved me, supported me, been disappointed in me, and at times likely hated me.

But they all saw me.

And as Thoreau once famously wrote, that has made all the difference. 

Peering into the Abyss

I had a client last night that was feeling disconnected from his peers because he doesn't pretend very well. He's real, he's deep, he's smart and he's kind. Socially, that can be a challenge on a college campus. This guy was sitting in front of me asking if he should learn how to "play the game" so he could have more friends. I wanted to grab him and yell "Don't you dare!".

I love this kid. I love his intensity and his passion and his dark and wandering thoughts. I love that he's out on the edge of the abyss of his own mind and he's leaning way out over the deep darkness, curious about what's bumping around in there. It's uncomfortable, and it's scary, and it makes him feel like he's doing something wrong and dangerous, but he knows that if he turns around and walks away from that it will haunt him for the rest of his life.

He knows how to live in a cage. He knows that it feels safe and the rules are given to you, and you get to have your life simplified. Here's the thing, he stepped outside that cage, and he has seen it from the outside.

It cannot be unseen.

So he's sort of stuck on this ledge. I know he's going to be ok. More than that, I know he's going to be one of those men that moves people in a really profound way. The people who are fortunate enough to be touched by his words, his actions and the way he dares to ask questions that have no answers will be grateful for that experience.

I know I am.

So, for now, we sit on that ledge together, sometimes throwing pebbles into the darkness to see if they hit something. Sometimes just sitting. What he needs more than anything is just to know he's OK.

I think, at the end of the day, that's all any of us really need.

For a Sweet Friend

I lost a friend this month. After years of struggling with the loss of her daughter in a car accident, she took her own life. Pam and I met in massage school, which is a very special and unique place. Everyone shows up with their insecurities about their own bodies. Add to that all the myriad feelings we have about other people's bodies. Then you get naked and practice working on each other, which is nerve-wracking to say the least. The bonds that get formed are tight, tender and nurturing. Our school was small, there were 10 of us at the beginning, I think 8 of us were left at the end. Pam and I connected immediately and we paired up with each other the majority of the time.

I came into that school with some heavy anxiety. I was molested when I was 12 by a man who used the term "massage" to legitimize the destruction of boy's lives. Being told where and how to touch someone has always been a massive trigger for me. My path to massage school was a long and winding road, but at the end of that road, I found myself in a small room with 9 strangers and a lot of apprehension.

Pam was my safe place.

We spent 20 hour weekends together for a year. We talked a lot and I came to understand just a fraction of the pain she carried. I didn't know Pam before she lost her daughter, so I can't say what she was like then. When I knew her she was a sweet, kind and generous woman who was also, unfortunately, broken in a profound way.

As I said, massage school is unique. I remember the smell of Pam's hair, a couple of moles she had, and the way her hands felt as they eased into the muscles of my always too-tight traps. I remember how dirty her feet always were from going barefoot. I know she cherished her husband, both of her daughters, her wide community of friends, and a couple of small elderly dogs.

Her hands shook.

Small tremors that may have been telling a story of what was going on under her own skin. When she used very light pressure, it was obvious, and endearing in a way. When she moved deeper into the muscle, the tremors were undetectable as she set about her work. She was good at it.

Pam was a searcher, a seeker of healing for herself and others. She helped countless people as a teacher, friend, and bodyworker. I'm deeply saddened by the choice she made, and hopeful that she found what she was looking for.

She left the world a little better than she found it, and it's a little less well off now that she's gone.

Safe travels, my sweet friend.

Enough

My dreams were busy last night, and a common thread ran through them all.

I was unprepared. 

I'm starting a shift at the Counseling Center of our local state college today. I spent 9 months up there last year (you can read about it here), so I know what I'm getting in to, and I'm looking forward to it. Throughout the day yesterday I was in contact with a couple of folks up there for various reasons, and the message I got was that I would be busy today. I wasn't entirely prepared for that. In my mind, I knew I had an appointment with one client from last year. She's awesome and I was looking forward to that. The rest of the time I figured I would catch up on some research I wanted to do for a dream group that I would be facilitating this year and generally hang around and be available if a student came in and needed to talk.

By the end of the day yesterday it was clear that this was not how the day would unfold. I needed to interview students for that dream group, I had at least two intakes, and that regular client as well. I also needed to meet a guy at my house to get a bid on some flooring work, so there will be a lot of up and down the hill and running around.

Back to my dreams... I reflected on this feeling of being unprepared. Did I have what I needed? My mind raced through all the physical items that were required. It was a short race. It's a short list. A bottle of water, my reading glasses, a couple of pens and a notebook. Maybe a snack.

Back when I was a cabinetmaker it often took over an hour just to load the truck with the tools I might need to do an installation. (cabinetmakers in general do not like to leave the shop, it makes us nervous, and we don't know how to travel light)

With this work, it's all about internal tools. It can take a while to develop them, but once you have them, they're always on board. So the discomfort that was showing up in my dreams wasn't about forgetting a crucial item, it was about questioning my internal readiness.

My unconscious was working through my anxiety around this.

Not so much "am I ready", but "am I worthy"

I received a gift last Thursday when the staff and interns of the Counseling Center gathered for the Put In, the start of our journey together this year. We did a short meditation and as I sat and allowed my mind to weave it's way through whatever wildlands I had created for myself, a message came through.

"You are enough"

This is truly one of the most precious things one can say to another. More importantly, it's one of the most important things we can say to ourselves. On that particular day however, there was another part to this message

"You always have been"

Sometimes when we hear something important, we can't let it all the way in. Sometimes we need to go back a ways (sometimes a long ways back). Sometimes we need to get down on one knee and look that kid in the eye and make sure they understand. Often it takes more than one try, you know how kids can be.

Sometimes in life it's about trying as hard as you can, but other times it's about letting go and trusting that you are exactly what is needed, just as you are.

Before I lose you in a Healy-feely haze where the only sound you hear is a rousing rendition of Kumbaya, let me be clear. This is one of the bravest and most difficult things we do as humans. To show up in all our messy, unprepared, authentic ways.

I don't know how the day will turn out. I don't know who I will sit with, what they will need or how I will show up for them. I do know that I will show up though, and despite my dreams of not having what I need, I know that this is the only thing that is required.

It will be enough.