Sometimes life is so tender, the breath of a whisper is painful.
And sometimes you need to stand up and scream.
I’ve been absent from here and social media lately. It’s been tender.
I sequestered myself in the woods with Bo the last 7 weeks, putting the house I just bought, together.
I underestimated the weight of it.
I underestimated how much I could do alone with an infant in hand. The timeline, the cost, the bandwidth of it all.
And I fell ill.
My thyroid levels, a condition I’d previously had and healed naturally, fell to crazy lows.
And a darkness began to set in. And exhaustion, and no appetite and all sorts of things.
All the things that new moms deal with, so you don’t know any better when the symptoms pop up…
Until your milk nearly dries up and your amazing son is losing weight rather than gaining…
And everything gets overwhelming because when your thyroid is way off, something simple can feel stressful: so something stressful, can feel impossible.
It’s a bizarre and remote feeling:
a darkness setting in
when your entire life is dedicated to LIGHT.
I think you can probably relate. That is this time. We are all being pushed to the edge. To our extremes. Emotionally, physically, financially. We are being asked to be bigger. To rise.
I don’t think there’s anyone out there in this big, wide world that doesn’t look at the last 6 months and say: WHAT THE ACTUAL F IS HAPPENING?
And I’ve had to resort to the very simplest things of late. Because when you are sick, and tired and holding a baby whose life depends on you, and find it hard to find time to eat, much less practice any measure of real self-care, you go back to the very basics.
Taking a breath.
Praying for the wider perspective.
The ho’oponopono prayer: “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank you.”
Prayer to your body.
To your mind.
To your baby.
To Great Spirit.
Tears, streaming down your face in an unfamiliar yoga class, in a town you’re just getting to know, as you whisper to yourself, and your cells quake with remembrance:
I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. Thank you.
That’s all it ever really is. Although we tend to forget this.
Big dreams grow you big.
They will work you.
You might just have to lay low and let them…
And then in a rare moment of scrolling Facebook while your baby is asleep on your boob, you might see this:
And you think, how darling! Strong message, love it!
I want that.
So I see this, and click around to find the same combo in a woman’s size and I am met with the option of: Boss Lady. Mini Boss.
Boss Lady? Hm?
And something snaps me out. A fire. Reminding me… Igniting my feistiness once more.
Why do we have to designate lady boss?
“Boss.” (FULL STOP) is so completely more powerful than LADY boss.
Why don’t we say Dude Boss? or Guy Boss? Oh. That’s right. Because the construct is so prevalent in our society, we don’t have to designate that it’s a man, because we already ASSUME it. (Obviously. Silly lady.)
I’m putting myself through all this— being a boss, and I can’t even be, just… Boss?
And in an instant, I know: I want my son to grow up in a world where he doesn’t ever see a difference between a dude boss, and a lady boss. Differences in execution, style? Of course. But in potential? Never.
And then even in exhaustion, I know I am doing the right thing. Because I can show him what Boss looks like.
Because even if I am brought to my knees.
Even if we fail, we leapt.
Even if we lose everything, we expand for more.
ENERGY IS NEVER WASTED IN THIS UNIVERSE.
Every trial, tribulation is met with more on the other end of it.
IF we are willing to be present to it.
And sometimes that presence is quiet, tender, pain.
And sometimes it’s owning you’re a BOSS on a totally cheesy t-shirt.
One is not “better” than the other. One is more pleasant, obviously. But how could we even differentiate pleasure without the pain?
Pain. Boss. Overwhelm. Ownership. Birth. Death. Presidents. Peace accords. Topsy. Turvy. Same. Same.
Deep breaths. It always shifts.