space and grace.

Suffering has a way of silencing us, shrinking us down and making us smaller until we wish to no longer exist. Our ability to torment ourselves and perpetuate this pain is a universal disease that continues despite our circumstances. We do not need to be in hell to experience it within ourselves.

For those of us who struggle with mental illness, the battle is often unseen. Our brains lend themselves to self-deprecation freely and with no questions asked. What you may see on the surface is usually only the smallest indicator of what is going on underneath—our emotions have the capacity to bring us to the darkest place you can think of, and then a little further. It is no surprise to me that those of us who wrestle with our own demons become too tired to carry on. Living can take an extraordinary amount of work.

In my own life, I have been fortunate enough to have a patient therapist and a community of people who have allowed me the space to suffer freely. Medication also helped, and I have no shame associated with that which allowed me to heal when nothing else seemed to work. I have come so far from where I was just six years ago, and the hope I have experienced has been my anchor in seasons of despair. I am grateful that I was taught to lean into joy and peace in the smallest moments (thanks Shauna Niequist), because those memories have served as a reminder that goodness still exists when the ache in my soul tells me differently.

However, despite our emotional growth, we still have battles that seem to arise again and again. Pain that has not fully healed has a way of resurfacing, and I find this to be true not only in my own life but in the lives of those I work with as a therapist. Becoming whole, it turns out, is a lifelong process that we have the privilege of uncovering only a step at a time. This can be frustratingly heavy, and yet, this is what it means to be human—perfection escapes us this side of heaven, no matter how hard we try.

And yet, we keep on trying. The irony of this is that what we want for ourselves is often found in the opposite of doing, and nobody likes to hear that. We like being able to fix things, we like the idea that we can earn our keep and rebuild our tired bodies by running faster and farther than before. I cannot tell you how many times I have heard a client relay to me the extraordinary hurt they have experienced, only to finish the pain-filled telling with a solitary, resolved question:

“So, how do I fix it?”

I generally look back at them with a mirrored empathy, for I too am familiar with the particular yearning that comes from wanting desperately to be something other than what I am in the middle of my mess. But the gentle truth that has been relayed to me over and over is that healing can only come from acceptance, and that our struggle against ourselves only serves to imprison us even further. It is a beautiful paradox that wholeness can only come from picking up all pieces—how we put ourselves back together is up to us, but if we choose to leave out the difficult parts of our narrative we will never quite be able to make the pieces fit.

Recently, my sister introduced me to a healing practice called The Alexander Technique. I don’t fully understand it, but I know it has to do with the way in which we carry and move within our bodies, such as our posture. As she was examining the way I stand, she noticed that I tend to shrink into myself, moving everything inward and down until I am almost hunched over. To remedy this, she asked me to widen my shoulders. In response, I thrust my chest forward presumably to straighten my back and open up my shoulders. She shook her head at this and said,

 “No, not open. Widen.”

Sometimes, I think that this is the response that we have to healing. We are open to the process, but we must remain wide to really feel the effects. We ask for tools and read up on all the steps, and we apply them dutifully almost as if we are following a treatment plan. And it works.

For a little while.

But slowly and surely, we wither back into our suffering because we think that it is the truest reflection of ourselves. We very physically mirror our pain, and all the openness in the world does not change that because our openness must also be wide.

To me, wideness means that we are filling up space, that we are saying we are allowed to be in the room with everyone else. It says that we are OK with who we are and where we are at, and that those things do not denote or negate a seat at the table. It means that we are permitted to be in process, but that we are committed to believing we are capable of change.

Open says “can I come in?”

Wide says “can I stay?”

We often walk through the door but become frightened by our sense of belonging, we fight the feeling that it could be possible we are actually worthy.

One of the most powerful examples I have seen of being wide came from a former client.  She had lived most of her life small, trampled by the abuse of her family and internalizing the shame of her past. She wanted desperately to fix and forget, but was beginning to be open to the possibility that she was valuable even in the middle of her fragmented heart. I remember her telling me about how someone had said an offhanded comment to her, and how the words hurt her even though she knew that they were not intended to. She came in so excited one week because she had pulled that person aside and gently but courageously told him how and why she was bothered by that exchange. The person responded with such humility and respect, and thanked my client for being so open and honest about her feelings.

When my client told me this story, she was bursting with joy because she had finally been able to see and accept that she was worth speaking up for. She was open, yes, but she was also wide. She allowed herself to take up space and create a safe place for herself. She internalized self-compassion and love, without beating herself up or digging a hole of hate. She could have easily internalized the incident, blaming herself for being too sensitive or reasoning away the situation so as to avoid conflict.

But she didn’t.

She was wide, and in doing so, she found healing that took root in a soil that would not rot or erode away. She planted herself in worthiness because she was able to recognize that her wounds did not make her unworthy. They would heal, but she would have to let them, and to do that she would have to believe that she was worth the healing even when she was in pieces still.

You see, when we place all of our wholeness in being good or controlled or behaved or perfect, we really aren't planting ourselves anywhere healthy. The second that something or someone comes along and triggers us, and all those emotions come back up, the shame cycle starts again.

But when we can open ourselves up to grace and then let it widen our souls, it won't matter when we feel and fail and fall down and shatter again because we know that those pieces still belong to a whole being, they belong to a person who is growing and changing and learning to love all the parts that have brought her to where she is today.

When we are wide, we are honoring our pain and making space for our prosperity.

We are wishing ourselves well, even on our worst day, even when we feel like we don't deserve it.

And isn't that the point of grace after all?

To call the unworthy worthy?

To bring peace to those sitting in darkness?

To open up the doors and invite us in, and to ask us to please, please stay.

Because there's a seat at that table.

And no one else can fill it.

No one but you.

Don't make us wait until you have it all together...if you're anything like me, it'll be awhile.

Besides, you'll fit right in with the rest of us who don't know where we are going.

But we do know there will be grace.

So let it lift your head and ground your feet.

Your space will be waiting for you.

Don't waste any more time trying to earn it,

it's already yours.