I call it the Breathing House. The thick pine boards that make up the floor of the loft, and the ceiling of the office, hallway, and bathroom, have slivers of gaps of varying widths that create an interconnected feeling throughout the whole building. Specks of dust from upstairs circulate to the room below through the floor boards, just as my conversational voice can carry from the kids bunk beds directly to my husband working at the desk in the office room below. It might sounds like an introverts nightmare - and sometimes it is! We have had to get creative with ways to have moments of separation and solitude: a closed door and some headphones, my husband’s “gamer closet” (a monitor, LED lights, and floor chair deep in the recesses of 1 of our house’s 2 closets), or escaping to the vast outdoors that we are lucky enough to live in.

At the same time, the Breathing House’s gifts have knit my little family close in ways that I sometimes take for granted. My kids play independently alone or together for hours, sometimes a whole day - because our proximity lends them the base of safety their little systems need to deeply drop into flow. All of us flow- my husband and I coming in and out of the house from working, me endlessly cleaning dishes, dog fur, and little scenes of play, my son, who walks with a bounce or skip at the end of most steps, my daughter, who is forever singing or narrating play. Sometimes we flow into frustration, or anger, or irritability - and then we repair. And repair again. We flow to our families’ nearby homes, and then back again. Friends and family flow in and out. Hosting feels incredible after years of building and sharing spaces.

On New Years’ Eve, we host a small group over for finger food and games. My inherited cleaning frenzy kicks in and I order us all about until I’m in hysterics. I’m worried we are having too many people over and there won’t be enough room. I want everyone to feel welcome and happy. It ends up being one of my favorite nights of the year. It IS crowded. Kids are underfoot, adults spill over onto stools and the floor. But there is laughter. We are all together. Everyone is mingling. Everyone is welcome. Food is shared. Phones are set aside. We countdown at 9pm, cheering in the New Year with sips of champagne in paper cups. Everyone goes home. The next morning I still feel warm with love and gratitude.

Sometimes, when I truly do need an escape, I lay on the floor of the tub with the hot shower providing some white noise, and stare up at the pebble tiles that line the wall. There are spots on the ceiling that still need to be repainted, smudges of grout looking messy against the creamy white. The white tile shelf that I was excited to design has a little dip and holds water dripping out from the giant fern. I have to clean it regularly.

These tiles hold a love story. Deep in the building process of our home, when I had given up hope of ever moving in, the tile saga began. I had a Pinterest vision of the bathroom, and had gathered quite a few mismatched tiles from the Restore, measuring and laying them out in the unfinished loft. For some reason, I was very set on the most perfect bathroom, and nothing quite met my standard. Eventually, my Mom, perhaps growing tired of my angst, bought me the pebble tiles that now line the stall. We spent a full day together in the early spring, racing the drying mortar as we measured and cut tile and arranged each section and piece just so, laughing at our mistakes but working hard to get it right. My Mom was no stranger to building projects, as she helped us build our yurt in 2017, and had gone through many home remodels of her own through the years - yet she was tired, dealing with chronic illnesses and an overworked schedule. When the bathroom was done, I was so deeply full of gratitude for the way it turned out and for the experience we had of doing it together.

Mom died suddenly and very unexpectedly a few months later. The Breathing House became a grieving house, the four walls holding my endless tears, panic, and sorrow. Every day for the last 6 months, I wake up to see the morning sky opening up outside my window and remember that my mom is dead. Just outside the front door, a wind chime that a coworker gave me as a memorial gift dances wildly and twinkles a sweet, merry tune. Hi, Mom. She lives in the Wind, of this I am sure. When I can’t bear the load any more, the expanse of the trees diffuses my pain, and my family, grieving too, draws nears with hugs, little hands on my cheeks and my husband’s steady presence close, my brother down the road with cookies at the ready. Whether I want them too or not, my kids have learned what grief looks like early in their lives.

They also know joy. They know that everything flows. Sadness, pain, joy, frustration with each other, anger, laughter, it all moves along. The little house Breaths.

There are hundreds of scratches in the soft pine boards from my ten year old dog’s toes. I like it that way. I never want to forget. The loft walls are an intricate pattern of wood blocks creating an open lattice - designed by the genius of my dad and husband together. The large wooden beams were hand chiseled by many hands - my brother, friends, father-in-law. The bamboo floor was laid in a couple days with help from my in-laws. The nails in the front deck were pounded in late at night with help from our neighbors and friends. The foundation was poured and blocks laid with help from friends. Countless hours of childcare from grandparents offered us the time to get the work done.

Our home has always been the Breathing House, since even before the very foundation was laid. The movement of memories flow with the drafts and creaks of the house - the imperfections are stories of the love and life it took get us here. Home.

Self care is not an act to be checked off each day or week. “Whelp, I did my self care for today so now I can continue to numb myself and ignore all my other needs, #selfcare".” It’s insulting really, especially if you are working in an environment that prioritizes long hours, productivity over real human interactions, with low pay, poor healthcare, and minimal vacation or parental leave options (but offers one “fun” employee event a year, oh gee!). Of course none of these things are inherently bad, but when they replace true presence with ourselves, they may be eliciting more harm than healing.

In a culture that does not support deep self care, it’s a radical act to meet your own needs (or to even know what your true needs are). In some cases, it’s even a privilege to consider meeting something besides your and your families own basic needs - if you’re a trauma survivor, experiencing poverty or racial discrimination, or even just trying to navigate a complex political climate, it may feel innaccesible to do anything beyond keeping your human body alive.

Self care requires consistent internal reflection, adjustment, and evaluation. Regulation is not one size fits all. I may need movement and silence to process my day’s trapped emotions one day, while somebody else may require time with a partner or friend. True self care meets the body and spirit where it’s at, not trying to conform to some scripted list of practices. Deep self care can also be messy, and can include holding difficult boundaries with oneself or with others.

Over the years as a somatically focused therapist, and with the shaping from my background in yoga and mindfulness, I’ve come to adopt the concept of Micro Self Care as a foundation of deep self care.

Micro Self Care involves day to day check-ins where one slows down enough, perhaps through meditation or breathwork, or just a minute alone on the toilet (if you don’t have a toddler that is), to check in with the emotional state and consider what (if anything) action steps might feel helpful or empowering. This can include a small momentary act (for example, if I’m feeling sluggish between clients I might do a few squats to get my blood flowing or drink a large glass of water), or plans for a longer intervention later that day or week (movement, connection with a loved one, or a solid meal).

Sometimes these short little moments are more important and powerful than the “big” acts of self care, as they are addressing needs in the moment instead of creating a build-up of exhaustion, stored nervous system responses, anger, etc.

At the same time, Micro Self Care does not even have to involve an “intervention” or particular trending regulation technique. It can be as simple as saying “yeah, I’m pretty angry about xyz and I’m noticing my body is responding with a lot of fire” or “there is a part of me that is so tired and weary and I want to just lay in bed but I have to keep moving through my day.” It’s a way to say to the body and spirit, “Hey, I see you”. Micro Self Care is really a way to show up with the Self and honor the present experience, which can lead to a kind of comeraderie within oneself, a trust and understanding that deepens with time and consistency.

The wellness narratives in our culture feel really exhausting and demanding, “do more, more MORE” to be “well” (whatever that really means). Our bodies want to work for us, and sometimes shutting out the noise and tuning to the frequency of our own unique selves can offer healing and peace in a more sustainable manner.

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Yesterday we celebrated the most beautiful, iconic, feminist moment - an 11 minute space journey with an all women crew, including some of the most unanimously well respected, in touch celebrities and icons of our time. Wow! What a moment for womenkind - a true demonstration of what is possible if you only dream - I mean what woman does not want the opportunity to ride a phallic looking vessel high into the sky! I cannot tell you how inspired I feel by the beautiful space selfies showing up on my feed and…..

…Okay, I’ll admit, I’m really not inspired. In fact, I’m pretty annoyed that this is the representation of “feminism” that is being sold to us. A “feminism” of unattainable wealth, disregard for the environment, and total detachment from the fellow humans below who are facing severe crisis, impoverishment, genocide, etc.

This is not to say that I don’t believe in the power that experiences of joy, awe, and adventure can bring even in the face of darkness - I’ve written about this before. I have always been awed by space and think it would be an incredible experience to be able to have a perspective of our planet that so few are able to attain (not sure I would spend my few precious minutes in space taking selfies and staring into a camera when I could be looking at the beautiful expanse before, but maybe that’s just me).

I truly believe that the both/and of feeling our joy and awe AND creating change, standing up, and not settling for a world of corruption and evil, are the strings that bind us to our humanity. Only with our experiences of energy and miracles can we bring light into darkness.

This isn’t meant to be an angry rant against billionaire stunts, per say. Right now, I’m in the thick of motherhood and feel the contrast of joy and darkness on the daily - the aching joy of witnessing the sweetest, most creative little beings, along with the pressures of raising them well and protecting their hearts.

I also have the privilege of witnessing this same energy and attention in all my mama friends. So, instead of ranting, I’m going to share a little about these incredible women who are absolutely changing the world by the love, attention, and care they bring to motherhood and their communities.

Here it is, and Ode to my Celestial Mothers, I SEE YOU!

• The mama of two young kids who knows that change comes from investing in her local community - who spends hours crafting home cooked meals to nourish other mothers, imbuing her daughters with love and the wisdom of plant medicine, who responds to her intuition with grace and who reflects deeply on how she is showing up. - I SEE YOU

• Another mama of toddlers who will not stand for genocide - who has shared daily about Gaza for the past year and a half, not shying away from the discomfort of facing these horrors again and again. - I SEE YOU

• The fierce mama farmer raising young sons solo with the strength of her resolve and the compassion and tenderness in her heart, who breaths joy and playfulness into the world and the people around her. - I SEE YOU

• The mindful mama who is an embodiment of what she offers to the world - a nature haven that allows people (many who might not typically have an opportunity to do so) to connect with themselves and the earth. Because she practices what she preaches - what she offers is real and attainable. - I SEE YOU

• The pilot mama building a unique family home with her own hands - a woman who knows her values and sticks to them even when things are hard, and who pours so much love into her child. - I SEE YOU

• The entrepreneur mama of two humans and a few fur babies, who believes in embodied mental health care and has created a strong and creative movement in her own community through her focused business practices - all the while maintaining her own connection to nature and her family. - I SEE YOU

• The village-building mama, who sings her way into our hearts and expends time and energy to create the community she dreams of for her family and child. If there is a village need that she sees - she makes it happen. - I SEE YOU

• The mama of daughters with a keen sense of organization - who exemplifies the importance and joy of moving her body, enjoying fitness and being outside - I SEE YOU

• The transplant mama who is adept at balancing her career of supporting folks with mental health and substance use, and at the same time attuning to the needs of her own kids - truly a caregiver at heart. - I SEE YOU

• The mama of adult sons who has turned her life experiences into a passion and commitment to helping others reflect, grow, and heal, whose writings speak to us all. - I SEE YOU

• My mother in law, who gave my husband the gift of family devotion and love, and who continues to endlessly offer love and support to my family and my children. - I SEE YOU

• My mama - who holds the delicate space of fierceness of values and a love for humankind, who pours herself into healing our world and who loves her grandchildren like the Mother of Mama Bears. - I SEE YOU

My aunts, other mother figures, grandmothers - who hold space, understanding, and compassion. Who love without judgment and do not hesitate in offering a hug, moment of connection, or wise perspective. - I SEE YOU

To you, Reader - whatever part you are playing in raising kids, showing up for your community, safeguarding our environment - I SEE YOU

I am endlessly inspired by the people in my life - Thank you all! With joy and fierceness I maintain hope for a healed world.

I knew it had been quite a spell since I have written, but was shocked to see just how long (May?!)! It just goes to show how much life has been flying by - yet also dragging. I started a new job, we are SO close to finally finishing building our home, and my two young children are blossoming at full speed. I have wanted to write so many times, because it is a balm to be able to share and connect - but the past months have been primarily about survival, and my creative and extroversion juices have been either mostly dried up, or very limitedly used in work or connection with my local family and pals - or with my babies!

This summer we acquired two little outdoor kitties - Goldenrod (Goldie) with the Golden eyes and Taylor (Tay-Tay aka Gaylord), that we co-raise with the retreat owners. I have never been a “cat” person partly because of allergies and also I really did not understand how to interact with them! (Why are you biting me when I pet you? Do you want me to touch you? Do you deem me worthy? Please love me?!) These two were pampered with sunny walks to the pond, a warm cat house with a heating pad, more food than an outdoor kitty needs… and so many affectionate cuddles. These little orange kitties lured me in with their sweet, affectionate personalities. Not just me - anyone who came to the land (even other non cat people), fell in love with their pure sweetness. They followed everyone around, waited at the door to sneak in, wrestled just outside - entertaining us on the inside with “kitty TV”. It’s just really hard to not adore a small fluffy creature who seems to just ooze adoration and affection - and there also seemed to be a spiritual element to these two, a connection to something beyond, deeper.

We tragically learned just how important this magic connection was when Goldenrod unexpectedly moved on to his next life way too soon. Pets leave us - and they leave huge holes. The sadness and shock was surprisingly deep. Loving hard means grieving hard, even when it’s a small, short life of an animal. I realized that my grief was not just for this small precious life, but was a conduit for the grief and fear I had been holding for quite some time.

Loving my children comes with the subtle grief of losing each sweet day to day moment as they grow. It also the brings the fear that sometimes lurks while trying to keep them safe and healthy.

Loving and being in this world means also grieving the deaths of all the children that have flickered across my screen countless times for well over a year.

I won’t compare cats to genocide, but what happened next felt like the sweetest “f#$k you” to a terribly corrupt world.

We gathered on a bitter cold Sunday - mamas, dads, kids, a grandma. Two dads swung a pick axe and shoveled a hole in the frozen earth. We laid a bed of aromatic Christmas tree branches and buried Goldie under more branches, a simple crown, and our chilly voices singing. We honored him with our words and privately in our hearts. As I looked around at the people gathered, I felt a swell of hope for the world and my kids and true pride in my community. The people who would pause to honor a tiny, young animal, who would make ceremony out of it - those people bring the radical type of love and honor that I can only imagine rippling across to heal the earth.

In the sometimes harsh, cruel climate of our country and world - is it wrong that I felt that this was a sacred act of both love and rebellion?

RIP Goldenrod - Thank you for the sweetness you brought us!

Of course, everything I write here is still very much neatly packaged. I get to edit, smoothe, and order my words just so for you to experience my humanity, but not TOO much. Believe, me, I know what it feels like to be TOO MUCH. I can very easily call to mind (and body) a full somatic experience of the shame of toomuchness. Burning stomach, fuzzy head, shortness of breath, a sense of urgency to resolve the issues immediately. Fortunately, as I have developed a true sense of self adoration and fondness, I don’t experience toomuchness very often.

Interestingly, notenoughness conjures up almost an identical somatic response for me. I had an experience recently where a good friend and I were confronted with my lack of perfection. Somehow, notenoughness and toomuchness entered the room simultaneously during the experience. “She sees me, and I’m not good enough” but also, “omg what a dramatic reaction, can’t you just be chill and be unbothered?!” Ha. Oh my, my dear Ari. You tender and feeling soul. Somehow, once my imperfection was out in the open and we had a productive and loving conversation, the stagnant energy flowed, I let go of shame, I honored my experience, and I came away with only a little dismay at not being perfect. Progress! Years ago I would have been on a self perpetuating shame wheel for days with no way to get off.

The thing is, the goal of perfection is something I have been trying to shake for a long time. Letting go of perfection is letting go of a sense of control - mostly of the false sense of control of a predictable reaction from other people or from my environment. There are parts of my life where I very intentionally shy away from a perfect standard. I could have an immaculate house and a car that isn’t full of crumbs and toddler socks, but then what would I be missing out on? I could try to fit into the societal mold set before me instead of inconveniently rebelling against every status quo - but I would be denying my own inner experience. Even in my writing here - I know that I could spend hours polishing each post, editing and re-editing until it’s all glossy and flowy and so immaculately worded. There may be a time for that (literally not enough time now in this phase of my life), but I want the rawness of my personal sharing to be reflected in my writing. I channel, write it out, and share. And you, reader, just get what you get.

I have done a lot of work in releasing this facade of control, moving more with the waves of my human soul instead of resisting, boxing up, and presenting. But it’s a true peeling back of layer after layer after layer… and when I bump up against a situation in which my own imperfections come out and do a little unexpected jig for all to see, it brings all those tender, shameful feelings back.

I’m wondering, reader, if you might feel those feelings too, sometimes?

Honestly, it would be boring to be perfect. It would not offer any opportunities for self reflection or growth… and it kind of sounds monotonous - plus the upkeep of perfection is just too much work. Most importantly, I think sharing in our imperfections offers a kind of radical closesness and acceptance in a relationship that I am ALL about. Show me your vulnerabilities and I’ll show you mine.

Thanks for reading - and stay tuned for more on this topic!

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My heart slowed. “What?” I said, embarrassed. I had just been half-heartedly apologizing for a recent stream of texts in which I shared my anguish about how I felt a lack of clarity in my life. I had apologized, I realize now, as more of a check-in: “Do you love me even when I’m going down a deep rabbit hole of despair?!” She did, of course, because I had been the recipient of her existential crisis dump just a few weeks earlier.

Each time I have an existential meltdown (which lately, has been often) - the depth of feelings surround me like a thick fog. My wise mind knows that there will be a way out of this all - the sun will return and the next step will become apparent. But when I am deep in the middle of the fog, the voices all swirl around me too.

 “You should have this all figured out now.”

 “Don’t be too much.”

 “The world is so very awful right now, what hope is there for a better future for humanity?”

“Whatever you choose to do next will probably harm somebody - freeze!”

“You really need to work harder to be a better mother.” 

I’ve written before about how it’s been easier to accept the seasonal, fluid movements of inspiration and rest. Changes align with the shifts of the year, and on smaller scales through the moon cycle and my own body’s cycle. It’s really beautiful to be able to give grace to those tough moments because of that knowledge that the ease will come back around.

The thing is - it all weighs so heavily now. The fog is THICK. The grief is as tangible as the mist. We all feel it on some level. Massacre and genocide in our daily feed. Poverty, greed, imbalances of wealth and power versus so extreme that it seems impossible that we can have both living on the same planet. Binary ways of thinking and engaging. Continued destruction of our beautiful earth. Your dead baby and my living one. The loss and disregard of our communities and structures of support. Jealousy, competition, and the edge of not-ever-being-good enough that only capitalism can lure us along with. And these are just the global challenges - we also carry our personal experiences with loss, grief, death, relationships, and our environment.

I love to grow and expand. My ability to move through my life comes from a general sense of safety and underlying joy. I am free to explore, even when it gets messy or painful. It’s a real privilege to be at this place, and I’ve realized that it is something I want to be a conduit for in others. It’s a huge strength. However, sometimes I focus so much on getting it all just ever so perfect and in absolute integrity that I freeze, trapping the potential flow of the good that I have to offer. (Hence the existential crisis).

A few months ago I was invited into a 10 step grief circle regarding climate change. We are on Week 8 (Grieve the Harm I have Caused) and I can see that the whole series has stirred up something inside of me that I did not know needed stirring. For one, I did not recognize the enormity of grief I had been carrying (or more likely, I did not want to turn and face the grief because I was afraid I would unravel too far). Regarding the climate, our failed systems, the weight of the pain in the world. It almost feels like I had been entirely disregarding a whole inner experience of myself and the world I live in. I felt some shame, like if only I had faced my grief more, perhaps I would be engaging in more concrete ways on some of these issues. Maybe I wouldn’t be so frozen. It has given me pause to reflect on some of the ways I do engage with our world, some of which I am really proud of, and some of which I am not. I am so proud that I am raising my children to be able to call plants and trees by their names, to know what it feels like to live slowly and intentionally, and to love and care for others. My primary parenting “end product” goal is to be able to raise children who are stewards of our lands and our people, and I have no doubt that they will be. 

But my stomach churns at the thought of all the ways I am letting my world and my people down. Not in a “feel sorry for me” way, or even in a way that I need to quantify my activism per the infinite capitalist measuring tape. To be honest though, steeped in sticky white privilege, I spend too much time in my own head and not enough time engaging in my local community and meaningful and change producing ways.  I know that I cannot continue to sit with the incongruities in my heart and actions that only further my grief. THE existential question that I face again and again is, “How do I best serve people?”

At the beginning of the genocide in Palestine, I marched, I shared posts daily, I called my representatives, I tried sending support to Gaza, I boycotted companies. It felt like such a feeble attempt at activism, and when there were seemingly no changes abroad, my persistent efforts shifted. I began to ask, “what is my role here?” I felt the rumblings and crumblings of the entire structure of my world, our world. Where do we go from here? Whatever it is will be grassroots and deeply rooted in community - whether in regards to birth work, social justice, global activism, or climate change. There is no other way. Many have been doing this for decades, and of course they are the ones experiencing the a majority of the imbalances due to race, poverty, etc.

There are absolutely lots of places and times for continued, loud activism - AND there is a desparate need for the gentle, joyful, community oriented, slow living of embodied beings who adore the earth and life. What an act of resistance - to be able to face grief, feel joy, and to still keep fighting the good fight?!

A monthly existential crisis is probably going to always be a part of my journey (thanks to everyone who walks me through them), and yet my prayer and intention is that my evolution will include more actions of deeply sinking into my community, my earth, and my people - all while holding the grief of myself, my world, my earth, and my loved ones ever so tenderly in my palms.

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While I feel called to share my experiences on these topics, I know there are others whose authority, expertise and way with words are better suited. I highly recommend reading Small Things Growing’s work on similar topics below.

Small Things Growing

Pulling on our one thread

I recently stood on my porch, barefoot, an early-Spring wind tickling my cheeks and hair, talking to my friend Patricia. Besides owning my favorite local coffee shop, Patricia is a fellow homeschooler whose three children are friends with my children (she was standing in front of my porch, in fact, to pick up her daughter, who belongs to the weekly hom…

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2 years ago · 23 likes · 11 comments · Robina Khalid

I am writing from my cozy cabin couch, looking at at the rain pattering into the pond. There are a lot of really idyllic experiences in my life such as this- and when I hold on to that energy, the less picture perfect things don’t seem to matter too much. I feel really lucky to have this life and all the experiences.

This post is going to take a little detour from motherhood and plants and share a peak into my own healing journey. It’s not even that much of a detour I suppose, because motherhood has really been the catalyst for me to unravel long held unhealthy beliefs and patterns - some that I have picked up on my life journey and others that are ancestral in nature.

I having been thinking a lot about my healing journey lately, as I have had a reoccurance of migraines in the last couple weeks after previously having been “cured”. I have dealt with chronic migraines since I was a teen - the kind where my vision is clouded by an aura, and I become nauseous, in pain, and often panicky. I usually have to rest in a dark room with ginger ale and saltines to get to the other side, and then feel hungover for several days and very susceptible to subsequent migraines. During my pregnancy with my daughter, I had a period of 40 days where I had migraines and/or took medication to prevent them every single day. I have tried prescription meds, over the counter pills, herbs, supplements, elimination of certain foods… but nothing ever fully prevented a migraine from coming through.

Sometime in the last year or two, I discovered homeopathy, and after eagerly reading and researching endlessly, I eventually scheduled an appointment last fall with a local homeopath to address the migraines head on (ha!). Homeopathy, if you are not familiar, holds a totally different framework of healing than allopathic medicine offers. Instead of suppressing symptoms and diagnosing dis-ease, homeopathy sees symptoms as an indication of a greater imbalance in the whole organism. Everything is connected - physical, emotional, spiritiual. Homeopathic remedies (matched based on symptoms and the entire state of a person) encourage the body to move towards self healing.

As I awaited my first appointment, I had a deep sense of hope and peace that this experience would heal my migraines. The framework made so much sense to me, there was no way that I wasn’t going to at least experience some level of healing. And with that knowing came… freaking out? “Wait, why am I freaking out about being healed?!”

Ah yes, well the fact is that as miserable as they are, Migraine is my friend. As I filled out the pre-appointment questionnaire, which was extremely in depth and included questions about my childhood, relationships, job, and all the details of my health, it became clear to me - and in the 90 minute appointment that followed with the homeopath, everything fully clicked into place. My migraines were not a result of eating too much chocolate or hormone imbalances or really anything else - yes those are triggers, but they are not they cause. Now that I have successfully lived months with barely a visit from my migraine friends, even while my postpartum hormones are going haywire and I am binging on all the chocolate I haven’t been able to eat for years - I know that Migraine is here to protect me. Migraine is just a part of me, similar to my emotional “parts” (i.e. Vicky, my angry inner child who I’ve learned to befriend) that you would find in Internal Family Systems work.

So what is Migraine protecting me from? When I look back to every time I have gotten a migraine, there is ALWAYS a boundary I am trying to hold and maintain that is getting shaky. Most often, it’s a boundary of my time and energy - getting overworked and burnt out in a stressful job, pushing my body to its limits in college athletics, pressure to perform at a high academic level in high school, uncertainty about relationships, feeling violated in a medical setting… enter Migraine. Folks, she really has a lot to offer me. Did I mention that at the word migraine, EVERYONE respects and understands that I absolutely need to lay in bed for a day with no responsibilities? Even if a person hasn’t experienced a migraine, most people generally understand that it is a terrible situation that warrants deep rest. Migraine’s gift is a very clear message “Sorry everyone, Ari is out of commission until further notice. Please do not bother her unless you are bringing ginger ale or massaging her temples.”

No wonder my internal resistance to healing was kicking and screaming as I settled into my new remedy regimen! If Migraine wasn’t going to take care of me anymore, than who would? Could I really set those boundaries for myself? I can hardly even verbalize the deep emotional impact that these realizations had on me before I even started my homeopathic protocol. I distinctly remember this strong feeling of surrendering to the unknown, taking a leap - the fear and terror and joy intermingled. I felt empowered, proud of myself. I could envision new horizons, limits I had imposed fading away! And truly this all came to fruition - I was essentially cured! Any time I have gotten a migraine since (which is very rare, and they have been far less disastrous) - the aha! moment returns: oops, I violated a boundary for myself!

This last week, in a rough change of pace, I had two days of migraines while I navigated a week of parenting with my partner out of town (to note, I had gotten out of the habit of taking my homeopathic remedies too). I was an emotional wreck, I felt chaotic, and I had doubts about my ability to even be a good parent. I was not at all surprised to wake up with migraines - because my body was screaming for some boundaries and space. I did not have the luxury of laying in a dark room alone, but I almost felt thankful to Migraine. “At least somebody recognizes how freaking hard this is!” Because I know why my body has migraines, I am much less resistant if they do arise - and this lack of resistance makes them more manageable. I am still learning how to set those clear boundaries that my being so desperately craves AND how to nurture my body and shift my mindset when boundaries are impossible (solo parenting two kids), but I feel comfortable in the journey of it all. I am learning how to trust my Self to care for myself.

I am on the precipice of the next phase of my healing journey. I have been working with my homeopath and personally with different modalities on addressing my mental health as well - and I can see the same hesitation to jump into healing that I had with migraines. What if some of these familiar limits were removed, and my mental health symptoms were no longer a barrier to reaching my dreams? Do I even know what my dreams are if I remove my limits? I am so familiar and comfortable with my limitations, and stepping into healing where there is no cap on potential feels absolutely terrifying. My migraines and mental health symptoms play a role in keeping me in a safe, recognizable box. It may be uncomfortable, and even absolutely miserable and frightening at times, but at least it’s familiar.

I’m not here to reduce healing to mere positive thinking. That’s a dangerous notion in my mind. Healing is complex and multifaceted, and for many of us is probably a life long experience of unraveling and releasing - often with limited resources of time, energy, money, etc. Yet I am curious if there are others out there who resonate with this hot and cold relationship to health concerns - we don’t want them around, but are terrified of life without?

I have always felt a deep responsibility towards self-improvement. That has only increased times a million since becoming a parent. I feel called not only to heal my own being, but to heal negative patterns in my lineage so that my children can experience freedom and ease. As I stand on this precipice of this next phase of healing, I hold these visions of peace radiating out from my soul, to my children, and partner. Up and down my ancestral line. Rippling across time. Moving beyond my family and into my community, on into the world. I believe that moving towards internal healing has the potential to open up doors of healing for others. At the same time, I know that I cannot heal alone, despite what our individualistic culture maintains. Just as I introspect and practice self healing, I yearn to lean more and more on my fellow humans. We are all connected, and we all heal together.

Thanks for reading some late night hippy mumbo-jumbo, dear reader. May you find healing and community, peace and expansion.

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The last few months have been a typical winter season, in that my spirit tends to hunker down and do some deep internal processing in accordance with the weather outside. It can feel depressing, dismal, and truth be told, I often have very little patience for myself in these seasons. Is it Seasonal Affective Disorder? Or is it the body’s natural response to the rhythmic flow of life?1 I have lived enough life now to be fairly confident that every time I enter one of these slow seasons, it’s followed by flow, shifts, and sunshine yet again. And through that, I have been able to ride the dark months with a little more grace and lightness.

I am full of musings that feel like weighty angst of a teenager - all rumbling to get out either to my private writings, or to discuss with loved ones, or to share here. Remember when you’d write a “profound” one line Facebook status, (probably hoping to impress somebody) but truly full of the depth of your longings and weighty feelings? Like you were screaming “JUST HEAR ME, SEE ME!” Sadly, I deleted my original Facebook, so I cannot find an example for you, but perhaps you have some of your own. All this to say that I am still trying to find the balance of when to share things that feel raw, and when to hold to an idea for a bit. I tend to release something once I have packaged it just enough to have it appear like something - or to share my own personal takeaways from my experiences. At risk of coming off too polished, or dare I suggest “together”, I try to throw in humor, or loving self deprication - but I think the reality is that I worry about MY truth not being YOUR truth and offending you, taking up space with my experience, or just being WRONG.

“Share from you scars, not your wounds” is a concept I learned in my yoga teacher training. The idea is that if you speak too soon from hurt or grief, you risk making an experience about you that should be a collective or personal experience for your clients or students. That can create an uncomfortable environment and even discredit you as a teacher. I’ve considered this concept a lot over the years, and while in general I think this is a valuable framework to consider - I find myself wondering what it would be like to speak from my wounds. Perhaps if more of us were able to present the messy, unhealed parts of ourselves, it would be a superpower that could close gaps between people, allow a sense of belonging, and help us understand ourselves and each other. That’s been my intent with this Substack and I appreciate the conversations it has opened, as well as the ways I have felt less alone when other’s have reached out and shared “I feel this way too”.

Something about entering my 30’s, or maybe becoming a mother, or maybe just life unfolding, has deepened a fond sense for all my parts. So if I end up feeling embarrassed or ashamed, I can usually come back to Self and feel comforted."There there, sweet silly Ari - you sure put yourself out there! I’m proud of you, even if it was pretty dang messy. Maybe we can adjust for next time? Love ya though!”

I just can’t pretend that I have it together. I have realized that I am in a full dismantling mode - like when you finally decide to organize the hall closet but you have to take out everything first. It feels so messy and pretty overwhelming, but also so exciting in that I get totally recreate and reorganize who I want to be and how I want to show up.

For example, I have noticed that in many friendships and relationships, I hold up walls - tiptoeing carefully. If someone does something that feels unfair or hurts me, I stew. Maybe I’m passive aggressive. I distance myself and sulk, hoping and not hoping that they will notice. I wonder what it would feel like to speak truth - but then I doubt myself because I’m convinced (and sometimes rightly so) that my feelings are out of proportion to reality. Time passes and I either let it go or tally it in their personal Book of Wrongdoings. Yikes - who wants to be in relationship with that? Yet the truth is, I do it to myself too. The list of my own wrongdoings is endless. And in personal relationships, I often have more difficulty accessing Self. My critics are HARSH and are hesitant to let me bask in the comforting glow of radical self acceptance, especially in the face of perceived error. “That is unnacceptable! We cannot allow you to do that” the voices say with stern insistance.

Sometime over the past months and year, I have realized that this is a truly tiresome way to live. It is preventing me from deepening friendships and family bonds, accepting people as they are, and living in joy. So the question becomes, “How can I speak truth, not just about my own wounds or hurt feelings, but about societal failures, genocides, injustices - everything?! How can I be an agent of change within my own relationships and life and also within my local and global community?”

It’s going to be messy, but being on the journey with people like you is truly a thrill. I am so blessed to have some incredibly wise, kind, intuitive, and gracious people in my life. Thanks as always for dropping into this space! To close, I’m sharing a *very* angsty rambling I mostly recorded while pushing my kids uphill in a double stroller.

The coldness of winter is in stark contrast to the slow heat of my soul. The roots and sprouts are starting to form below the surface - but above is only brown. Things are ready to emerge within me but the wait is long and sometimes dreary.

The exterior me that I see in the mirror is not the same as I was 10 years ago, and that confuses me. Yet my soul is the same as it’s been since before I was born or as a girl, 11, standing on a rock in a salty ocean, arms spread with delight.

There’s a mossy spot on a trail I frequent. I always pause to put my hands on the Earth there, even when the snow covers it. I feel the greenness. I spent a long time there the day I went into labor with my son. I believe that this Earth prayer, this vibrational pull, was what allowed him to feel ready to join us. This is the boy whose face brightens into a wide smile when he sees a tree. He reaches out, tapping the bark with his palm or tracing an interesting spot with his pincer finger. We’ve made a game of leaning into give the tree a gentle nuzzle or kiss.

On the flip side, almost daily I hurdle around in a metal box with wheels, racing off to Somewhere to do Something. Consuming resources recklessly from the same Earth I claim to adore.

I don’t know how to reconcile all of this. Holding babies during a genocide, worshipping an earth I help destroy, both loving and feeling wounded by people I adore. Where is the middle ground in all of this? I have both joy of abundance and grief that’s consuming.

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Ginger - we all know it. I think we all probably have had a relationship with ginger at some point, even if it’s the super diluted and syrup filled ginger ale you buy at the gas station when your stomach is just not feeling quite right because of that questionable meal you ate at your work function. Or maybe you popped candied ginger and vitamin B into your mouth every morning in bed to avoid severe nausea while pregnant. If that’s the case, you may have consumed so much ginger that you refused to eat it for a year afterwards in order to avoid a nasty association.

I can remember being in some sort of relationship with ginger every since I began to develop migraines as a teen. It was a one sided relationship - I knew little about the plant itself other than what it could offer me, which was hopefully a little relief from pain and nausea. And while pain and nausea relief is indeed some of ginger’s main virtues… there is so much more to it (way more than I’ve tapped into).

I spent a summer in Vermont working on an organic farm - so many wonderful memories of eating raw garlic and spending hours in the sun having heart to hearts with my coworkers - until we were delirious. But one of the most distinct memories I have of that time is the warm, humid, and delectably floral and dirty scent of the ginger and turmeric hoophouse. Ginger root is mostly hidden (being a root and all), but the softest pink glimpse of the plant peaks right above the dirt before it bursts into bright and vibrant green shoots. Fresh ginger root is softer, smoother, as it has not had a chance to develop the traditional tan skin you’d see from grocery store ginger. It’s a bit more mild, more juicy. The medicine it offers feels more potent.

I remember the day my relationship with ginger shifted - that same summer that I worked on the organic farm. It was a busy day, and I was in town hurrying about various tasks - and oh so tired. I looked for a coffee shop nearby but kept striking out because of the late hour - so I popped into the local juicery, hoping I might find some coffee. The lovely juicer informed me that while she could not supply me with my caffeine fix (I mean, the nerve of even asking in such an establishment…), but that GINGER was actually very invigorating and could provide me with a more natural source of energy. I remember that it felt like a light bulb went off - I asked her for more details, accepted her suggestion, and took a STRONG shot of ginger. I didn’t feel the rush of energy I hoped for, but did feel an overall sense of well-being (and still ended up finding coffee later), but the principal of that moment absolutely shifted how I viewed nutrition, herbs, quick fixes, how I treat my body, and my relationships with herbs. Writing it like that really makes it sound dramatically life changing - but I kind of thing it was!

Herbs and plants are more than they appear on the surface. They have so much to offer - they are dynamic. Everything I thought about ginger shifted. I began making “ginger ale” and ginger shots at home with the fresh farm ginger - appreciating the burn. I read about it’s properties, how it could warm the body from the inside, how it was a potent pain reliever, could improve digestion and stagnance. Basically, ginger gets things moving. I began to accept that plants could be an alternate and more easeful source of medicine, energy, and vitality - and I was eager to drink up (literally) more information about herbs beyond just the gas station medicinal qualities.

The ultimate display of this change of relationship with ginger came about that New Year’s Eve. We were in the thick of yurt life - no running water and very little electricity. Dear friends braved the Vermont winter to visit, and after a chilly hike we drove to downtown Burlington to shower at the YMCA - yet the lockers were closed, and much to the dismay of some very proper Burlington mothers who certainly showered in their own proper homes that morning, we took turns rinsing our hair and pits in the bathroom sink. Freshly de-stinkified, the four of us visited the juicery again, hair frozen stiff and legs sore from hiking. We ordered 4 shots of ginger with chasers of apple slices, clinked glasses, and swallowed our shots. After a ginger shot, there is an obligatory shake of the head, squeeze of the eyes, and shimmy of the shoulders that one must perform as the firey juice slides down your throat. But then there is a warm melting coziness in your belly, and you feel like your blood might just be moving with more ease and maybe, must maybe you’re a little bit warmer.

Ringing in the New Year with shots of plant juice instead of shots of alcohol felt like a beautiful way to start a new season with nurture and respect for my body. Over the years, I have continued to grow in relationship with plants, my body, and the way the two intertwine. I know now that even plants I am very familiar with will always offer me something new - and I can only hope to offer them the respect they deserve in return.

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Thanks for reading! Below I have included my version of “ginger ale” - a wonderful tonic for many occasions. Try it once and pay attention to how it feels in your belly, heart, skin, mind, energy - and then trust your body to tell you when it needs it again.

Ginger Ale:

Juice of 1/2 Lemon

1 Cup water

Large chunk of ginger root, chopped roughly (no need to peel). Fresh is best.

Directions: Blend ingredients in blender until liquid becomes frothy and smooth. Strain through a cheesecloth, then blend a little bit more. Pour into a cup and add maple syrup, sea salt to taste. Enjoy!

I’ve drafted so many versions of this birth story in my head. Truth be told, there are limitless ways to tell any one story, depending on what you want to share, what you’re hoping to evoke in the reader, how your “memory” is shaped by your past and current experiences… none of the versions are “false” or “true”, they are just different vantage points.

My first full term birth was so beautiful in so many ways, mostly because it resulted in my incredible daughter. But it wasn’t perfect. There are things I’ve had to wrestle with about certain aspects of it. I won’t share that all here. I want to share the joy, the awe, the spiritual nature, the power, the love! Willow is almost 3 now, and she is the embodiment of all of these things.

I have wanted children for as long as I can remember. Sometimes the longing even felt painful! After a miscarriage, I wanted it even more, even as I grieved the loss of that first soul. I spent my pregnancy in an agonizing anticipation and excitement. It was a pretty smooth pregnancy other than experiencing physical limitations from pubic symphysis disorder. It was discouraging not to run or exercise the way I was used to - even walking was often painful. But it felt so worth it, and I loved feeling my baby wiggling and kicking. I found a homebirth midwife only a couple miles away, and enjoyed my visits with them. I found that midwifery care is more nurturing than any other care (other than therapy) that I had received.

I was working primarily at home at the time due to the pandemic, in a job that honestly felt pretty stressful. I decided to continue working as long as I could in order to maximize my 8-12 weeks off with my new baby (a month or two after her birth I realized I could not return to that job or leave my child, and Jeff and I agreed to take a huge leap and become a 1 income family for a time, a decision that was certainly not without its cons but that I am forever grateful for).

My sister-in-law arrived from out of state when I was 40 weeks, and I finally made the decision to go on leave - a huge relief, and now I could turn my attention inwards. That week was both agonizing and sweet. The sweetness came from my family support and from knowing that I was about to meet my baby. The agony came from the dang wait. I wasn’t particularly extra uncomfortable, I was just SO ready to meet my baby. My midwife informed me at my 40 week visit that “your baby absolutely come in the next week or two” and even though I knew it, and weeks usually fly by, the thought of having to wait more than ONE more day was torture! This is the pattern of my life: Resist, relax. Resist, relax. Resist, relax. The eb and flow is always there.

I opted for a membrane sweep towards the end of 40 weeks and was advised to have a non stress test at 41 if my baby hadn’t come. Throughout my pregnancy, I had declined most tests and had only 1 ultrasound at 20 weeks. To me, the information that I would have gotten wouldn’t have changed anything, and I felt that it would have been noise that would have made an already anxious person more anxious.1 So I really did not want to go to that last ultrasound, nor did I intuitively believe it was necessary. Even as my anxious brain was believing that my baby would never come, my body and primal brain knew. I want to that appointment at 40 and 6 because I was told it was important. I had been having intermittent contractions off and on for a week or so and had a couple in the ultrasound room. The ultrasound took forever, and although it was really neat to see my really big baby in my womb, it truly felt like a waste of time and what I now can see as an invasion of the sacred space and a block to my own intuition. Everything was fine (in that moment of time that was documented).

Luckily, the very next morning in the wee hours, I finally went into labor. But let’s backtrack two nights - to the most powerful spiritual experience of my life. I had been in a dream sleep but suddenly awakened somewhat - I wasn’t asleep but I wasn’t fully awake either. All of a sudden I felt the most intense feeling of another presence there with me. And the eyes, the most piercing, dark, serious, inquisitive eyes. At first I thought that it was some part of ME, coming to chat, but eventually I realized - it’s my baby! I became still inside, and I greeted this soul. There were no words on her part, just the most intense presence and gaze, but it was as if she were there to say “Hey mama, you ready? I’m here!”. She stayed for a little while and then just as she had materialized, she was gone. I don’t know exactly why she visited me, but I am so honored to have had that experience.

Back to labor, at exactly 41 weeks, around 2 a.m. I awoke. I had been having some light cramping that was manageable and I was able to breathe through it. I listened to my hypnobirthing tracks and playlists. I really was able to release through the tension for the first hours. At some point, I think around 6 a.m. we called our midwife to let her know. The timeline of everything is hazy now, and although I could probably go back and get exact details, I don’t think it matters much. Eventually my midwife listened to a contraction over the phone, but I was too polite in managing it for her to recognize that I was as far along as I was. I moved in and out of the hot shower - vocalizing, swaying.

Eventually the midwives showed up. At that point, I had vomitted up anything I tried to get down, including water, and I was exhausted. The surges were consistent, and so tight on my back. At this point, I found myself tensing my whole body, but especially my legs, with each wave. Sometimes I would catch myself tensing, and try to keep my muscles still. Although they were less painful that way, there is a (false) sense of control you get by tensing and resisting. The whole birth team was there at that point: my mom, sister-in-law, midwives, and Jeff - my partner. Jeff is the type of person who is extremely good at rising to the occasion, and he was the most solid, unwavering source of strength through the whole experience. “You already are doing it!”, he would say when I verbalized for the 29th time that I could not in fact continue any longer.

When my midwives arrived, I was most likely moving into transition. At that point, I was toying with the idea of going to the hospital and getting an epidural. It was not in any way what I actually wanted or believed was best for me and my baby, nor could I imagine riding in the car or sitting in a waiting room. In my midwife records it states “Ari not coping well with labor.”

Whelp, let’s return to that comment later.

Eventually, I got a bag of IV fluids, consented to a cervical check (8cm) and buoyed by the realization that I had already made it so far, rallied to keep going.

The moments the surges started changing to bearing down surges is truly out of this world. It’s like the noise and commotion of the whole world fell away, and it’s just me and my baby. I felt these even stronger the second time, but even with my first, the power of it was astounding. It really does not get more primal than that. The difficulty of coordinating contractions, changing positions, all of that was behind, and I was just doing the work of bringing my baby out. I worked REALLY hard at that point, because I was very ready to be done. After less than an hour, her head emerged. “Get it out!” I screamed, and after being informed that her body still needed to come, I bore down with all my might. And then she was there, and I pulled her up to my chest. Her skin was smooth and slippery like a seal. She cried right away. “It’s a girl!” It’s Willow, of course it is. It’s always been her. “You did such a good job.” I whispered to her, as I stared into this little stranger’s eyes, who I somehow already loved so much. Those were the eyes I had just seen 2 nights before.

Labor was about 14 hours long give or take, and afterwards I did not see how I could ever have another child. I lay in bed and my dad and brother visited (bringing burgers for my first postpartum meal). I felt powerful, and exhausted. Defeated, yet strong. In love, and curious. At peace, and anxious about all to come.

“Ari is not coping well with labor”. Yes, it’s true. Because labor is hard - however you do it. I had this image that I would rise to the occasion, release all tension and fear (like I had learned in hypnobirthing). Not that I would be quiet or zen, but that I would possibly be able to control some aspects of it. That’s not life though - we tense, then release. We tense and tense harder. We remember to release again. We verbalize our deepest fears, and our loved ones come to our aid. We become weak, and learn how to fortify ourselves. The only way out is through.

Willow, my dear daughter, is the embodiment of all of this. She moves through her experiences with big feelings and reactions - but then she is on the other side, joyous, curious, and loving. She has grace for me even when my own big feelings get the best of me. I am absolutely so honored that she has chosen me as her mother in this life, and I only hope that we can keep riding the waves together, and that however we get through it, we will come out on the other side with gentleness and grace.

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The me of 2 months ago would be pretty bothered that I let this long go by since writing on here. I was, and still am, committed to writing regularly (at least monthly, if not 2x a month), because it is absolutely one of my top forms of self-care, and one of my favorite ways to connect with other people. The last couple months have been busy with moving, traveling, working, and family time. Not only that, but I had a pretty intense vulnerability hangover after my last post, and had to process that for a bit. I have, and I'm looking forward to sharing later about why vulnerability hangovers are very good for me.

I’ve also realized that the days of blissfully writing with my infant sleeping in the carrier on my chest (and my oldest either with a family member or at our childcare swap) are over. My infant is now a noisy, happy baby who spends more of the day awake than he does asleep. It’s a beautiful thing, but it also makes my heart ache because wasn’t it just last week that he was born?

My heart has been unbelievably heavy too as I’ve been glued to the news in horror, specifically of the genocide occuring in Palestine (but also the mass shooting in Lewiston, Maine, where I was only 2 weeks ago.) I’m ashamed at how easy it is to chose ignore what’s going on in the world. Our easy access to news 24/7 is not good for our nervous systems, however, when our tax dollars are funding genocide, destruction of the climate, colonization, perpetuating harmful racist institutions, etc. - I guess it’s time to wake up, Ari! It's time to think critically. If there is anything I’ve learned in the last few years, it’s that motherhood is inherently political. Birthwork is political. Social work is political. Being a human is, like it or not, political.

In the midst of going about my very privileged days, I see the imprint in my mind of a photo of a Palestinian woman gently kissing her toddler wrapped in a white body bag, the unbearable pain she is facing curtained by the most loving, sacred, unspoken prayers of honor to her child.

To become a mother is to automatically become friends with grief - but I know that any pain I face will never compare to hers, as she is facing injustices and pain that I could not fathomm

Yet in her eyes, somehow, I also see a glimmer of the absolute joy of loving a child. Joy is the sister of grief. To become a mother is also automatically a fast track to experiencing the purest, easiest joy in life. That joy is something mothers around the world experience. It’s what makes the pain of loss so unbelievably unbearable, and I don’t want to insult her by suggesting she feels anything close to joy while losing a child, her home, and likely many loved ones. She may not feel joy for a very long time. But I can imagine that she absolutely has felt it before.

I do believe that joy, just like grief, is a way to connect and to share in our humanity.

I grieve deeply with you, my sister, although I only can imagine a sliver of your pain. I am so sorry.

I am joyous with you, my sister, for the life of your beautiful child.

Today, my 7 month old son danced for the first time, waving his arm and wiggling his body with a curious and excited look on his face. What a sacred moment of landing on this earth. It was a moment of connection with me, a recognition of his ability to express feelings through his body, and an attunement to the divine gift of music. It was so joyous that my heavy spirit soared.

I’ve read a few articles written lately about how it’s possible to hold the grief and heaviness of the world while also continuing to participate in the joy of life. In a lot of ways this feels pretty callous. I want to honor and hold the grief of all the lost Israeli and Palestinian lives. I do honor the privilege I have to feel joy and grief at the same time - educating myself, not turning away from all that is going on, praying, calling my representatives, talking with others. Dancing with my son.

Reader, may your grief result in action and may your joy sustain you.

#ceasefirenow

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Hello Readers!

Coming to you from a grey, downpour of a day - the kind that somehow makes my soul come alive with creativity and coziness. I’m sitting in bed with a sleeping baby pressed against me, just like we spend all of our nights. Have I told you how much I love bedsharing? These baby days are so fleeting that it feels like the most delicious treat to be able to have their warm bodies nearby. The little one wakes with gurgles, wiggles, and gigantic smiles when he sees his mama, and the older one exclames “I woke up!”, with the innocent enthusiasm of one not weighted by impending responsibilities. (I sure learn a lot from her.) What a joyous way to start the day.

As I have shared before, my desire to have children has been very intense for as long as I could remember. It truly felt like every cell in my being was aching to experience birth, babies, and children. When my husband and I finally made the slightly terrifying decision to add a human to our family (because our first baby was actually our very good boy, Arbor the Trail Dog), the excitement of years of waiting was channeled into an even more intense light beam of anticipation. We easily became pregnant in early 2020, and shared the joy with close family and friends.

I remember when it all changed. A couple days before, I had been at work (therapist at a primary care office), talking with some of the therapists and doctors about travel plans and the murmurings of this ominous virus. I had plans to go to Costa Rica with a close college friend for a week long yoga retreat led by my teachers, but the world was just starting to tip into the chaos of pandemic, and I was unsure if I should travel, as it seemed possible that I might get stuck in another country. I casually asked one of the doctors, “what would you say to someone who was 8 weeks pregnant?” She graciously pretended she did not know what I was hinting at, and went on to share her opinion (I don’t remember what it was). I remember how scary and exciting it felt to share with people for the first time that I was pregnant.

A day or so later, I was at work again when I noticed some spotting. I remember the client I sat with that afternoon, panic and grief already in my heart. He had icy blue eyes, but would rarely ever look directly at you. He had just started to seem more comfortable with me though, and I felt guilty for not being able to give my fullest attention. I shortened the visit and rushed home.

My husband came home too, concerned but reassuring, “it will all be ok, Ari, I know it!” It was not ok, and any time since then that he has repeated those words, I am brought back to the moment when my whole world changed. To be fair, it usually is ok. But sometimes it’s not.

That night, I called my midwife, who I had only met once in an initial meeting to learn about her practice. She was calm and level, and informed me of my options: wait and see or get checked out at the ER. Needing some solid information, I went to the hospital with my husband. The bleeding had increased and I spent a lot of time in the waiting room bathroom trying to keep up. When we were finally seen, an ultrasound technician used an internal probe to look at my uterus. It was supposed to be an exciting moment - this first picture of my baby! (in my last pregnancy, I declined ultrasound altogether because I did not want unnecessary harm/interventions + wanted to trust the birth process, but as a first time mother I was, of course, excited to get one of those blurry black and white sneak peak pictures of my babe) Bless the technician, her face was stoic and blank, just as she was trained. She could not pass on a smidgen of information until the doctor came in.

“There is no heartbeat.” He stumbled more with his words. “Probably for the best because it meant something was wrong.”

F*%k that guy.

I wept. I wept and wept and wept some more.

The next day, I labored. Yes, labor. They did not tell me that my first experience of labor would be alone, bloody, both hoping and not hoping to find the embryo/fetus. My mother was out of town at the time, but I went over to her house and labored in her tub. At some point, I found what I thought was the little form of my hopes and dreams, and I placed it on a bed of ferns in a small, white, heart-shaped porclein box of my late grandmother’s at my mother’s suggestion. I later sealed the box shut and have it on my mantel. Someday, perhaps, I will bury it along with my son’s placenta and maybe some baby hairs of my daughter, but my heart is not there yet.

His name was Rowan. His spirit was rambunctious, joyous, and curious. I felt it strongly in the dark space thereafter, as I sat in the dark hole of my soul, asking “why.” I looked for answers in places that would prodd the knowing of my deep intuition into the light: my therapist, tarot cards, journaling, long showers in the dark, mediums. I am amazed now to look back at my journaling, because I drew two archetype cards from my deck (check out Kim Krans if you want some beautiful inspiration): the Lamb and the Tear, that ended up predicting exactly how my grief journey would unfold.

“The Lamb: The lamb is the bearer of an important message… Approach this gentle creature with utmost patience and reverence. Truth is a gift. Sit still, listen, receive.” - words from the Archetype guidebook

“The Tear: (in my words) “Apparently the tear bings a release of the ego that allows a closer connection to the Spirit world. I think the Lamb’s purpose is to bring me closer to the spirit world. When he was conceived, I felt a closeness to my Self, a connection to my internal being and I believe that is going to open up even more to a connection to the spirit world, to my own ancestors.”

Let’s pause here for a moment. There is no requirement to make lessons out of grief. Grief can simply exist as it is without a need for learning and growth, and even without having answers. In times since then, I have had to practice simply being in grief because it is a part of our messy and beautiful lives.

But I do strongly believe that this experience of grief was absolutely meant to tear everything inside me out, so that I could transform. I know with certainty now that I was not ready to be a mother, because I needed a deep spring cleaning. I met with a medium a few years later who suggested that Rowan and I would have been trauma bonded, and that I would have enacted out certain negative patterns on him that would have been hard for both of us.

“What I do know is grief and sadness are a deep, black, well. In this well there is a stripping away of secondary emotions and the clutter of the mind. I sit in the bottom of the well, my body boundless in the void. It’s here that there is a different quality of alive-ness. It’s not the kind of spark you feel when encountering a beautiful moment in the natural world, but rather it’s a powerful sensation of being very much in one’s own humanity.” - Journal from 3/8/20

Let me tell you about Vicki. If you have ever heard of internal family systems (a therapeutic technique) or “parts work”, than you know about the different parts of our selves that we all have that are clamouring for attention. Vicki is my anger. She is fierce, violent, and unpredictable. Truth be told, I am scared of her. Or was, we have a much better relationship now. Vicki faced a reckoning after my miscarriage. My anger was intense. So much so that at one point I threw my phone across the room, and it broke (of course). It’s hard to even share that, because it’s so cringeworthy and shame filled. But it’s real. Here is another excerpt from my journal at the time:

“The anger is real today. I was supposed to be going to our first prenatal visit, hearing the heartbeat, and instead I’m finishing up bleeding. I am so mad and sad and in disbelief - what was once a peaceful acceptance of sorts has turned into feeling royally pissed….”

Another time, I will write more about anger, and my journey with it over the last couple decades.

Somehow, sitting in the dark hole of grief, I was forced to encounter some of these fierce emotions. Angry Vicki was not hiding. We started to form a friendship, she and I. A truce, an understanding. I listened to her without holding back. She shared her pain. We journeyed together through the grief.

Time softens, but never fully erases. I still get a notification on my phone for Rowan’s October due date. Now that I am lucky enough to have two incredible children earthside, the sting of losing that first dream is not nearly as strong.

You don’t need a medium or a therapist or intense journaling or anyone to help you find answers, but if you want to look, it’s also ok. If there is any takeaway I’d want another mother to receive going through this, it is that your experience of pregnancy loss is uniquely yours. It may be a blip in your day or it may impact your life forever. However you chose to process this is ok: holding a ceremony, naming and sharing, seeking professional or medical support. Maybe you don’t want anything to do with it at all. My beloved mother, grieving too, bought me a rowan tree in honor of her grandchild to be. It’s ok to talk about it with friends, to ask for an ear. It is nothing to be ashamed of. It is not your fault. It’s ok to think about the spirit of your baby, to talk to them. It’s ok to try to conceive again. It’s ok to be angry. It’s ok to process, or to ignore. Whatever it is, it’s ok.

I share all of this because I want to break down the walls of shame that so many of us face, especially women. Storytelling is a powerful tool for connection, even when it is on topics that feel messy, sad, or scary.

If you have made it this far, thank you for reading and being part of this story. Until next time…

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Since my last post, a lot has been going on. We are in the early stages of building a small home that will hopefully be completed in early fall, my babies are growing and morphing so rapidly, and I started a pretty intensive two month course. We also have a number of trips coming up. Summer often feels like this - a whirlwind of projects, trips, social events. These are all things I enjoy, but as someone who relishes slow living, it can feel pretty intense. I am thankful to live in a location where the pace of life can match seasonal changes. Summer is fast and furious and wonderful, but I love when it all slows down, with less projects and more time spent being cozy.

I had a whole other post drafted about my thoughts about self care. It’s a topic that I am pretty passionate about - in fact I co-lead wellness retreats on the topic. The media is saturated with information about it, a lot of it fluff that doesn’t really get to the core of truly nourishing our bodies and soul.

“Wellness is not a state of mind, but a state of action. It is the freedom to move through the innate cycles and oscillations of being human - from effort to rest and back, from connection to autonomy and back, from adventure to homecoming and back.” - Emily and Amelia Nagoski in their book Burnout.

The above description of self care and wellness is one that has stuck with me for years. It gives permission to not get it right 100% of the time, and to appreciate the journey of being human and learning to care for ourselves. It’s also a reminder that self care is a discipline - not in the sense that “if I don’t go for a run, I can’t eat a cookie”, but rather it’s an opportunity to deeply understand and reflect on our own individual needs, and that takes daily practice. It’s a true love story to ourselves.

The self care practice I have felt most aligned with recently is the art of gratitude. I didn’t really think of gratitude as having much to do with self care until I noticed how positively it has been impacting me lately. Sure, in the past I’ve kept gratitude journals, listing various things and people that I was feeling thankful for. But somehow I was never really able to lean into that practice, and it kind of felt like another thing to me, like if I checked it off for the day then I was good to go for self care. (If only it were that easy.) That’s not really how I flow though.

A couple days ago I noticed myself just having an immensely present, joyous moment of overflowing gratitude. I was driving down beautiful country roads and my two kids were sleeping in the back (miracle), allowing me to have a few precious, quiet moments for my mind to wander. I realized that I have been doing this a lot through life but especially since my son was born - noticing a moment and pausing it, just to hug the wonderfully gooey life juice right out of it. It’s not that my life is all rosey, but somehow noticing the super sweet moments or people, or sometimes even appreciating the challenges, allows me to step back and look at the whole of life with a clearer and more objective lens. I feel less bogged down and burdened when I allow gratitude to weave through my days. And I don’t mean just saying, “I am so grateful for this or that…”, but really, deeply making it a sensory experience.

If I had to list things I am thankful for, these would be some of them: Hugs from my daughter, with her arms wrapped tight around me body and her fine, curly head pressing comfortably into my shoulder. The sensation of grass and twigs pressing into bare feet. The deep silence and anticipation of early morning. The moment my baby wakes up and makes eye contact with me, a smile spreading from the tips of his eyes all the way to his wiggly toes. The aftermath of a difficult parenting moment, when mother and child come together to be silly or embrace. The familiar scent and form of my partner in a tight hug after a long day. The satisfaction of sitting down after cooking a meal that has been wafting delicious scents around the house. The aha! moment when a new idea or inspiration comes, and I feel like life is limitless, my stomach churning with plans. The ache of muscles after exertion. Lightness in body and spirit after periods of sadness, reminding me of the cyclical nature of emotions. The smooth feeling of my dog’s ears beneath my hand. A long drink of water when I am feeling very thirsty.

Life is rich even when it’s awful. Practicing gratitude in this way has given me a greater sense of wellbeing, connection, and purpose.

What are you grateful for?

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I had many hours in the car to contemplate parenting, motherhood, relationships, and everything in between. Without distractions of work and home life, I also had more attention for the little details with my kids. I returned home feeling like I have a new take on life, more patience, and a whole lot of joy. I’d love to share some of the snippets I have reflected on in the last few weeks!

• Moving through emotions facilitates more easeful interactions. As a therapist and a yoga teacher, this is not a new concept to me, but it wasn’t until I participated in a 21 day breathwork challenge earlier this year that I felt this embodied in such a clear way. Letting emotions wash over me is an act of letting go of control. It can feel pretty scary, especially if the emotion feels “justified” (*cough cough*, anger). To me it feels like my emotions are a roiling river, pounding and swirling up against a damn wall. When I resist and keep the damn shut, I often seem calm above the surface, but then WHAM! the damn explodes, and I act in ways or say things that are hurtful. It feels surprisingly good to open the damn walls before it gets to this point, letting the raging waters pass through swiftly. Just as fast as the waters pour through, they settle into an even, manageable flow. Wow! Practicing this (when I remember) has really helped some interactions with my daughter and I, as well as in some challenging moments in adult relationships. Sometimes it feels like a stab to the ego. I know I am someone who at times rides my emotions like a bucking horse, gritting my teeth and holding on because I worry if I let go that I won’t be heard, validated, or have my needs met. But my ego and I are working on a friendship right now - sometimes she will let her guard down just a bit and we end up problem solving together! She lets me release the damn of emotions and we both step back to watch. I think we can see that Ari comes a bit more into alignment when she doesn’t hold on so tightly. : )

• DO THE THING! Again, this is something I “know”, but to actually DO is a whole wonderful experience. Coming from a very adventurous and adaptable family, I never wanted having kids to limit my own or their experiences. I absolutely love having a rhythm to my days, with predictable habits for the whole family. But just as much, I love shaking it all up when it needs some refreshing. This trip was just that! It was an opportunity to reset my relationship with my daughter and I after her brother’s birth. It was a break from work, distance from the day to day in order to usher in new perspectives. And it was so FUN. My kids got to experience climbing a 4000 footer in Vermont (well, they were mostly carried, and 3 month old Wren slept most of the time, but they got to be outside and observe MY joy at doing one of my favorite things, which I truly believe will help them to facilitate their own joy). We went to the beach, breathing in the salty air that is sadly lacking in the midwest, played with old friends and new, had lots of family time, ate wonderful food. My daughter, Willow, and I took pauses during the drives to be a monkey, walk along Lake Erie, or do squats together at a gas station, while the baby was just content to be out of his car seat. We developed new night time routines out of necessity (one parent simultaneously putting 2 kids down was a new thing for me) that involved lots of hugs and sweet kisses. There were some super frustrating moments of whining and sometimes I snapped badly and dealt with guilt and shame as I made repairs. But because I had gone into the trip with the expectation that I would constantly need to be adaptable and that I might indeed experience frustration and overwhelm, the overall flavor of our time was playful and joyful. Traveling with two kids is of course vastly different than the road trips I used to take. Yet kids are such teachers. These two babies of mine taught me so much on this trip about being in the moment, not holding too tightly, and going with the flow. Now I am back to “reality” - work, school, house building, coparenting, etc. I am pondering ways to keep the essence of this experience with us all. I think the challenge I took on has boosted my confidence in how I go about my day to day with my kids. At times, I have felt frozen and overwhelmed by the demands and stimulation that is having two young children. I hope that I (and perhaps YOU), can feel a bit more empowered to keep moving, experiencing all the joys and frustrations that come with DOING THE THINGS.

  

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My fascination with birth doesn’t seem to have a memorable starting point, it’s just been there for a very long time. I used to dream of giving birth outdoors, maybe in the woods or by a stream. I was so inspired by the primal nature of it all. I don’t think I ever really pictured myself having a hospital birth - it was never an image that came to mind when I pictured my own future births. I had also spent plenty of time in hospitals with family members and in employment, and I was finding it increasingly removed from any place I would find to be a safe space for a birth.

I began a prenatal yoga teacher training in 2020, and I credit that for gaining a more objective picture of modern obstetrics, with phrases like “fear, tension, pain” (which refers to the body’s response to not feeling safe, thus creating more resistance, and ulitmately, more pain), and “cascade of interventions”, sticking in my mind. The hypnobirthing course I took during my daughter’s pregnancy reinforced the mindset that I could have some semblance of control during labor and birth. Well, as we will see when I share my birth stories, that idea was bullshit (something I believe I actually verbalized in the heat of labor), but thus I went into my first full term labor. I think I understood to some degree that I would be required to surrender, but I certainly had no idea how this would be actualized.

Yet I was very determined that my child would be born at home, in a calm environnment without bright lights or people with their own agenda swarming around me.

I know people who are very happy with their hospital births, I know some who label it as traumatic and feel that their power was stripped from them. I know that people have felt both with home births as well. I don’t like it when my cynicism of something leads me to extreme thinking, so I try to let the stories and research filter in and to hold a balanced viewpoint, but as someone who is training to become a birthworker, I think some sceptism of the status quo is healthy, as it will allow me to be a more critical and discerning support to my future clients. Here is where I have landed at the beginning of my birthwork journey, with two births and a miscarriage behind me, and dozens and dozens of birth stories and videos and research and training swirling in my brain:

• Birth is an extremely personal journey - each birthing person/couple gets to decide how much they research, how much they advocate, where they birth, who is in the room, what interventions they want or don’t want… etc

• Birth is unpredictable and even the most meticulously planned birth with a healthy pregnancy may require medical intervention, although

• Birth is not inherently a medical event

• Birth requires strength. Strength to know when to ask for help or change a plan, raw physical strength - but it is within our capabilities.

• Finally, our social structures do not set up women and families to be in their own power. This applies not only to birth, but to medical decision making and so much more.

Too often, we play the “good girl” without asking questions or considering the overarching motives or reasons for a “recommendation”. Very caring, thoughtful, and intelligent professionals are caught up in a system fueled by fear. I can think of instances when I have been both a victim of this, and a perpetrator when working within the medical system. I cringe to think of both. As a victim, I ended up with what I now largely consider to be an unneccessary surgical procedure, WHILE PREGNANT. As a perpetrator, the pathologizing of my clients, and/or fear of malpractice, sometimes led to less authentic (or perhaps even harmful) care.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, this fear has now come to a head for me as I navigate making decisions for myself and my children, and consider what my future looks like in my career. I trust that it will ultimately lead to a balanced perspective and a decision making process that allows me to feel that I am truly in my power.

And with that, let’s circle back from this fun little sidetrack, back to birth. What I hope for the future of birth in general and any clients I work with (and for myself), is to ultimately have a sense of being in this power.

Being in power doesn’t necessarily mean that everything goes the way we hope - because we cannot control a natural series of events (or unfortunately, the actions of others). It does not mean that we do not seek assistance or reassurance, from loved ones or medical (or alternative) care, or that we blindly and rashly do what we want. To me, being in power means: to understand capabilities and limits of ourselves, others, and systems, to balance preparation and plans with surrender, all the while staying connected to our own inherent wisdom and intuition.

In my last birth, I felt more in my power than I probably ever have… but I see almost every day the instances where I give my power away. Yet when I am truly IN it, those are the moments I feel most aligned and at peace. That is the reason I feel so strongly about it all - because we all deserve this.

I really cannot claim to have all the answers about being in power (I certainly understand my limitations, and I even can picture myself laughing/cringing about my view of being in power and of birth in a couple years1), but I am excited to continue this journey and to hopefully assist others in this area as well (both as a therapist and a birth worker).

Birth stories are fascinating because they are unpredictable (even despite our limited human knowledge and attempt at control). They reveal a woman’s absolutely incredible strength and miraculous abilities with every single story, whether it’s a c-section or an ocean birth (Click here to either be amazed or horrified). And at the end, when the portal opens, we get to witness either a soul entering the world (most often), or sometimes a tragic departure. We are confronted with both our humanity and the divine - with our limitations and the magic of the unknown and inexplicable.

Stay tuned - I am so excited to share my personal birth experiences soon!

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“Loving you is being overstimulated from output but then feeding you to sleep and just gazing in awe at you, all that you were, all that you are, and all you might become. You are truly magical, my baby. Your existence on earth is magical and your presence in my life is divine.” - 12/8/2021, regarding my then 10 month old daughter

Motherhood has been an exploration of so many things for me. I wonder if it ever stops transforming a person? From pregnancy to miscarriage to birth to now caring for two children, the person I was 3 years ago sometimes seems far away. I love the moments where I feel like Ari again, but it isn’t ever really the same me, moreso a leveled up version, or, at least one with different skills and priorities. Motherhood certainly isn’t the only path to transformation. I can recall several pivotal moments or timeframes in my life where I was shedding the skin of my formal self, whether it be grief, exposure to new information, relationships, aging. This is life, right?

Yet I believe that parenthood is one of the most in-your-face, persistent life disturbances that I have experienced. Perhaps it is the little nervous systems that are constantly responding to my own, like little mirrors. With this comes a more conscious awareness of the things I’m saying, the tones, how I’m taking care of myself, when I’m about to lose it, etc. I don’t always have the skills (yet) to make a total shift, but another version of me is always hovering above (lovingly, this is the Self, the core of each of us), sometimes saying “hmmm, not your best move there, Ari, maybe we can try something else next time”.

Here are two of my latest lessons I am learning and practicing in motherhood:

1. Being present does not mean that I will remember every little detail of these swiftly evolving moments. Motherhood is probably the experience I have been looking forward to most in my whole life. My own internal longing for children was sometimes so strong that it was painful! Now it’s all here, and I am very much in love with it, but with every moment that passes I feel a little loss. Oh, I try to bottle every moment up so very tightly, almost as if I think that when I get old and my children are out in the world, I will be able to sit in my rocking chair, squeeze my eyes shut and recall countless vivid details of sights, sounds, and smells through the years. But hey, that means I’m actually living more in the future than in the now, huh? Whoops. When I recall other moments in my life that I did not want to let go, I don’t remember those tiny details, so much as the emotions that came along with them. Joy, sorrow, grief, angst, confusion, happiness… I can bring those back. I know that in the same way, I will be able to recall the intense emotions of early parenthood. So I am trying to let go of the experience of attachment, and explore what being fully present looks like… putting down my phone, smelling my baby’s head, making him laugh again (absolutely intoxicating), breathing deep through intense toddler emotions (or trying to put myself in her shoes), joyfully conversing about our days, staring at them endlessly while they sleep. I am also practicing what it looks like to be more present with myself - less numbing and more intention, making sure I am meeting my own needs, not just for my kids, but because I am a whole human who deserves that as well!

2. Cut out the noise and lean into your intuition, Ari! Being able to trust my gut has been very challenging for me. I think it stems from wanting to do the “right” thing and be viewed by others as '“good”. Unfortunately, that is absolutely impossible. Motherhood has challenged me to let go of other people’s opinions of me, and fully lean into what I know is best for me and my family. Right now, I’m constantly asking myself how to cut out the noise more, so that I may actually even be in touch with my intuition. It is difficult, sometimes, to strike the balance of researching or discussing best parenting practices, health topics, and education viewpoints, with just living and experiencing it all! Talk about the mental load of parenthood here… The times that I have followed my intuition, however, have been extremely rewarding, some of the best moments of parenthood! For example, co-sleeping seemed like a very scary and taboo thing to me at first, but after researching how to do it safely and practicing it for the last 2+ years, I could not imagine a different situation for my family. What’s funny about parenthood is that what my intuition says is right for me is probably not what’s right for you! And that’s where the practice of tuning into self comes in…

My baby is smiling cutely while playing at his toy gym, so I must go attend to him adoringly. Thank you for reading this weeks newsletter!

Leaving you with yet another Beautiful Chorus song, my absolute favorite lullaby.

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It has been just over a year since I moved back to Michigan from New Hampshire. I’ve often reflected on what this year has brought to me and my little family. There were a number of reasons we made the decision to move back - more time with the other side of the family, opportunities for increased community and to live on land, etc; but with every positive decision comes loss: very dear friends, family, my therapist, my favorite coffee shop, the ocean, and mountains. Oh the mountains….

Although I have moved frequently in my life, due to being a military kid and a restless spirit, I have almost always lived within a few hours of mountains. There is nothing so solid and comforting, and sure of itself, as a solid mass of rock and dirt and trees. There is no feeling quite like standing on a hard won peak, looking miles into the distance. It’s truly exhilarating.

But that’s not even necessarily the best part. I love the way hiking and backpacking force one to strip back to the essentials: a creaky pack, sub par trail food that only tastes good because I worked up such an appetite, and me. I remember times when I was younger and the anticipation of a backpacking trip would make me nervous, not because of any perceived danger, but because I knew that I would have a chance to be alone with my thoughts and emotions, which can be pretty intense as a teen and young adult. Now, as a parent of young children with constant background noises of crying, cooing, or toddler chatter, I relish any opportunity for silence and reflection like that. In fact, it feels very sacred and necessary for my own growth and any remaining creativity to bloom. The removal of myself from the day to day and the hustle and demands is the most refreshing experience about being in the mountains.

The physical challenges of hiking also provide opportunities for both internal and bodily growth and pleasure. Mountains are also always there, usually changing imperceptibly slowly (excluding the loss of the infamous Old Man of the Mountain, a striking granite feature in the White Mountains that, despite human efforts, disintegrated in 2003). It is comforting to be able to close my eyes and imagine my favorite Lake Beauty in the Olympic Mountains of Washington State, thousands of miles away, yet just as I remember her.

To say I miss the mountains is an understatement: I very actively grieve their absence in my life. However, I have been surprised at what my new environment offers. Instead of chasing mountaintops, I am minding the minutia. I have the rich blessing of living on bountiful land that changes as quickly as the wind blows. Tiny new plants are ushered in with spring rains, and just as swiftly as they came, are replaced by summer blossoms and magnificient evening shows by hundreds of fireflies. Late summer brings new waves of flowers before the landscape fades into the rich colors of fall… and eventually the soft browns, grays, and whites of winter, with shedded trees revealing cozy rolling hills. Despite my lifetime spent in nature, this past year has sweetly nudged me to look even closer, slow down more, and experience more presence. In return, I have been gifted increased contentedness amongst challenging situations.

I’ve mentioned slowing down before. Living in the Michigan countryside this year has presented me with the opportunity to experience life in a less hustled way. I have wondered if this change is also a product of East Coast vs Midwest mentality. Perhaps the fast paces of Boston and New York City seep up and down the coast, infusing the strong drive to chase every actual and metaphorical mountaintop. I certainly felt the bustle and intense personal drive for many, many years. The Midwesterners I have met have strong drives as well, but from my experience it is ever so softened by a slightly slower pace1, and I have been curious if this shift is shaped by the environment. Neither position is “good” nor “bad”, but I have had to make decisions in my life to take the slower route for my own health (I’m also extremely fortunate to be able to make these privileged decisions). Working part time from home with two kids is a dream, a loss, and a challenge, but I am ever grateful for the ways my kids and my sweet Michigan landscape continue to prompt me to be more present. My prayer for myself is that I may continue to practice this wherever I land.

A sweet reminder:

What do you think? Has your environment shaped your pace of life?

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I cannot remember exactly when I fell in love with herbalism, but now it is one of those things that feels like it has always been around. Perhaps my ancestors were wise women healers with a fantastic relationship with plants. It was a slow weaving of several interests over time. During a summer break in college, I started my first garden on my own in my parents’ yard. I have never been a super organized gardener, but I love the process of planting and observing the miraculous changes through the season, and, of course, being able to wander out barefoot on a still summer morning and eat fruits and vegetables still living and still warm from the sun.

Later in college, I became really interested in the mechanics of the nutrition, googling “benefits of ___” with every meal. It was fun to visualize what was going on in my body. “Antioxidants fighting free radicals” just brings a great image to mind. I began to develop an appreciation for what plants could provide to me (more on that later). They started to feel like good friends. I also began to make my own lotions and body care products from scratch, which is incredibly satisfying. This was when I was big into my “zero waste” phase2 and the start of my “anti-everything” phase, which just so you know includes most things but especially store bought body care products full of chemicals.

Eventually I became super fascinated by the prospect of using herbs for healing and support. I acquired a number of books and whistfully scrolled through websites of clinical herbalist programs. “Maybe THIS is it, my career path,” I pondered.

I stumbled upon one of my first herb pals, lemon balm (Melissa officinalis), while looking for something to reduce mood and anxiety symptoms “naturally”. There is a lot out there marketed just for this, because unfortunately a lot of us need some help with our nervous systems. I planted it in my garden along with mint and made “sun tea” by leaving a large jar filled with plant matter and water in the sun for a few hours or a day. Somehow steeping in the sun seems more magical, as I can imagine the sun rays infusing solar powers into the liquid.

Lemon balm is a wonderful starter perennial herb in the mint family, really easy to grow, and accessibly tasty (unlike some herbs, which are more “acquired tasty”). I started with some store bought tinctures from big brands, which are often super bitter and harsh, but it was surprisingly helpful for my symptoms. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge that I was taking action? How thrilling it was to be able to have such a tangible way to take care of myself! This is one of the things I love about herbalism - it allows you to build a sovereign relationship with your own health and body.

Lately, I have continued to use lemon balm for nervous system support for myself and my daughter, as well as viral support when we are encountering colds or illness. Last summer I grew and dried stacks of lemon balm and made my own tincture with vodka, which is a potent way to get much of the plant constituents. It tasted so much better than store bought tinctures - much less harsh! I plan to use fresh plant this year and am excited to note any differences in flavor and vibrancy.

Two Christmases ago, I spent hours crafting carefully selected remedies for each of my immediate family members, just hoping beyond hope that my medicines infused with love would help whatever ailments they might face. That was a wonderful learning experience for me, as I was able to experiment with salves and tinctures and immune boosters and sleep aids. “Ari’s Apothecary” was informally born.

I continued to strategize about how I could make money from this interest of mine. Remedy maker? Clinical herbalist? In conjuction with some of my other areas of expertise and interest? I felt like I was wasting potential and certainly not learning about the topic fast enough. I would read and read and the information would just not retain as I wanted it to.

I don’t know when it dawned on me that chasing this “hustle” culture of trying to make money with every interest or hobby was NOT meant for me and herbs right now. The plant world is slow and unhurried. It is incredibly complex in many ways and simple in others. It is mysterious. It is demanding, gently, that I play the long game, slow down, take my time. Really get to know an herb by growing it, foraging it, experiment with it. I still have in the back of my mind “Alright, I gotta make money out of this,” and maybe someday I will. Cultivating relationships with plants is a lifelong task. Now I see the magic of that. Instead of hurry up and get there, I’m pondering how to enjoy each little triumph, little nugget of knowledge, excitement at being able to ID a new plant in the wild, and wonder at the prospect of growing and creating medicine with my own hands. Slowing down gives permission to approach things with a more lighthearted and curious spirit.

I feel gratitude to the plants for nudging me to take a look at these things, amongst others!

That’s all for now. Now go out there and make friends with an herb!

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I mentioned in my first newsletter that I am questioning most things these days. I have another post coming in which I discuss how I’ve gone from an accepting wallflower to angry, dubious mama. But for now, I want to discuss the ever sensitive topic - body image, and especially how it relates to bounce back culture post birth.

I have always considered myself an athlete. I played all the different sports as a kid, backpacked with my family, ran and rowed in high school, and eventually made my way to Division 1 rowing in college. I prided myself on being strong. I remember walking around campus in high school and college, shoulders back and head tall, because I was a “rower”. Whenever you’d tell someone you rowed, they would say “but that’s so hard!”, and “you must have to get up so early!” “Yes!” I would respond, swelling with pride, pleased that my hard efforts were recognized. I didn’t feel like I had a lot going for me in those days - I was quiet and reserved and found it difficult to enter into large social settings. As a result, most of my self worth became tied up in my body, performance, looking and feeling strong.

This connection became even stronger in college, when I was lucky enough to obtain a full scholarship (a whole lot I could unpack there too, about privilege, college athletics, college tuition in general…but I am very thankful nonetheless), and I was literally paying for my education with my body. A sport I truly loved became marred with performance standards. I ate to fuel my sport (the only good nutrition “rule” that a team member made up is that ice cream fuels a 6k). I cried and lost so much sleep, drowning in anxiety. I still have dreams about it all to this day. I met with a sports psychologist, who was truly wonderful. At that time, however, I was not ready to receive or understand things like “you don’t have to let your thoughts control you”, “it’s ok to feel emotions”. I was still in the phase of life where I deeply grasped for control through a rigorous moral code and performance standard in all areas.

After college, when I was no longer working out 3 hours every morning, I began the journey of redefining my relationship with my body and with athletics. I am still on that journey, and probably will be for the rest of my life. After a year off, I went to grad school and fell back into competitive sports - this time with the college cycling club. Again, I thrived off of being recognized for my power. And let me say, there is nothing wrong with being strong! It’s really wonderful, a gift to work hard and to truly feel our own power as humans. But my self worth was way too tied up in all of it.

As the years post grad school went on, I became more relaxed about my athleticism and consequently, much more judgemental about my body. And then pregancy hit - first with a miscarriage (talk about a challenging relationship with your body there), and then with infinite changes as my daughter grew inside me. I felt very limited. I had to stop running due to intense pelvic pain. By the end of my pregnancy, walking was difficult. I got a rush from my unmedicated home birth, once again recognizing and taking pride in my body and abilities. But that was quickly superceded by this brand new body. Who the heck is she? I constantly sought reassurance from my partner. I got angry often. I still could hardly walk. It took months of physical therapy for me to regain a decent level of comfort. I returned to mountain biking. This is a sport for me that has not been marred by intense competition (although I do occasionally race). It’s just really, really fun. I feel strong, and I’m smiling. It’s an activity that my partner and I enjoy together. It was a good start to healing.

Through this all, I was going through a constant battle in my mind. I was very strongly determined not to participate in “bounce back” culture. I hardly even know if I should write about this all because I don’t want to perpetuate this extreme fascination our society has with our body sizes. Isn’t being human hard enough?

But I was also extremely uncomfortable and dissatisfied with the way my body looked and felt. Was it ok for me to want to try to get my body “back?” Or should I just be a busy mom who didn’t have the time to focus on her body in that way, for now? I was swinging way in the opposite direction, so angry at society and myself for the struggles I and many other women face. I ate what I wanted and constantly battled with every workout, “Am I doing this to be healthy and happy, or to ‘get my body back’? Don’t you dare be one of those people who is all focused about your body postpartum, Ari!” Gosh, the self judgement. Sometimes I just can’t win with myself.

The transition to motherhood is the absolute rebirth in countless ways. Over two years postpartum, with a second baby freshly delivered, I feel that I am finally finding some middle ground. I recognize that I love being an athlete and feeling strong, and I’m starting to recognize that it’s ok to feel that way. I also have way more acceptance and love for this beautiful postpartum body. It’s tied up in grief this time. This could potentially be my last child, and my body may never be exactly like this again. For weeks after my son’s birth, my womb felt so cold with sorrow. I am slowing down to recognize the miracle of it all.

Yet, simultaneously I felt a thrill after my first run in nearly a year.

Oh, I felt like me again! Primal me. Moving through the grass just like the deer. Birthing a baby as the sun rises. Cuddling around my warm babies at night. Breastfeeding by a fire. Smiling ear to ear as I shoot down a hill on my bike. Nourishing myself with homemade plant medicine. Hugging my partner tight. Walking with two babies strapped to my body. Strong. Soft. Evolving. Growing and shrinking. Stretching and strengthening. Resisting and accepting.

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This isn’t my first attempt at habituating my writing.

Welcome! I am honored that you are here. Let’s start by talking about my “why” and “what”.

I have had short lived blogs in the past (I will not link these, but if you’re sleuthful maybe you can find one), a stab at a yoga business Instagram page, committments to journaling daily (or at least more than a few times a year). I was lucky as a kid to have had 2 middle school teachers enforce daily journal entries and emphasize creative writing, and through this I fell in love with the medium, but since then my writing has been sporadic.

Writing to me feels like a creative form of mathematics: if you arrange words in just the right way, you can move people to tears, transport them to a magical place, provoke thought and action. I love making people cry - and I love reading something worded just so to inspire emotions in me. If I read something that moves me in that way, I instantly feel more connected to the author. It’s a matter of being SEEN which feels both scary and awesome. It can also feel surprising, which I think is something we humans enjoy. Have you ever been just going about your day, probably somewhat mindlessly, and then you read or hear something, maybe in a book, or a social media post, or on a podcast and WHAM! you’ve got some feelings you weren’t expecting? And you remember your humanity! And now you are really in the present moment. Yum.

What I have appreciated most about writing in my adult life is the invitation to learn and dialogue together, to share in vulnerability and experiences. For a little while, it seemed that social media was an acceptible avenue for this. Now, for me, social media is a noisy trap that makes it impossible for me to hear my own thoughts and attend to my intuition and gives me dopamine rushes that leave me wanting more. Meh.

I also learn and process through writing. That’s a huge catalyst for this newsletter. I will not write from the position of an expert in any topic, even ones I am well trained on. The only thing I’m somewhat an expert on is myself, and even that I’m not so sure about sometimes - often I surprise myself with new facets of my being. Instead, I will write from the position of an explorer, navigating topics that are relevant and precious to me.

What are these topics? I’m not one to box myself in, but the things I am most passionate about fall under one umbrella, which brings us to the title of this letter.

Back to Mother

“Back to Mother” refers to the mother archetype as I know it. I’m sure there are many interpretations of this archetype, but I personally break it up into a few categories.

1. The land we stand on , “mother earth”, which provides us with food to nurture us and a home to explore and devote ourselves to.

2. The “mother”, (or parent, or relative, or friend, all undefined by gender) who is transformed by birth, death, and everything else.

3. Birth! I am inspired by the spiritual and physical cycles of birth and death.

4. All emotions evoked by the above - and the ability to nurture, share with each other, participate in vulnerability, apologize, do the deep dirty work, recognize privilages. A symbol of both deep power and trust in oneself with the balance of growth and humility. These things I strive for.

   I am a home herbalist, mother, birther, partner, daughter, friend, sister, and social worker, who is exploring yoga, birthwork, spirituality, motherhood, and everything in between. I am dissatisfied with the status quo and find myself questioning almost everything these days (much to my exhaustion). I have so many ideas that I am thrilled to explore together. I am not yet sure what I am committing to here, but I know it will be perfectly imperfect, and as my own momma’s voice often echoes in my head “do the next best thing”, and that dear reader, is starting this newsletter.

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