Build Your Own Door
The doors to the world of the wild self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, this is a door; if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much that you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.
Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes
Women Who Run With Wolves
On the day I was born, I came into this world, took my first breath, and sound came out of my mouth. What started as crying in infancy, turned into singing as soon as my toddler body would allow. I have continued to sing from that moment forward. It came as naturally as breathing. No matter if I was in a room by myself or on stage in front of hundreds of people, singing was in my blood. And so I sang. I dedicated decades of my life to singing. I stood on stages or at alters, opened my mouth and sang words that moved rooms. But those words were never my own.
How do you write your own song? How do you find your own tune? I had arrived at the middle of my life and realized that my voice had been buried so deep underground I could no longer access its sound. A voice that had been buried by culture, by religion, by family dynamics, by trauma, and eventually, buried by my own survival skills.
How does one who had a seemingly normal childhood with a 20 year deep devotion to the church and it’s people wind up sitting in a rehab getting stripped searched while I can barely stand? I grew up thinking I had a normal life. I was unaware that I no had no emotional regulation skills. In my late teens I blindly believed and allowed extreme religious dogma to influence my life. There focus on the demonic and their desire to “deliver” people to a better life led me to be harmed for the hope of healing. Experiences of shame left me silent and unable to grieve. In my 30’s, my own lack of real world experiences combined with the churches message to serve left me vulnerable for being taken advantage of. And then, when I had experienced so much pain, grief and trauma with no outlet for processing, drugs took over. What does it look like when everything falls apart and you wind up sacrificing everything you thought was true for the sake of real freedom?
At my lowest point, I found comfort in gardening and the metaphors that were found among the earth began changing me. And so, I started digging. I dug through dirt, and rock and clay and mud. And as I dug at that yard, I dug at my soul as well. I dug and I cried. I dug and I shook. I dug and I sat on the ground covered in dirt from head to toe; out of breath, covered in sweat, exhausted beyond belief. For me, digging uncovered a lot of things: religious trauma, abuse, identity, grief, disability, recovery, and more. When all what said and done, the brave work began of looking at what was left of myself when the dust settled. EMDR therapy, rehab, religious deconstruction, coaching, medical appoints too numerous to count and more recovery meetings then I thought possible became my norm. Some say when God closes a door, he opens a window. But I’ve never been one for climbing through windows, so I went ahead and built my own damn door.
Not only did I dig up my child self who got lost along the way, I had the pleasure of getting to know her, to love her and watch her become a daring woman creating a life more vibrant then I ever thought possible. Sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is hope. I started speaking up for myself, I started writing, I started making my own decisions, and began living in true authenticity. My life has transformed in powerful ways. Nothing could have prepared me in the beginning for the brutal work ahead. But the sacred work of transformation is worth it. Unearthing my own voice cost me everything, but has led to a life beyond my wildest dreams.
