HealIng

On March 5 of 2020, I sat in my therapist’s office thanking him for all the work we’d done together. I told him something like, “I think I have the tools I’ll need to be okay from here on.” And then I moved cross-country to Minneapolis from Albuquerque during Covid-19 lockdown.

I wasn’t okay, of course. (Was any of us okay?) I did pretty well for a couple of months because my husband and I were both busy working and even during a pandemic, Minneapolis was new and intriguing and wonderful to us in the few ways we were able to confirm. I cried during Zoom yoga with my beloved Albuquerque instructor and the other participants I missed, but we all did. And then George Floyd was murdered. And then as summer arrived, the stench of three dead rats behind the walls of my newly purchased condo manifested and caused a panic response. And then a bunch of other stuff happened that was less significant but created the pile-on effect the pandemic had for just about everyone.

In 2021, I was forced to acknowledge how not okay I was. I was waking up sad. I was breaking down over decisions. I was crying at the coffee shop over whichever book I was reading. (I still do that.) But in a phone conversation with my sister, I chided myself for complaining. In March, she sent me a card, writing, “Please be kind to yourself now. Feelings you weren’t able to process during the move may be catching up with you. . . . Let yourself have a window to come to terms with everything you’ve been through.”

Honestly, I’m not sure I’d ever given myself the chance to process much of anything I’d been through until the sixth or so revision of my memoir, which I tackled in 2020. To quit therapy that year may have been one of the most naïve decisions of my life. What I didn’t recognize was the importance of healing from the trauma I started therapy for in the first place. (So obvious now, right?) Back then, I needed someone to help me with boundary setting, and my therapist did. All good, yes? (Nope.)

Lately, I’m drawn to books about how to heal. Initially, I didn’t consciously understand why. I first dabbled by reading A Renaissance of Our Own by Rachel E. Cargle and used it to write my personal manifesto. A few months and a little awareness later, I bought What It Takes to Heal by Prentis Hemphill. For my husband, I bought Rewire by Nicole Vignola, but it turned out to be perfect for me, too. Now, I’m about to start It’s Not You by Ramani Durvasula. That’s a lot of heavy reading. But what I’ve learned thus far is how critical it is for all of us to make the time to heal—from whatever—in order to better connect with each other and have the stamina to face what comes next.

I’ve been meditating and doing Pilates and yoga for years, but I’m also back in therapy. Finding a new (local) therapist has not been easy, but at least I’ve taken a step off the start line. The jacket of What It Takes to Heal asks, “As we emerge from the past few years of collective upheaval, are we ready to face the complexities of our time with joy, authenticity, and connection?” Right now, my reply is that there will be days when I’ll do it by curling into a ball and crying, but maybe not—if I keep doing this work.

I’m intrigued by how our bodies store our experiences and with the neuroscience that shows how our brains and autobehaviors can be changed. On the ground level, I’m experimenting with physiological sighs and breathing through the pores of my skin. (Try it!) I’ve been listening to the tones of mammoth windchimes and sound bowls and the song “alive & well” by Jhené Aiko. Think what you will, but I’m breathing more deeply and feeling more relaxed. I have moments of optimism. I hope you’re having them, too.