Week Four Essay
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Please describe a time when you learned something important from a painful experience. How do you view that experience now that it is in the past?
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1HXb5yzwrVNACzicByPP_m68fs1_hcmT6/view
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In 2002, I felt fortunate to get involved with a local arts organization, eventually becoming an employee. I loved it, and I learned a lot. The founder, Board members, and others on staff were wonderful people, mostly in the psychological professions, many being licensed psychotherapists.
Imagine the deep feeling of betrayal when this nurturing oasis of creativity and artistic exploration – my safe place for many years – became a nest of vipers. The organization was flailing financially, so they decided to lay off half the staff. It wasn’t just about the budget – there was a coverup of wrongdoing among the higher-ups in the organization. After being a class facilitator and Director of Administration for almost 15 years, I was now the “whistleblower,” and consequently I was jettisoned – fired – laid off.
There is a quote that goes, “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” Sometimes it’s rendered as “Holding onto resentment…” – and from my Bing search just now it has variously been attributed to Carrie Fisher (!!), Nelson Mandela (!), and the Buddha.
Looking back, I view this experience of extreme righteous indignation as a boiling cauldron of toxic ingredients that almost exploded. The range of emotions that I felt far exceeded any norms. It was informative to observe my own extremes, ranging from despair to rage – something I recognize as perfectly human, but not something I’m eager to repeat. It serves to remind me that all of us are capable of terrible extremes, and to observe these impulses with compassion, because I know they reside in every human being, including (and especially) in myself.
Another takeaway for me is that it’s smart to remain much more neutral about organizations, and not invest so much passion in things that don’t belong to me (and are not in my purview). Ironically, some of the measures that I personally put into place at that job have been instrumental in maintaining that organization’s funding, and they remain in existence. I did my best, but when the Universe decided to move my ass out of there, it was unmistakable – I was ejected rapidly, and with no fanfare. It is as it should be, and I am grateful.
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Karen,
I can only imagine how infuriating it must be to invest so much time and energy into an organization and its project, only to end up with such a painful outcome.
Just like they say that when your teacher fails, his teachings are still valid if they helped you and were useful, I hope that the learning, tools and knowledge that you were able to acquire and develop during those years of service, have been able to help you on the steps, subsequent jobs and situations you went through. And also that knowing your extremes and the way to manage the boundaries between your personal and professional life has been a harvest worthy of all the pain you had to go through. And judging by your words, it seems that it was, so I’m glad.
With kindness,
David -
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Karen, ouch and yuck. Your descriptions of your distress really landed with me. How painful to pour so much love and effort into an organization and then have it snatched away. One of the first steps of self-compassion is to find the common humanity in our experiences. All that despair and rage is – as you point out – perfectly human.
Please continue to be passionate and invest your time and talent. The world needs people who live with their hearts open even when it’s risky. -
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Hi Karen,
I feel how hard it must have been to be betrayed like that.
What’s more, it must have been so hard to be swept away from a job that was dear to you and where you had put all that energy. Painful to give up.
To read you describe your emotions – the indignation, the rage, the despair – and the mileage you’ve put on these trails while recognizing them as human turbulences being present in others and in you, struck me as a very clear vision of your compassion in action.
It certainly took a lot of strength on your part to let go, in order to start all over again somewhere else. Hats off to you. -
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I’m going to talk about something that almost everyone can relate to.
Putting your expectations on someone, being over carried away by the promising situation arising, then falling down on your feelings and having to pick yourself up again. Heart pain and its potentional to tear us apart, and at the same time, simultaneously and paradoxically, help us to find in this whispy dusty unsettling turmoil, the hidden gem that gives your heart an unforseen extra capacity to love with a whole new dimension, a power that is not revealed until it breaks open and new brighter light can be filtered through its cavities. To love with extra strength and appreciation the people and circumstances in your life that do work and that will not run up the hill when things get tough, or when you allow yourself to be vulnerable and real.
Trying to repeat Susan’s words as I remember them in her book “The Wisdom of a broken heart”, a heart that is broken is a heart that is set free from its limits, that instead of focusing its love on a single person or situtaion, now is set loose, love radiating from it all. You feel more, you are touched deeper, and you are able to understand what other people are going through and, let me just say, life in general. How priceless that is? So many great things came to my life after that experience, or experiences, and I remain wholehartedly amazed and grateful to them since.Thanks for reading,
David-
I discovered Susan via that book. I could relate deeply to your post, David. Thank you for sharing. I for sure feel more than I ever have after a broken heart experience. It is both beautiful and sad at the same time.
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David, thanks for describing your experience so poetically. It seems almost impossible to live without expectations, but perhaps we can hold them more loosely and make more room for curiosity. Susan once described it as “entering life unguarded… No preconceived notions, no expectations.” I’m practicing…
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Dear David, What beautiful words that you expressed in your essay. Yes, “almost everyone can relate to”. And, you seem to have strengthened who you are, have become more compassionate to others and may I dare say, more compassionate to yourself. Such valuable lessons. I wish you continued discovery, strength and love on your journey.
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When I was in my mid-twenties, I quit my job and moved across the country to North Carolina following my husband’s new job. For the first time, I lived far from my family and friends. I knew it would be difficult, but it was worse than I expected. It became a time of breakdown and break through.
Based on what I had experienced in my family, I thought adults didn’t feel strong emotions. I was feeling sad and angry and fearful. I developed a phobia that kept me from driving. I had no skills to deal with the huge waves of grief that were washing over me. (This was long before Buddhist teachings entered my life.) I was sure there was something broken in me and considered suicide.
Instead, I was lucky enough to go to a 12-step group. There, I found compassionate people who were dealing with similar emotions (on account of being humans). They were honest about their struggles and the program provided a path.
Much of what I learned are seeds of what I now recognize in the dharma: I discovered that I could be resourceful and find pools of calm and strength within myself (Buddha). I practiced dwelling in the present moment. I learned not to run away from Big Feelings, but to make space for them. (dharma). I was surrounded by fellow travelers (sangha).
Through heartbreak, I found companionship, gentleness, and freedom. I started making art again, got a new job, and began taking yoga classes. I became, as Susan Piver puts it, “a more truthful version” of who I am.
A few years later, as I started driving the thousand miles back to Minnesota, the words came to me “you were born in North Carolina.” In many ways, that’s true.-
Hi Kate-
This sounds like a very similar experience I had within the walls of my own 12-step group.
“Through heartbreak, I found companionship.” Your words have awoken something inside me that wants to seek out why I have been isolating away from different types of companionship.
Here’s to being “a more truthful version” of who we are.
Thank you for your share.-
Kate, I was deeply moved to read your post. The relocation, the loss of landmarks, the absence and lack of loved ones.
“Based on what I had experienced in my family, I thought adults didn’t feel strong emotions. I was feeling sad and angry and fearful.” Thank you for sharing that Kate. It really resonated with me, when I was young I didn’t know what to do with strong emotions because most of the time they were prohibited within my close family.
Like you, I have found nourishment and understanding in the power of the very first meditation group I stepped in. This reassurance of “Oh I am not alone and it is normal (“human”) to go through this”. The pivot you describe in seeing the resource rather than the lack is quite helpful. And your ending, “I was born in North Carolina”, took me by surprise ! What a flash of insight.
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A broken house, a soulmate, a child.
My life is in good shape. Busy with work, friends, a house, a family. I am so young and unconcerned. Then comes the result I’d been waiting for: impossible to have a second child. The shutters of my heart close.
In the house, the wind blows through my flags of rage, emptiness, of not enoughness. Nothing else I know of but freeze and cry.
After numerous mornings, this word comes to the surface: “Non-avoidance”. What is already there lives. I observe myself trying to push the wall behind me. This leads to incursions to listen to how my body reacts, to feel the sincerity of my suffering, to let it be, as scary as it is. Little by little I become a soul companion to myself. It is a totally new way to relate to who I am. Up until then, difficulty has hit others closest to me, but this is the first time it hits me directly under the skin.
With time and help, I remembered my need to love, and to be loved. I remembered that it’s never too late for what is really important to us. That nothing mattered more than this defining need to expand my family. And that for it to exist I owed complete allegiance and reverence to the amplitude of what my heart was capable of.“Intelligence is the strength, solitary, to extract from the chaos of one’s own life the handful of light sufficient to brighten a little further than oneself, towards the other out there, like us lost in the dark”. Christian Bobin
After a year of contemplation, we decided to adopt.
I crossed gigantic waters and secret valleys to reach her. When I approached her, she was almost 400 days old. I was dazzled by the sunshine powder in her eyes.Now that this story is behind, I feel so grateful and in awe of how far we’ve come. What keeps filtering through is abundant. I see that by allowing how I felt I gained energy to stretch beyond what I was enduring. I learned that a potent form of love I touched is how to communicate with myself and others.
This experience made me very porous to the pain of others.
I felt compassion for all children, abandoned or otherwise, their invisible parents, those who would like to but can’t have any for so many reasons, all the others who are looking for or have lost their own.
I understand that no one is exempt from pain.
Again and again, I continue to learn from compassion how to show up for others.Since then in my house, the wind has taken its leave.
And when I hear my daughter giggling, I remember that she has brought back here a peace that has nothing to do with immobility !-
Dear Helene, What beautiful words that you gave to your painful experience. It strikes me on so many levels. The most of which resonates for me is your courage to adopt. My father was adopted at age 5 years old. We have few records and none tell the story of why he was in an orphanage. He was born in 1909 so records weren’t so well kept. The orphanage burned down and that resulted in loss of records. I often wonder what it must have been like for all involved. But, what I’m delighted about is he was always with smiles, love and jokes!! I miss my dad so much; he was a very loving father.
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Hi Helene,
Thanks so much for sharing your story of heartbreak and dreams that won’t come true. I see that in your process of coming back, you had deep compassion for others and that grew in you for yourself.
Your phrase “This experience made me very porous to the pain of others.” rings so true for me too. Porous. Such a great word to paint the picture of how connected we are to each other, to what we feel collectively and individually.
Thanks again. -
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What a beautiful essay, Susan. It was exactly what I needed to hear at this point in my journey.
Your words describe where I am, “When I practiced opening myself to my own suffering and the suffering of others, at a certain point it would become unbearable and all I could do was cry.” I find myself shying away from people’s emotions and isolating due to a recent trauma because I feel as if my heart was broken wide open, and hearing of others pain is too much. I find myself crying all the time. I never used to cry– in fact, I have gone years without.Your other words describe where I’d like to shift my thinking, “they gained something from their tears. They learned something from them. They weren’t reduced to a weakened condition; they were made stronger by their tears and were left with a greater capacity for love, not less.”
What a powerful thought. -
My reflection on a painful experience: I feel like a broken record. My experience was my divorce from a 20 year relationship at the age of 45 years old with 2 young children. At that point and for a good 10 years I felt like I had bottomed out…groundlessness was ever present. As I told my therapist: “But, I’ve had a boyfriend since first grade!” “I don’t know how to love myself!”
How is it now that it’s in the past? Now that it’s 30 years ago!! I still feel a loss. But, I think it’s a story I tell myself. “That my world would be just perfect if I was in a loving relationship.”
I found meditation and Buddhist teachings about 15 years ago. This has helped me to realize my connectedness with others who feel “alone”. I had been so dependent upon my husband back then, I didn’t know who I was. Through the years I’ve grown in confidence, in independence and in joy of so many new experiences. I guess you could say that I’ve become “a more truthful version of who you already are.”
My journey is far from over, and I am still on the path on discovering my truth.
Susan, thank you so much for this contemplation.-
Hey Betsy, I was moved in reading your essay. Especially when you said “I feel like a broken record”, I have a similar feeling regarding a painful experience that happened in my life some years ago. Maybe we both can show some compassion for ourselves on this point as they are deeply painful experiences. I love that you have come to realize that it could be a story you are telling yourself, about how things should be. I am glad you found a path forward for yourself and are continually growing. I believe that you have found that “loving relationship” you were looking for; it is a loving relationship with yourself. You are a strong person. Thank you for your essay, it is inspiring. I am glad to be on this journey with you.
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Hi Betsy.
I don’t know if maybe you have already really learned to have as much confidence andto love yourself as much as you would like, but from what I have known about you in the OHP sangha, you certainly have a very tender capacity to make others feel appreciated, to highlight the good things in other people, and do it with great humility and kindness. That seems very valuable to me, and I thank you for that.
Also, I have felt really touched by what you say about at least trying to ensure that the pain we feel about loneliness helps us understand and accompany others who also feel it. I think only really great souls are able to see and accomplish that 😉
I wish that your path continues to have beautiful discoveries and countless blessings.
David -
Dear Betsy, thank you for highlighting your connection to others who, like you, feel alone. And in sharing this, your resilience in regaining joy and independence is palpable. You also wrote: “I still feel a loss”. I join you. I still feel loss in my life. I’ve come to realize that, after years, it’s no longer a matter of non-acceptance or lingering sadness. I’m thinking now of this quote I read earlier this week before meditating: “What is impermanent attracts compassion. That which is not brings wisdom”. – Stephen Levine
I’m sure there are many ways to perceive what he means by “that which is not”(impermanent). One that I like to tell myself is that the losses I’ve had are permanent, but that they bring me a certain wisdom: yes, I still feel these losses, and that’s why they remind me to be more attentive to my life, asking myself what’s really important to me in the moment and what deserves my attention. It always depends on our own story, but I find that this way of looking at things gives me a strength from the experiences of loss I’ve encountered. -
Dear Betsy,
As a 46-year old primary parent of 3 small children (who lives mainly alone with them), I can imagine how a change like that must have rocked your world. There are so many factors, so many variables – and yet somehow you not only survived it, but continue to reflect and learn and release. This is no small feat, I feel.
The idea that we must have a “person” to be happy is one that is perpetuated by our culture; of course, without it, the culture would not survive. But it is not an unrealistic idea; our need for community fuels this idea as well, and I think the best response we can have is one Susan continues to repeat: be ourselves. Be yourself. Know your truth and your needs and your wants. Speak them, share them. Make offerings, ask for blessings, dedicate your practice and (my own additional one here) give thanks in advance – in this way, for this thing. I think it’s all spirit, it’s all spiritual practice, this ordinary “human” stuff. I think, perhaps what we’re learning, that this is the way – all of these hurts help us move more deeply into ourselves.
I hope this one continues to be of benefit for your life.
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In 2019, on New Year’s Day, my husband walked out of 37 year-old marriage. I was shocked, devastated, and lost. Notice, I did not say that I missed him, or still loved him. I had just assumed we would stay miserably married for ever. Still, it caused intense grief in me, such as I had never before experienced. For me, grief was always something I pushed away, swept under the rug, locked in a closet. I didn’t want to touch it, see it, smell it, let alone feel it. But in 2019, things were different. I reached for Pema Chodron’s books that had remained unread in my bookcase. For the first time in my life, I “leaned” into the edge of the pain and sat there, crying, staring out the window at the snow falling. I let myself cry while petting my dogs, doing all kinds of weird things in my art journal. So what was a profound loss to me–this idea of being married forever–actually ended up being the greatest freedom. I moved to be closer to my youngest daughter and my grandchildren. I’m mentally in a much better space now, physically, socially, professionally, even financially, than I was in 2019. In the end, I’m grateful he had the courage to walk out. And I told him so recently because I needed to let this go, too, to let him know I held no grudges, though it took a while to get there.
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Wow. 37 years. That is a very long time. Love the weird things in your journal and staring into the snow falling from the window. Sounds like you were being so true to your feelings. That ‘being with’ what you were avoiding and locking way. It is so interesting that life pushed you into this new place, beyond what you thought possible, and now so many aspects are better. You took the push and worked some chemistry magic there, Ginny. Not everyone does that. People can even read a beautiful book like you did, and not take heed. But you did! You did it.
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Ginny, I related to your story. I too, though more recently have ended a nearly 40 year relationship that was dis functional and full of verbal abuse. My ex also precipitated the end of the marriage and I after reading your easy perhaps he was the braver one or maybe I was the braver one to let him make the choice so I wasn’t again set up for blame
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I love how the Universe works – I can only imagine the solace you must have felt reading Pema’s account of her husband walking out and her throwing a book (a mug?) at him, then retreating to her spiritual practice and learning how “indestructible” she was.
How fascinating the degree of heartbreak here, how it’s literally broken so many of us and our lives open, and yet we emerge more whole.
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The covid pandemic lockdown spat both my daughters out of their young adult lives and back into our small house. They were both furious, scared and disoriented, just in very different, noncomplementary ways. They were miserable. They snarled at each other and rolled their eyes at my sweet husband and me. My younger daughter adopted a rescue puppy who quickly grew bigger and stronger than our resident 60 lb dog. The dogs snarled at each other. I was frantic, trying to figure out how to help (fix?) my daughters, how to convince the dogs to quit jockeying for position. Of course, everything else was a mess, the world was on fire, and I felt I just couldn’t bear it, I had to do something, I had to fix the mess. In the meantime, I avoided my family as best as I could. I didn’t mean to; I just couldn’t deal with them. I wasn’t sleeping or eating. All frayed nerves, I leapt up in terror, my heart pounding at random sounds.
I had fantasies of running away, although I knew I didn’t really want to. I had to address my fury and fear. I had to admit past trauma.
I can’t say that it was worth it, that I’m glad in any way for the experience. Memories of that time still cause me deep pain. But I understand suffering now in a way that has opened my heart to include myself.-
Anne, I could really feel the confusion and distress in you during this painful time in the world and more personally in your life. I can’t imagine having to deal with so much and so many people in a small space all at once and so suddenly. I can appreciate that you wanted to “run away” from the pain of confusion. I am glad you came through all of this with a more open heart! You are stronger than you realize. I am happy to be on this journey with you in this class.
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Anne, I really appreciate your last line about understanding suffering now in a way that has opened your heart to yourself. I think many times we think about our own pain last in light of so much pain going on at home or in the world. Glad to be here with you on this journey to deeper self discovery of even the painful parts.
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Dear Anne, your mention of the dogs snarling at each other perfectly captures the difficulty that everone was feeling. So sorry you had to endure this travail, and I admire your honesty in saying that you can’t say it was “worth it” – which probably would feel like sugarcoating it. The opening of your heart to include yourself is a beautiful thing, and I’m glad that is something that came out of this experience.
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Anne, your last line says it all:I understand suffering now in a way that has opened my heart to include myself. I appreciate your willingness to lay it out there–the difficulty of dealing with a pandemic. I’m grateful I got through it, for sure. Not always gracefully, but with a trust I would have never known had I not gone through it. Thanks for sharing your experience.
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The painful experience in my life that I learned most from was the death of my mother ( mum, as always called her ), she was and in some ways still is the most important person in my life. When she died I felt as though I had lost everything, she was my biggest supporter and loved me so much. I didn’t know what I would do without her in my life, I completely fell apart and shut down. I felt such deep sadness and even anger that she was taken out of my life. I no longer had my mum, my rock, my supporter. I felt groundless and hopeless.
I shut down so much that I no longer cared about anything at all, not even my own life! Even though I still had good people and things in my life, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered. fell into a deep depression, was a shell of my former self, and barely existed. I was going through the motions without emotions, totally numb. Not taking care of myself or any of my stuff at all.
One day, one of my nurses outright told me “You stink”, but not in a mean-spirited way, in a truthful and compassionate way. It woke me up at that very moment, not exactly sure why. I went to the doctor right after that and sought help. She sent me to therapy for a little while, which helped a lot. Then, shortly after that, I found meditation, and my meditation teacher, my “spiritual friend”. It was an oddly “magical” series of events. I have healed my depression now, not that I don’t get sad, but I don’t get lost in the sadness anymore.
What I learned from this experience is that I can ask for help when I am going through troubled times and through struggles in my life and there are people who are willing to help and who really care. All I really needed to do was ask, I didn’t have to do things on my own. I learned that it is OK to ask for help and be vulnerable. I learned that I had to feel my emotions fully and not push them down. Truly feeling my emotions and expressing them allowed me to process them and then begin to let them go, that was an amazing realization for me.
As I view this experience now, in the present, I know that I am not alone in these feelings and emotions, they are very human and everyone goes through such emotions in life at some point. Possibly, this is something that I had to go through to find my way, my true path in life so that I truly and authentically could be of benefit to others in the world. To be able to really help others who are struggling with similar situations. Who knows for certain, but I believe that it is a strong possibility.
I do know that my mum is still in my heart and my heart always guides me.
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Dominic, your story of losing your beloved mum is deeply touching. Equally so your challenge to overcome the fear of asking for help. My experience is similar in that once I asked I found out I wasn’t alone. Still I think it’s the hardest thing to do when we are suffering. Thank you so much for sharing this story.
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Im struck by how two simple words, “You stink” can be so powerful. And…Boom, just like that, something turned. I am also struck by how special your relationship was with your mother. Not everyone gets that. What a blessing…and how she is this rock, this solid supporter, in your heart… that is alive. Thanks for sharing your story, Dominic.
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My deepest sympathies for the loss of your beloved “mum”.
You wrote « I have healed my depression now, not that I don’t get sad, but I don’t get lost in the sadness anymore. » It is a turn to recognize that change, the presence of that nuance in us.
I am touched by your words and the light they offer me. Thank you Dominic. -
Dominic – thank you for sharing your “mum” with us here. I can feel how special she was through your writing. So much of what you shared resonated, but this line stood out to me especially: “not that I don’t get sad, but I don’t get lost in the sadness anymore.” Reading those words helped me see more clearly, for myself, how my practice has allowed me not never feel lost (especially in recent years)….but rather (and often surprisingly), found, in this ever-changing ocean of human experience – the beauty and the suffering. Thank you <3 <3 <3
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I was driving one time on a freeway in Denver, going 45 miles an hour. The speed limit was 70mph. My sister had to tell me I was; I didn’t even notice. My body felt so heavy. Slow. I was on on my way to purchase a mattress after a big break up. Now I know I was depressed, but I was just going through the motions then. My brain so cloudy and emotions were consuming every waking moment.
I had been with this person from age 23 – 34. We were engaged. So much growing between us took place, but my final growing with him was leaving him. I had to. I was co-dependent as hell. Toward the end of all that growing, it was obvious. I was only with him for fear of being alone. I bravely broke it off. Within 1.5 months, this person was having a baby with another person and moved to the East coast. That baby died, in a failure to thrive situation. I still cared about my friend, my ex, and it all felt so horrible. The whole thing felt like I was tearing myself away from steering clear of his new story, wanting to help, wanting to let him figure it out, being mad at him, struggling to persevere in my own interdependence.
Ironically, I think having to do the basics of life, go to work, respond in a way to people’s inquiries in a socially acceptable way, and play the part of a day-to-day human who can be sufficient helped provide some anchor to reality. I had a support crew to fall apart with. I relied on the nugget of truth, that I was not to live with this person for the rest of my life. That helped get me through.
Sometimes I still regret wasting nearly 10 years of my life with someone who didn’t share the same life vision. I think: I could’ve been doing so much more, and I likely missed so many opportunities in those early young adult years.
I am also thankful I went though it then, not when I was older, thankful I had not gone through with the marriage,started a family, and been tied to this person my whole life.
I can see it now, about 25 years later, how I ended up being so dependent on someone. She really made the best decisions she could, given the template that was laid out for her. I can envision myself hugging her, although she feels like such a smaller, faded version of me now. She didn’t know. She was naive, desperate. She had to dig really deep back then and have faith in that nugget of truth. She took a chance and I’m grateful she did. I love her.
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Once upon a time, I fell in love with someone who I believed to be “the one.” After about nine months together, his wife showed up at my doorstep after trailing her husband to my apartment after he left work. What I learned from his wife was that he had crafted two separate lives, one with his wife and kids and another with his girlfriend (me). I had no idea.
This incident was devastating, and my lack of self-compassion added to the pain and trauma. The negative self-talk was pervasive in those first weeks and months after I learned the truth.
How could I have not known?
Weren’t there signs? What kind of person couldn’t see all the obvious signs?
How could I have been so naïve?
Shouldn’t I have been able to tell he was being deceitful?Twenty-plus years ago, shock, anger, self-recrimination, and pain overwhelmed all other feelings. It took time (years) for my harsh questions aimed at my own apparent shortcomings to transform into statements of compassion – for me, for him, and for his wife and children.
I think revisiting a difficult life experience can, over time, become a beautiful gift. I’m a different version of myself than I was then. If I could, I would hold that younger version of myself close, acknowledge the release of all the tears that she held back for so long, and offer her all the love, compassion, and understanding that she couldn’t offer herself during that time. Just knowing how I would engage with my younger self in this specific situation helps me feel confident that, in a different difficult situation in the future, I can extend myself the same compassionate consideration. This is the gift!
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The last time I had my heart broken felt like a first time, it was so raw and resounding. The feeling of shock, of being blindsided, warred with my vigilant desire to figure out where exactly it went wrong and what I could have done differently. The person who broke up with me had very little grace, and my attempts at closure fell worse than flat, they opened the wound wider and made me feel foolish for having sought it. Heartbreak is so intense that way! So adept at revisionist history.
The beautiful thing about this major dose of heartbreak was that my community surrounded and supported me in the most generous way. For years, I had avoided the vulnerability of dating, and with this attempt top open myself to it, I also opened myself to the love and support of my nonromantic people.
In one of most meaningful conversations of this turbulent moment a friend reflected that, in romantic relationships there is a mirror held up to you, and often in a deeper and more honest way than in other contexts. You see your wants and hopes reflected without filter, you see yourself and are witnessed and it can feel like there’s nowhere to hide.
After years of avoiding this mirror, of staying safely emotionally unavailable and a little bit secretly hopeless about love, looking at myself directly through the context of a romantic relationship and its demise was… one of the most beautiful, revelatory things I’ve ever done. I loved what I saw. I loved my wants and my vulnerability, my joy and my grief. I loved that I longed for love. I loved myself without judgement in a way I really hadn’t ever before.
It didn’t immediately fix my broken heart, but it made me understand and love the person I was doing all this for. I am so grateful for that lesson, and for the heartbreak that cracked me open to it.
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Eleanore ~ This is such a beautiful story of community and courage and looking deeply into oneself. I’m touched by how this process opened you up to a different and powerful (and previously muted) form of love from your community. And how you were brave enough to look directly into the mirror and love what you saw. 🙏 Thank you so much for sharing.
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I had a dog for 16 years named Luna. At age 8 she developed an autoimmune disease that brought her close to death a couple of times. At that time I experienced great sadness and grief. She lived and was a loving and sweet companion. In her last year of life, she became deaf, blind, incontinent and had dementia. I was ready to let her go as I had processed that pain of loss of her years prior. My ex husband was not ready to let her pass. I as her primary caregiver, abided and endured her suffering.
My lesson is that I listen to my heart more and make choices that arise from within and to act from my inner wisdom.
As Rachel stated, to honor that nugget of truth…(the heart’s wisdom)I struggled to choose a painful experience and struggled to honestly say what wisdom I learned or would make a different choice.
I think each moment of one’s life is made up of choices, experiences and tidal waves of joys and sorrows. -
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My dad died over twenty-five years ago, but his illness and death were the most difficult experiences of my life. He was 67 when he passed, after enduring two and a half years of struggle from stomach cancer. I had never known the pain I felt from losing my dad. I had never known the responsibilities that were involved in caring for someone as close as my father.
During this time, I was in the midst of a formidable struggle with panic disorder which seemed to have arisen as I became closer to a man who would eventually become my husband. I had no idea how I would be able to be present for Dad and my family, but I found the strength not just through therapy and medication, but through my personal determination and a lot of prayer. I was new at deep intimacy with a partner, surprised by a resurgence of overwhelming anxiety that had begun in college that had retreated to a great degree, and certainly new to prayer, and even to a higher power I now called God.
As my dad’s illness progressed, my mom, sister and I struggled and coped in our own ways. It was a grueling period. Even though my family and partner were around me, I felt very alone. They were not able to support in important ways. To complicate matters, my marriage and my father’s death coincided. Holding both grief and delight seemed almost impossible. While I had learned to manage my anxiety throughout the ordeal, I was now contending with the loss of a parent and a wedding. And through it all, I somehow began to know resilience in my bones, though I didn’t have a name for it, back then.
What saved me was my spirituality and artmaking, which have always been my greatest partnership. I found community resources where I could express my pain through artmaking, and sharing with others.
I leaned on an ancient ritual from Judaism. One recites a special prayer for a parent every day, for a year after their death. I said this prayer alone, almost entirely in my garden, when traditionally it is only done in synagogue, with a community of no less than ten Jewish adults. I crafted the practice that worked for me.
I studied and learned about other grief practices. Mostly, I found I could sit with an immense amount of grief, offer myself tremendous spaciousness for the feelings and slowly I transcended them. I feel grateful I was able to rise to the tremendous challenges that were before me. My experience taught me I had and have more strength than I could have ever realized.
I remain aware of my dad’s loving presence, even though it’s been over 25 years since he died.
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Dear Susie, how beautiful your words are. I loved your exploration as well as questioning how you could’ve fell for joy at your wedding and at the same time deep grief from the loss of your father. Thank you for your words.
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Thank you for sharing this painful experience. I learned so much from what you’ve said here. I was really touched by how you talked about holding grief and delight at the same and what that looked like. That’s a really complicated thing, isn’t it – we’re kind of told that we can’t have delight while we have a profoundly painful experience, or if someone else that we care about is experiencing pain, and with that can bring guilt and all sorts of other things. But of course, we very often have multiple feelings at the same time, and I think that’s very human. You began to know “resilience in your bones” – that’s so beautiful. Thanks again 🙂
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When I was married to my first husband, I learned he was having affairs with previous wives (yes wives) and girlfriends. My first reaction was tears and anger, as well as fear. I decided to ask for a divorce. I had met him at 18 and was eight years younger than him. He slowly let go of his control and I began drinking after work with people from the office. Slowly it became the focus of my life. It helped me avoid feeling. I could imagine I was happy most of the time. It was only when I came into a twelve step program that I was able to shed the tears, and feel compassion for myself as well as to look at my past with real understanding and sadness. And find true happiness as a human being among fellow humans.
I still react with anger, but with meditation and learning how I think, I can move past the anger to tears, and compassion for myself and also to make space to have compassion for others in my life, and in the world. I’m learning another way.
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Ann, I love this idea of shedding your anger through tears. I identify with this so much, when I feel angry I nearly always find myself crying. I wanted to share with you that in Chinese medicine theory, we think of tears as the fluid of the Liver and the Liver is the organ associated with emotions of anger and frustration. So, in essence, crying can be seen as a way of letting anger move through and out of you. Once I learned this idea I began to feel so comforted by my angry tears. Just wanted to share in case this is helpful for you, too. 🙂
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TW: Suicide, domestic abuse
Wow – this thread/question is so powerful. It’s so beautiful how we can all share our painful experiences, witness each other, and hold space for one another here. This exercise is an exercise in compassion itself! Without a doubt, we all suffer as part of the human experience. To add to the shares, I can talk about a life experience that was very painful but from which I could learn something. When I was 16, my stepdad died by suicide. My upbringing with him was a painful and sometimes dangerous experience, fraught with domestic abuse, addiction, and a lot of other stuff, but when he died, it was a horribly traumatic experience that my 16-year-old brain couldn’t really comprehend at the time, for good reason.
Over the course of my young adulthood, I experienced the usual gamut of emotions one goes through in these kinds of experiences: anger, denial, and resentment. However, as I grew older, I finally came to a place of compassion, which is where I am now.
I was able to learn something so deep from his life once I was old enough to see him as a “regular human” with trauma, a childhood experience of his own, thoughts, feelings, and psychological difficulties. I don’t know what age it is that we typically come to the realization that our parents are actually just normal humans, but when that eureka moment happened to me, my heart was full for him. Of course, it was full of sadness for the life he wasn’t able to have and for all the things we all experienced during his life, but mostly, I see him with warm compassion in my mind.
Especially now, as I look back from an age that he never saw, realizing that he was younger than I am now when he died, I feel I have a much better understanding of his experience. I think this upbringing and experience have taught me to remember that with someone, we get all their past experiences, good and bad, as well as their traumas, and their actions are a reflection of this. It’s not my fault for not knowing this yet as a 16-year-old, and I hold compassion for her, too.
To a certain extent, we are who we are because of what we’ve lived. We can leave the past behind, heal from trauma, and everything else, but pieces of us are going to be imprinted with our experiences, and we’re all just bumping around into each other with all our garbage in a messy world. Understanding this helps me have compassion for others. That is something that is very beautiful and deep, and it can be painful but also sublime. Resting in this awareness has brought me comfort.
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Jenn,
Wow, this is powerful. I love how much compassion you bring to, not just the people involved, but even your language. Beautiful.
T
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Jen, a painful experience at 16 that you relate with great acuity.
« To a certain extent, we are who we are because of what we’ve lived. We can leave the past behind, heal from trauma, and everything else, but pieces of us are going to be imprinted with our experiences »…
I feel what you’re saying here talks about the sacred importance of acknowledging and remembering this in those we meet and, equally of importance, in ourselves, which is an arduous part to walk with sometimes. It talks about that tenderness in us that arises in the process, where, I agree, there can be a quality of the sublime . It creates a connection on a level that is difficult to describe with words. Thank you for sharing this <3. -
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I am a person who cries a lot. This hasn’t always been the case. For most of my life, I kind of was the stoic badass that most people assume me to be. In case you haven’t met me: I’m covered in tattoos and have a distinctly rebellious approach to basically everything that I have a tendency to be vocal about. The latter are real aspects of my personality and appearance, but I was only hard the first, oh, forty or so years of my life because I just really didn’t know how to get through life otherwise.
And then my wife left me. I was forty and gay and newly sober from alcohol. I was a full time yoga teacher and part time writer and I only got to be those things because I shared a home and resources with my wife. And I was still in love with her and I didn’t want to be divorced. And, and, and.
I taught a yoga class the morning my wife left. Seriously. She left at two and I taught at ten. I had a friend drop me off at a church near the studio so I could, well, I’m not sure what I thought I’d do. I ended up falling asleep for a few minutes in front of a giant stained glass window. And then I got up, dusted myself off, and went to teach.
I started out by telling the class that my wife and I were separating and that I had come to teach because I believe in showing up. So hard. For ten days, I did everything. I woke up at six to run, I subbed everyone’s classes, I did whatever whenever. Sure, I cried sometimes and inside I felt like maybe I would just fall apart, but I always got up in the morning and did what needed to be done.
And then, when all the things were too much and I didn’t know what to do, I called a friend, Dewitt. Dewitt asked me if I wanted to go on a retreat with him In Colorado. The teacher was a person named Susan Piver, who I hadn’t heard of at the time. I said yes. And then I googled Susan and I realized that I was going on retreat with a person who had written a book called, “The Wisdom of a Broken Heart.” Obviously.
I listened to Susan’s book on the plane and I loved it. I loved her vulnerability and her relatability. I say I read her book, but I kind of assumed that I had done most of the tender being open to the world stuff she was talking about and that I could now move on to easeful detachment. I thought that if I went on meditation retreat, I could, like meditate out of heartbreak.
I probably don’t need to say that’s not what happened. I cried every waking moment of that retreat. I cried eating and meditating and doing yoga. Dewitt told me that I was even crying in my sleep. “I can’t stop crying,” I told Susan. “Of course you can’t,” she said. I didn’t know how to explain that I am, like, just not the kind of person who cries all the time. I’m disciplined. I am serious. I’m in control.
Except that I was crying all the time and I couldn’t stop and at some point on day whatever, I realized that I actually have no control. I have no control over my heartbreak, my crying, my feelings, my wife. I have no control. And despite the fact that I felt terrible and was sure I would never love again, the sun kept rising and the retreat kept happening.
As I started to get to know other folks in the sangha, I realized that I was not the only one going through some kind of personal hell. No one goes on retreat as a vacation, it turns out. And no one seemed to be judging me. All my crying was freaking out no one but me. I got the tiniest inkling that maybe it was okay to cry and okay not to be in control and okay to show up messy and tender.
Year have passed and there have been times that I thought I might harden back up. But I can’t. I mean, I’m sure that i can act like I’m not soft, but the flip side of experiencing the depth of my own sadness is that it opened me up to experience both more subtle kinds of joy and also a quieter kind of contentment than I knew previously. I allowed, as Susan suggests in her book and teachings and all the smartest people reiterate constantly, the tenderness of my heart to be touched by the world.
So now I can’t go back and I don’t really want to, but sometimes I don’t really want to have all the feelings and I really really really wish I could be in charge of just a few things. And it’s not like I’ve become preternaturally emotionally intelligent or anything resembling serene, but I have great compassion for the person I was that was trying so hard to open and close at the same time.
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The painful season that I chose is an episode that is over, yet still catches my breath and grips my heart from time to time. I am very aware that we are all telling the 500 word essay version of the story.
For years I helped my yoga teacher, my friend, build a business. We built a wonderful yoga community into a thriving business. This yoga studio was hers. Eventually though, my friend wanted to sell her studio to me, but I was hesitant to take it on because the business was based in my teacher’s home.
A fellow yoga student, a friend of my teacher’s, said that she was looking for a change of career from finance and she was excited to partner up and make the transition happen. So, we did it. We bought the studio, moved it to a busy street corner in our town, and we set about beginning again. It didn’t take long before I saw that my new business partner was raw, unhinged. In our dealings as partners, she was aggressive and physically threatening. When our yoga teacher was present, she showed herself as friendly and a thoughtful partner. On the surface she appeared vulnerable, to our clients she appeared childlike, naïve. However, when we were together working out the details of our business, she was mean and controlling. At the time, I didn’t realize that she was actually quite insecure and was using alcohol to cope. This led to manipulative and angry outbursts.
During this time, I felt scared with our day-to-day interactions and betrayed by my partner and my teacher. My heart broke. I developed anxiety and a sense of dread about my life and this work. I had excellent friends who were so supportive, and I could tell the truth too, but felt if I took steps to break the partnership, I would be responsible for hurting our community. Covid came along and we opted to closed our studio. In a way, this was a welcome relief. It conveniently made most of the problem go away. Most of the problem was solved, but still, I have this heart that feels a profound sense of loss, feels jealousy knowing that my former partner has easily absorbed friendships that I nurtured over the years.
Nowadays, I am aware of both the sadness about losing that wonderful studio and the appreciation of what I have built anew and the relationships that have continued.
What I have learned from this experience is listen to my heart when it speaks, because I had reservations early on. I have also refined my boundary setting (they are rock solid now). Through all this pain, I also learned to see the source of my former partner’s behaviours. Eventually, even in the thick of it, I saw that she was constantly scared of doing the wrong thing (getting disapproval) that she tightened up and couldn’t move. Her anger was protection. In this way, I think that we are all the same.
I also recognize that when we hurt in this way, there are elements that don’t completely resolve. That we continue to carry these pieces of our stories in our little broken hearts.
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me, you, us. Individually standing together, facing apart, fighting the wave of prehistoric suffering.
I bear down. Again. Reminded of my three pregnancies, connecting to the collective power of ancient childbirth – primal and exhilarating. Feeling like the goddess here to deliver life.
Yet I give in to suffering, again.
Alone, worthless, crippled, a failure this time collapsing on the path as a mere mortal.
Shattered by the pain my parents couldn’t shoulder.
Who was I to think I could hold back the wave from reaching my children.
So I journey through the mist, alone and broken, like all of you.
But I see the wounded healer, ahead of me, showing the way –’trauma-informed/C-PTSD healing.
So I take the path, slowly increasing my ‘window of tolerance’ and teaching my racing ‘fight or flight’ system to relax. To watch for that abundant moment after the out breath where if you wait. Silently. You can connect to ancestral primal screaming to power you forward before the next intake of breath.
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I’m so, so, so glad to read this particular essay. I am also someone who, if I try to let in all the suffering of the world, ends up in the fetal position, covered in snot and contemplating locking myself in a closet for 10 years or so. Good to know it’s all part of the work!! (She says, sniffling.)
As for one of my own particularly informative experiences, from 2020-2021, I was going through a protracted breakup of a relationship that never should have happened. I was convinced I was secretly a terrible person — and while this helped fuel my drive to grow my career (so that maybe I could get the validation from others that I couldn’t give my terrible self) — it wasn’t a sustainable way to live. In March 2021, I had to face the idea that either I was unworthy to be on the planet (a solution my parents had a real issue with), or that maybe I was a good person after all.
In the years since, I’ve been able to step much more fully into the shoes of that former partner. I used to feel anger, resentfulness, dismissal toward him… and then the anger mellowed. Now I mostly just feel sadness for how poorly we treated each other (and more recently, I think about how stressed and confused HE must have felt).
It turns out the most compassionate choice in that situation would have been the one I tried to make early on, if I’d been able to stick with it: to suggest we go our separate ways just a few months in. But we didn’t, so we had lots of chances to make each other miserable for the next loooong while.
Years (and many meditation sits, self-help books, and therapy sessions later) I’ve come to see my younger self as a person deserving of compassion. She made a lot of mistakes while thinking she was absolutely right and all-knowing… and she was kind of a condescending B, if we’re being honest.
But she (okay, I) didn’t know what she didn’t know. She did the best she could with what she had at the time.
Thinking about the way this all came to be, it makes so much sense to me that I couldn’t have compassion for my former partner until after I learned to have compassion for myself.
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I was married for 25 years. Two wonderful kids, the younger now in his thirties already, with a son of his own. My ex and I worked together at a restaurant we still own, living and working together for most of our married life. It was wonderful at times, but also very stressful and we fought a lot. Many deeply regrettable harsh words on both sides.
Over time and in couples’ and individual therapy I realized I wanted to get divorced. An idea I resisted for a long time but it grew in me. I felt my authentic self was disappearing – looking back, I’m deeply grateful for this painful realization, and for my consistency in working towards a more authentic life. No idea where the realization came from or how I knew, but I was right, and the divorce – initially horribly painful, turned out to be for the best for me. (I can’t say if it was the best for my ex or not, but I hope so.) Eight years on, we have a strong loving relationship – I was going to say cordial, but it’s deeper than that. We still own a restaurant together and still agree on most of the business decisions, more importantly we talk about the kids and the amazing wonderful grandson and mostly agree about them, too.
Early on, I was lonely, miserable and full of fear. It wasn’t the joyful romp into freedom I hoped it might be. I’m so glad I stuck with it and did the work. So much more work to do. -
I’m a bit surprised to say that in thinking back about some really rough times for me over the past years, the thing that stands out most is how magical those times were, even in the pain I was feeling.
I was thinking first to write about my move to Portugal because the years after my move were some of the hardest I’ve experienced, in terms of loneliness and shame and loss of faith. As I began to write about this experience, I started noticing how – now that it’s 4-6 years after the most difficult part of it – I’m remembering mostly the beauty of this time. I know I was suffering, I remember clearly some of the thoughts I was having then and often they were very very dark and quite hopeless. I know I was feeling very alone, I know I could not pay my rent, I know I was embarrassed to ask for help and doubting the purpose of my existence, I know I was questioning if I could trust my intuition ever again and feeling a lack of faith in the wisdom and grace that brought me to that point.
But, oddly enough, the pieces of memory that shine through are the times, even when I was totally broken and vulnerable and in the depths of my own suffering, that I was feeling completely cracked open and astonished by the magnificence all around me. Like walking down the street and noticing a single red poppy flower growing through a crack in the sidewalk. Or quick eye contact and a smile of a child looking toward me on the bus. Or feeling a grand sense of awe standing next to the ocean. Or stopping on the street to take in the beauty of a mural on the wall.
I also remember feeling this sense of openness in the time of immense grief I was feeling after my relationship with my ex ended, and after the shock and grief of finding out that a close friend had suddenly passed. It seems that when I’ve felt most overwhelmed and inundated by the heaviest and darkest feelings, it was easier to feel the astounding beauty of life as it presented itself.
This is not what I expected to be writing about at all! I had an entirely different reflection written and almost finished and posted but as I read back through this became very clear and wanted to be recorded. So that’s that. And I’m also thinking now about Susan’s book ‘The Wisdom of a Broken Heart’ which I read many years ago in the depths of a broken heart and I’m sure that it affected this response as well!:) -
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THIS IS KATIE’S ESSAY…
The last most painful period of suffering (of course I want it to be the last), became a way of life for me. Like physical pain, my mental pain was very loud background noise that I didn’t want to listen to because it was too confusing and too scary. My life and marriage would blow open and then what? Every thing that I wanted to be true wasn’t and I couldn’t hold it together. I tried many external and destructive routes to get the happiness I thought I deserved mostly fueled by blame,shame, and resentment. My husband was the perfect target and the one having the affair. Passive aggressiveness became my mode of communication.
Why I decided to get sober, start learning and practicing meditation when I did is magically mysterious but it gave me the clarity that I needed to do things differently. I became aware that what I considered happiness was borrowed from other people’s lives making me feel very left out of my own.
When the time came to confront the the situation it was not planned, but the coming together of events made it so. I’m still amazed by the patience and composure that enabled me to move forward, predicated by much crying and consulting with trusted friends. When I look back at myself at that time I feel a great deal of compassion instead of the shame I had known to be myself before. This was powerful. I was being propelled by a force that I trusted would help me get out of a situation that was holding me back from living my best life. I had to learn to practice a retraining of my thoughts and actions when I became aware of the consequences to myself and others. This has not been easy and I learned the importance of discipline and process and patience and loving kindness.
Somehow I am able to feel compassion and love for my husband, not every day, all day but when I get out of my own way and realize that the there is so much more I could be giving instead of taking only what I want . When I think about the depth of the pain and sadness I was experiencing, it felt primal. The hurt inside hollowed me out and I had to learn how go through it to fill myself up with with new experiences . It magically gave me courage and I began to love myself more. I’m actually pretty impressed that I am where I am today, my life is beyond my thoughts, more than my thoughts, more about my responsibilities for the actions I take to move beyond the thoughts that take me away from my best self. -
On May 20, 2023, my brilliant daughter Mia came into the world via c-section.
From the moment we learned we were pregnant, I longed for a natural childbirth. My partner Ryan and I prepared diligently with classes, techniques, and books. I felt confident and eager to see how my long-term meditation practice could support me through the intensity of giving birth.
At 37 weeks, Mia flipped breech. We did EVERYTHING to get her to flip back – from crawling up stairs on hands and knees to Ryan holding me upside down in the hot tub (much to our neighbors’ amusement). We tried medical procedures, burned my pinkie toes with Moxibustion sticks, and explored every option available.
At 39 weeks, my doctor suggested meeting with a surgeon to discuss a c-section. I entered that appointment hopeful we could still deliver naturally. The surgeon compassionately shared the risks, and I left with tears of acceptance streaming down my face. I felt an upwelling of grief as I let go of my natural birth plan. My guiding word for 2023 was TRUST, which held me through this emotional transition.
Mia’s birth was beautiful and peaceful. The c-section felt natural, and Mia arrived healthy and magical. I’m infinitely grateful for this experience. It taught me that even when life diverges from our desires, it can still be perfect in its own way. Through this journey, I also connected with an incredible web of mothers who had similar experiences.
As I write this, I’m noticing some hesitation and judgement in sharing this as a “painful” experience. I’m aware of women who’ve faced far more traumatic births or even lost their children (which is impossible). This highlights a long-standing pattern of mine—contextualizing my own suffering as less significant and being reluctant to even acknowledge it, feeling like it doesn’t belong in comparison to others’ trauma.
I’m still learning to honor different degrees of suffering, grateful that my practice has taught me to recognize my own pain, and that of others, not as relative, but as real, unique, and always, always deserving of presence and compassion.
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When I was in Bhutan, I had an incessant need to visit the Tiger’s Nest monastery, which is located on a mountain about 10,000 feet up (about a 4 hour climb). This was way before I had any idea about Buddhism or meditation, really, other than my basic introductory training as a yoga teacher a couple of years prior – but I was adamant that I had to hike up this hill, climb these rocks, sit in this one spot.
Because all tourist travel is meticulously planned in advanced and monitored, I had a mandatory tour guide who had already agreed to take me. Once we finally got to the top, I started peppering him with questions like “so, what do you meditate on up here?” “Compassion.” “Right, but like, how do you practice that.” “We meditate on compassion.” “Okay, but is there a 3-step process or something.” “No, we reflect on compassion.” Thanks.
Fast-forward this film to 15 years later, and I’m here at my home in Provence. A colleague/work friend asks to visit while she’s nearby for a conference, and unexpectedly breaks her leg on the way and is completely bedridden. Short version: I become a full-time nurse for over a week, with complete care, food, health, meds, transport, administrative assistant, cleanup, everything (while taking care of my kids). As lovely a person as she is, for a million different reasons, this was unbelievably (and understandably) intense. Once she finally got back to the US, I was off-center for weeks.
Finally, I asked “why did this happen? I’m sure there is a lesson.” And I heard my Bhutanese tour guide: “Compassion.” I heard it over, and over, and over, like a song on repeat, or a social media meme. “Compassion. Compassion. Compassion.”
And it was only then, in that moment, that I got it. I realized that I had graduated, so to speak. All of those years of tiny micro progresses, and then a full-blown experiencing requiring me to step outside of myself, outside of my heart circle, and care for another human being intimately, though we had no intimate connection.
Compassion. I believe it was, and will continue to be, one of the lessons of my life.
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