Low Tide Season

Being open and vulnerable can heal both ourselves and those around us. 

Brené Brown wisely states, “We cannot selectively numb emotions, when we numb the painful emotions, we also numb the positive emotions.”

A few years ago, I was diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD)—a silent struggle that many people face as the days grow shorter and the changing seasons bring waves of gloominess. 

I often wondered why, as autumn’s stunning array of colors faded and the trees released their withered leaves, I felt like one of those falling leaves—desperate to regain my vibrant colors and reconnect with the beauty I had once experienced. 

I'd tell myself to “snap out of it,” dismissing my feelings as just another “bad day” or a case of the “winter blahs.” Yet the discarded leaf of my emotions would land in an ocean of despair, tattered and broken, as the tide pulled me out to sea and submerged me into a low tide season.

In nature, we cannot help but be inspired by how the low tide unveils the hidden beauty of the ocean floor and the breathtaking, expansive beaches. 

However, during an internal period of low tide, many of us may identify with the ocean's creatures stranded out of the water—some trapped in pools, others hiding under the shade of kelp draped over rocks, or buried in the sand, laying low until the tide rises and sets them free again.

While our low tide seasons vary, we can all relate to our struggles in life's ocean as we strive to return to brighter days and calmer waters. 

Nothing brightens my soul more than being in nature. Even as a child growing up in Newfoundland, the outdoors—especially the ocean—was my playground, a treasure I took for granted. Some of my fondest memories involve carefree moments spent with my siblings. We were always together, swimming in the salty waves, building rafts to venture out and explore the shoreline, or skating on its icy sheet. 

Although I'm no longer that carefree child, it's no wonder the sea has drawn me back. My life here in New Brunswick for the last five years feels like a full-circle moment. Yet, as an adult, I view the ocean in a different light. I’m attuned to the rhythm of its surroundings and aware of its constant motion: the sea is timeless; it’s the same ancient water, whether angry or calm, rising or falling.

Similarly, the internal workings of our minds and bodies are also in constant motion. A storm that rages and crashes against our inner shoreline can alter its landscape. We navigate through the tides of change, experience highs and lows, endure rough seas, and anticipate the storms' passing. Despite this, though, we remain the same unique body.

So how do we maintain balance in an ocean that seems intent on tipping us over and damaging the shoreline of our emotions?

The answer lies within each individual, of course.

Learning to stay connected to my emotions instead of ignoring them was a significant step. 

Another significant step was seeking ways to bring more light into my life through physical and mental engagement. 

More importantly, no matter how dire my situation or how rough my waters are, the buoy of Christ is always present for me to hold onto.

I’ll admit that this is a challenging time in our country's history. Many of us feel like we're being swept out to sea by the tides of political change and uncertainty. Anxiety and strong emotions are washing over us as we try to understand why our neighbors' leaders have turned against us. 

But I’m inspired by the resilience Canadian history teaches us: "God keep our land glorious and free." Ultimately, God controls the outcome, and we must not lose faith in Him.

As we enter spring, the season of new life, may we drown out the noise of negativity and embrace the beauty of renewal. 

Blessings! 

Tearing Down Our Emotional Walls

Hitting an emotional wall feels like reaching a dead end, where the gears of life shift and throw us off course. 

Bouncing back from this experience is a complex journey. It involves more than simply seeking temporary relief, such as enjoying the ocean air at the beach, taking a refreshing walk in nature, or working out at the gym. 

While these are all healthy choices, the emotional walls I'm referring to require us to confront mental and emotional fatigue and wrestle with a profound disconnect from the person we once were.

We all tend to avoid emotional pain—every single one of us. In doing so, we become “wall-builders” in our personal stories, sometimes consciously and sometimes unconsciously, with roots that may trace back to our childhood. 

In times of deep pain, it’s human nature to want to protect our hearts; it’s our defense mechanism kicking in to help us manage our emotions healthily. 

That’s the upside to our emotional walls. 

However, there’s also a downside. 

When left unchecked, these walls turn us into gatekeepers, constantly looking for potential danger, even when it doesn't exist. More importantly, they trap our emotions in a self-constructed prison, preventing us from fully experiencing them. After all, we can't heal what we don't acknowledge. 

Many of us fear being exposed and vulnerable, and rightly so. It’s uncomfortable, not to mention scary. So dismantling the emotional walls we've relied on for years—walls that have offered us shelter and protection—can be daunting. 

Yet, what if those walls no longer serve us? What if life has brought us to a pivotal moment where we can no longer ignore the call to break them down?

Do we dare go there? Do we dare sit with the shattered pieces? Do we dare analyze all the battles we’ve fought, every disappointment and hurt that led us to build those walls in the first place? 

Growing up in a large family, I didn’t have the space to express my emotions. As a result, I became skilled at internalizing my feelings, which led me to build emotional walls around my heart. My motto became, “I will stay protected. I’m safe here. No one will ever hurt me again.”

And it didn't stop there: toxic relationships during my young adult life and various challenges later in life reinforced the walls I'd built. After over forty years as a “wall builder,” I had constructed a fortress that isolated me from the world. Everywhere I turned, there was a dead end. What I thought was keeping me safe, what I thought was protecting me, in reality, was destroying me.

Bouncing back seemed impossible and hopeless. Still, deep down, I knew the only way forward was to take a sledgehammer—metaphorically speaking—and break free, one smashed brick at a time. 

This approach not only became the catalyst for improving my mental health, but it also gave me the courage to take risks and open myself up to vulnerability—all because I dared to go there. 

For different reasons, the gears of life have shifted once again. The U.S. election has thrown many of us off course. 

The walls of religion, homophobia, hatred, and injustice all weigh heavily on my heart.

What do the election results mean for Canada?

What impact will it have on my non-binary child, their American citizen wife, and my three adopted grandsons?

How will the government's indifference toward non-traditional families affect my grandchildren?

Will my LGBTQ2S+ family remain safe when visiting the U.S.? 

It’s all too easy to start laying bricks of fear during this time, and before we know it, there’s a border wall surrounding our hearts. 

I don't know about you, but I refuse to go back. I refuse to put my beautiful family back in the closet again. I will continue to do my part by helping to tear down the barriers that separate us, striving to move forward in peace and love, and leaving the rest in the hands of the Ultimate Builder of Unity—Jesus Christ, the One who came to break down the walls that divide us. 

“Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.”

Merry Christmas. 

The Power of Holding Space for Ourselves and Others

Many of us have done the painstaking work of "holding space," without even being familiar with its term. We have walked beside others in their pain without judgment, without trying to fix or change their situation. Instead, we've allowed them to be seen, heard, and acknowledged exactly as they are. And it's the most powerful gift we could have given them in my books. 

You may be thinking, "Holding space seems like a big undertaking, one that may be difficult for me to do." Yes, it isn't always easy to set aside our own emotions and give someone our undivided attention because most of us are hardwired to fix things. So rather than to just "let someone be in pain," our natural instinct is to swoop in and try and lessen the pain, to provide some kind of relief from it, or offer a solution to their problem.

However, the thing I've learned through my own self-care journey is this: Even with all of our good intentions — even with our kind and compassionate heart, we can't heal someone from emotional pain by rescuing them from it. Inner pain can only be healed when it has a safe space to be expressed and held. 

Why is it so much easier to hold space for others rather than for ourselves, though? Because I believe that to sustain and hold space effectively, we first need to learn how to hold space for ourselves and be vulnerable with our emotions, lest we risk emptying our own empathy tank.

For years, I lost myself in meeting the needs of others. Yet, to be vulnerable was something I was unwilling to do. I feared intimacy, which was intertwined with my fear of vulnerability. To be vulnerable meant allowing people into my world. Nevertheless, at the root of it all, what I feared the most was rejection and abandonment.

Let me take you back to my childhood, if you will. I was just five years old when my nine-year-old brother died. I recall how, night after night, I'd lay in bed, afraid to fall asleep for fear of dying. No one acknowledged my fears back then, nor was I given the space to express them. I say this not to place blame on anyone. But growing up in an era where grief was hush-hush, where children were considered too young to know about death, I did the only thing I knew to do: I froze my emotions, and, in turn, my five-year-old self became trapped in a traumatic time capsule.

I evolved as an adult. I married a wonderful man, raised two beautiful children, had a great career. But I'd this internal struggle, a restlessness, a deep inner void that I couldn't quite put my finger on. So I immersed myself in meeting the needs of others because, for one, it gave me a sense of love and belonging; and two, it made me feel worthy and valued.

I learned in therapy some years ago that, even though I'd evolved as an adult, the five-year-old child (me) remained stuck in my subconscious mind. Consequently, I'd gone through much of my adult life protecting and sheltering her from being hurt again. 

Essentially my emotional healing involved opening a time capsule of emotions to set my inner child free, a slow process of nurturing and holding a safe space for her to acknowledge and process her emotions. This life-changing, cathartic experience has given me a more profound sense of compassion and empathy to hold space not only for myself but for others as well.

Mid-Life Funk

 I am turning 58. Oh my gosh! My best years are now over!

It sounds extreme, doesn't it? But it's how I have been feeling lately.

I have always been a firm believer that age is only a number; however, turning 58 has stirred something up inside me, leaving me in a bit of a funk.

Could it be that I am going through a late stage mid-life crisis?

Or is it just an awakening to the true meaning of midlife?

I believe it's the latter.

In our younger years, my husband and I shared the belief that working hard and earning a good living would enhance the pursuit of happiness, for our children as well as ourselves. And now that we are empty-nesters, nothing makes us happier than to see both of our kids self-reliant, with great careers. So, in a sense, our belief did our family well.

But our mindset has since changed, and even though middle age can still present its financial challenges for some, our priority inevitably shifted from money to health concerns.

Fortunately, I have been blessed with excellent health so far. And I have never been more grateful for how life has afforded me the means to retire early and pursue my dreams. But with age comes the wisdom of knowing that money doesn't mean much if our health becomes compromised.

Having seen many develop health problems in my age group does scare me, making me realize that so many didn't get to reach 58, and so many won't get to reach 58. My mother died at 56. My brother died at the age of nine. So, intellectually, I know that I am grateful for life as it is, but when your body is in a funk, your body is in a funk. And many times, it defies explanation.

So what helps me lift this dark cloud?

My faith in God and humanity play significant roles.

Writing helps to free its hold over me.

Having people come alongside in a supportive, nonjudgmental way, who listen with an understanding ear, is very significant to me as well.

Exercise, lots of rest, and a well-balanced diet are also key factors that help me to get through my funk.

What about you? Do you find yourself in a funk these days?

If so, don't hide it. Talk about it. Write about it. Being vulnerable will help others know that they are not alone. But above all else, find the means that works best for you.

On the upside, the clouds have already lifted for me, and my fears of turning 58 have already subsided. Besides, 60 is the new 50 today, right?