Question #3: What's your story?

Long story shortest:
I am composting my shit.

Long story short:
I first became pregnant by accident at 22 years old. My lifestyle was unsuited to motherhood. When I found out I was pregnant, I dropped all illicit activities. I studied Reiki while eating cereal and watching cartoons.

The infant stage was easy; I was still nesting and recovering myself. By the time Kayana was one-and-a-half, I was ready to fly. I went back to school and started moving my life forward. Still, the first few years were really rough. Yelling. Fighting. Punishing. Flipping my lid.

When Kayana was about six, it started to shift. Such a relief! I was convinced that one child was enough, thank you very much, no more kids. Then I met Keith, and got the crazy idea that having kids with him could be a good thing. Having spent a lot of time, by then, exploring holistic health and mindful relating, there was so much I wanted to do differently. It would be healing.

Fast forward to now. I have a 13-year-old, a 4-year-old, a 2-year-old, and a baby in the spirit realm. I have moved through depression, addiction, despair. I’ve lost so much hair--am still losing hair. But I’ve shed skins. Stripped off codependence in relationship, dropped anchor. Eaten my shadow, as they say. Sometimes it’s one heavy meal, other times I'm shadow-grazing all day long.

Beyond cultivating the capacity to be present with constant challenge and change, my motherhood journey is about unwinding generational programming. Sitting with my triggers and then choosing a new response. I knew it would be hard to dive into my childhood wounds via the mirror of motherhood—but it’s much harder than I imagined. The emotional and mental exhaustion is my biggest struggle when I don’t have enough space or support to deeply rest. Without that deep rest, I sometimes find myself feeling depressed.

I’ve learned over these last few years to let feelings of depression wash through me without pulling me under. I watch sad, dark thoughts go by— like an old biplane pulling a tattered announcement through the sky behind it. I’ll read it (don’t we always?) and then decide that No, that doesn’t apply to me. I am not actually a horrible mother. I am not really going to blow this joint and go live in the woods, in a tiny home of my own, where I can live with my pain in peace.

I turn away from these treacherous thoughts and sink into my heart, into my softly-stretched body. I feel my jaw relax, and my shoulders drop back. I remember that I am safe, and sound. I look within, I look around, my sun rises, and I love.