Children’s Movies are Obsessed with Death, but Don’t Show Healthy Grief

“Grief is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.” ~Jamie Anderson

I knew my son was watching me. We were inhaling fistfuls of popcorn while Frozen 2 played on the screen above. (Spoiler alert…)

Anna has just realized her sister, Elsa, is dead, frozen solid at the bottom of a river. Anna must carry on life without her.

My son turned his body and looked directly at me, ignoring the film. He knew what was coming. I began to weep. This is what he expected. He patted my arm with his little hand, which was buttery from popcorn and sticky from sour gummy worms.

Anna’s body slumps over, and her broken voice begins a haunting song of grief: You’ve gone to a place I cannot find. This grief has a gravity. It pulls me down.

I’m frozen, too, within memories of the death of my brother Dave by suicide just months earlier. Cartoon Anna and I together mourned our lost siblings. 

My young son comforted me while I cried. As I think about it, it is such a twisted scene. Can’t we just go to the movies, eat a bunch of crappy food, have a couple of laughs, and call it a night?

None of us intended for me to have a grief spiral in an animated film with a talking snowman and a plot line featuring a guy who is enmeshed with his reindeer. But the film is all about grief.

It is about one daughter’s quest to heal intergenerational trauma and right the wrongs of the past. It is about another daughter trying to learn the stories of her lost parents, and in so doing, she enters a space that is unsafe and threatens her life, too.

I guess it is completely predictable that this story would remind me so much of my own family.

Six months before Dave killed himself, our dad had died of esophageal cancer. My son certainly saw my tears coming. He’s nine now. He knows that he has a mother who lives in grief. He knows that his mother has a wound where her brother and father once were and that the wound gets reopened from time to time. He’s seen me cry more than I ever imagined he would.

Have you ever thought about how many children’s films feature the death of a parent or sibling? Here are the ones that come to mind off the top of my head: The Lion King, Frozen, Big Hero 6, The Land Before Time, Finding Nemo, How to Train Your Dragon 2, Bambi, Abominable, Vivo, Batman, the entire Star Wars franchise. This year’s Lightyear. You get the picture.

Death is so pervasive in children’s films that a team of Canadian researchers looked at the prevalence of death in this genre and concluded that two-thirds of kids’ movies depicted the death of an important character while only half of films for adults did.

The researchers also found that the main characters in children’s films were two and a half times more likely to die, and three times more likely to be murdered than the main characters in films marketed to adults.

So, if my kids watched a movie a week, they’d see thirty-four deaths a year—usually the death of a parent or close family member. What is up with that?

It is an easy plot device. What better way to thrust a character into a scenario in which they heroically redeem a terrible tragedy by going on a journey, taking back the throne, restoring the family name, and so on? The point of the movie becomes the main character rising again in the face of loss. It is the quintessential hero’s journey.

I don’t have issues with kids being exposed to death. I’ve had lots of open conversations about it with my kids. When children’s films show children thriving after terrible events, there may be some psychological benefit to that, by helping kids know that there is indeed life after death.

But I am worried about how the pervasiveness of these stories is shaping our expectations about grief.

It’s an important conversation to have, especially when more than one million Americans have so far died from COVID. The impact on children has been immense. From April 1, 2020 to June 30, 2021, data in Pediatrics estimated more than 140,000 children under age 18 in the U.S. lost a parent, custodial grandparent, or grandparent caregiver.

Children see death over and over, but there is very little treatment of grief in popular culture. In most instances, a film shows the hero standing with head bowed beside an open grave. The audience may observe a tear or a nod toward a period of sadness, but the character is back in action within sixty seconds, fighting the dragon, building the robot, or saving the world. 

The other alternative is that prolonged grief drives one to become a villain. If loss is not quickly translated into action, it seems to fester into vengeance and evil. I’m thinking of the Kingpin from Spiderman, Dr. Callaghan from Big Hero 6, Anakin Skywalker (a.k.a. Darth Vader) from Star Wars, Magneto from X-Men, among others.

These films are telling a story about grief that is a disservice to us all. Our society counts on a bereaved person bouncing back to action almost immediately. And if they don’t, in a prompt, timely manner, the suspicion is that the grief has ruined them.

These films help craft a society that has no model for the emotion of loss. For the slowness of it. For the darkness of it. Especially in the lives of children.

During the season of my loved ones’ deaths, my children were twelve, eight, and eight. They were tender and sweet. And young. But also, old enough.

There was a lot of talk about cancer at our house. The kids knew the science. They shared a house with my dad while he went through his first round of chemo. They knew it was miserable.

Early on I let them know that this cancer would probably cause Grandpa to die. I explained the size and location of the various tumors. I let them know that our time with him would probably be two or three years.

I believe in being honest with children in a way they can understand. I didn’t want them to be afraid that Grandpa would die. I wanted to let them in on the secret that Grandpa was going to die. No need to keep anyone in suspense.

I was with my dad when he died in California. My children were at home in Minnesota. A few minutes after he died, I called them on the phone. My husband, Rob, sat with them, and I told them one by one. I talked to them while Rob held them.

When my brother died, Rob and I both sat with the children. We told the youngest and the oldest together. They were once again tender and fearful. Surprised. Wide eyed. We held them.

They didn’t say much. Uncharacteristically, they didn’t ask any questions. They knew that Uncle Dave was mysteriously sick.

My brother’s death was much more difficult to talk about with my children. They knew that he struggled with alcohol. They knew the word addiction. They knew that he had been in and out of the hospital. The problem with suicide is that there’s no good way to make the logic work for children.

I can just imagine the torrent of questions: How much sadness is too much sadness? How much pain is too much pain? When the cat dies? When my best friend is mad at me? What makes your heart hurt so much that dying is the logical step? When does one reach that point?

Psychologically speaking, talking with my children about Dave’s death was so hard because it threatened to dismantle their basic assumptions about the goodness, safety, and predictability of the world.

In my conversation with my children, I didn’t want their sense of goodness, justice, and safety to be shattered. The world is no longer a predictable, good place when someone kind and loving experiences such darkness and ultimately a horrible, self-inflicted death.

The world is no longer meaningful when there is no simple, rational explanation for how such a thing happened. The self may no longer be worthy of happiness and joy if someone like Uncle Dave could not find happiness and joy.

Everything in me is organized against my children understanding this logic. I didn’t want it to enter their minds or their hearts.

But it has. It will. They will come to know the full story of their soft-spoken uncle with the beautiful blue eyes. They will remember him on our couch and in the park and in the kitchen and at the lake. They will know the truth about him and how he was lost.

And there is no way around the reality of suicide, the reality that the truth is beyond the careful, thoughtful, simple explanations of their mother. I can’t make it neat or easily digestible for them. It is too messy.

My children have been up close and personal with grief these past years. They’ve held human ashes in their hands. They anticipate that I will cry during a movie scene in which a character loses a sibling. They know all about cancer. They’ve attended memorials

It isn’t what I would have chosen for them—to be in a movie theater, comforting Mommy because the cartoon reminds her of her dead brother. That isn’t what I ever pictured when

I first held their tiny baby bodies in my arms and my heart swore to protect them with every cell in my body. Sometimes I apologize to them in whispers: “I’m sorry that our lives have unfolded like this.”

There is a way to use the deaths of children’s movies to facilitate conversations about grief and loss.

A 2021 study in Cognitive Development found that animated films may provide the opportunity for parent-child conversations about death, because parents often watch these films with their children. However, according to researchers, few parents take advantage of this opportunity to talk about death with their children. I encourage parents to take advantage of these teachable moments.

For my children, who have seen grief up close, my only hope is that they are learning about the reality of grief. They are seeing a more realistic picture than Disney will show them. They’re seeing me go to work, make pancakes, drive the carpool, laugh with my friends. They are seeing me live. And they’re seeing me cry.

They are also seeing that the duration of grief is not five minutes of screen time but that it is years.

When they came into my world, I didn’t anticipate that grief would be such a prominent lesson in their childhood. But after watching Dave implode, alongside the loss of our dad, perhaps grief, real grief, is a more essential lesson that I anticipated.

Perhaps watching me slog through it will help my children navigate out of their own darkness one day. Disney is introducing them to death. It’s my job to show them the reality of grief.

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About Sherry Walling, PhD

Sherry Walling, PhD, is a clinical psychologist, speaker, yoga teacher, and entrepreneur. Her podcast, ZenFounder, has been called a “must listen” by Forbes and Entrepreneur magazines. Her book, Touching Two Worlds: A Guide for Finding Hope in the Landscape of Loss, was released in July. For more information, go to www.sherrywalling.com.

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Sometimes People Don’t Say Sorry—Why It Pays to Forgive Nonetheless

“Without forgiveness life is governed by an endless cycle of resentment and retaliation.” ~Roberto Assagioli

When I was a little girl, I used to wonder what my father was like. Was he a nice man? What did he look like? Did he think about me? Did he love me?

But, above all I wondered why he left.

I used to make up stories about him—one time I imagined him as a voyager traveling to foreign lands and picking up small gifts for me in every new place he visited. He met with the locals and would learn new trades and languages. He’d tell them stories about how much he loved and missed me, and how he couldn’t wait to come home.

Another time he was a doctor stationed abroad helping to heal sick and impoverished children. He couldn’t come home because without him, those children would die, and when I was big enough, I’d travel to be with him.

I liked envisioning him as someone far away and out of reach, doing important work. In this way his absence made sense to me. But the reality was not quite as heroic as I imagined it to be.

I first spoke to my father when I was a teenager and learned he was living in a different state and running his own business.

He’d remarried since my mother and divorced, but had no more children. When I asked him why he left, his answer was simple: “When your mom and I split up, I gave her a choice. Either she raise you without my help, or I raise you without her help. Emotionally. Financially. Everything. I needed a clean break.”

My heart dropped.

He wasn’t a doctor saving sick children.

He wasn’t a voyager exploring new lands and thinking of me.

Instead, he was just a man. A man who decided his divorce applied to both his wife and his daughter.

An overwhelming sadness filled the air around me and disappointment set in. I wasn’t expecting or prepared for his nonchalant answer. The longing I’d felt to know him, the paternal love I wished to experience, the warmth, the guidance, the protection, the encouragement—all of it dissipated in an instant.

And in its place was emptiness.

But still, I longed for a connection with him. Growing up without a father made me feel somehow incomplete, like I was missing out on something everyone around me had access to.

I thought if I could prove I was worthy and deserving of his love and affection, my father would never leave me again. I thought he’d realize he made a mistake and apologize for his absence, and work hard to make up for all of the years of fatherhood he missed out on. So I asked him if I could visit, and he agreed.

He booked me a ticket, and a few months later I was flying solo to see him. I was nervous and anxious. My palms were sweating and my hands were shaking. Would he like me? Would we get along? Would I finally have a father?

When he picked me up from the airport I could barely mutter out a hello.

“H-h-h-i,” I stammered.

“Hey. Come on in, the traffic’s really bad right now,” he said while opening the passenger side door of his truck.

Everything about him was different than I’d imagined. He wasn’t as talkative or full of stories as I thought he’d be. Instead, he was quiet and observant, and somewhat withdrawn. But he was welcoming and gracious during my stay—his girlfriend, however, not so much.

As my father and I got to know each other, his girlfriend distanced herself from our conversations and company. Initially, I figured she was shy or wanted to give us time alone. But when I arrived home after my trip, I learned she had given my father an ultimatum: choose her or me. He said he was furious with her, and he’d never choose a relationship over his daughter.

In an instant I felt validated. I felt important. And for the first time in my life, I felt paternal love and protection.

But those feelings were short lived. When I tried to contact my father again I couldn’t get through. He’d changed his number. He stopped responding to my emails. He went completely off the grid, again.

I felt crushed, confused, and distraught. The man that I glorified for so long, and thought would love and care for me, instead turned his back and walked away without so much as a goodbye.

For a while I was shattered. I was angry. I was full of resentment. I was full of hatred. And I was sad because I didn’t understand what I had done and why he didn’t want me in his life.

Those negative feelings I held inside regarding my father were then projected into my relationships with men.

I found myself involved with emotionally unstable, unavailable men who were usually much older than me. The relationships were toxic—full of trust issues, fights, and lack of appreciation. And each breakup left me feeling more broken and more unworthy, as if I was experiencing my father’s rejection over and over again.

After one particularly vulgar relationship characterized by emotional abuse and episodes of physical violence, I knew I had to get out. I knew I had to change my ways. I knew I had to learn to let go of the past and forgive my father for leaving because it was haunting my present.

All of those repressed emotions I felt toward my father were replaying over and over in my daily life like a lesson waiting to be learned—only I wasn’t learning. And I couldn’t move forward with my life because I hadn’t forgiven my father, and in the process I imprisoned myself.

And so I sat down and I prayed for guidance. I asked for help. For redirection. A voice in my head said, “We don’t forgive others for their salvation. We forgive others for our own.”

In that instant, I knew what I had to do. I had to release the anger. I had to release the frustration. I had to release the sadness. I had to unlock the doors keeping me imprisoned.

Symphonically, my lips opened and these words poured out: “I forgive you for abandoning me. I forgive you for rejecting me. I forgive you for choosing her over me. I’m sorry for holding onto these negative feelings for so long. I wish you the best in your life. I wish you happiness. I wish you love. I wish you abundance. I am freeing you from my anger, and I am freeing myself.”

After that my entire life changed. A weight was lifted off of my shoulders, and I felt at peace. I felt happy. I felt free.

When it comes to forgiveness, we are each responsible for freeing ourselves because no one else can do it. Forgiveness is the key to self-salvation, and you can unlock your personal prison today and set yourself free now. Are you ready?

Here’s how:

Let Go of ‘Entitled’ Apologies

When I first met my father, I was certain he was going to adorn me with grand apologies, cry, and beg for my forgiveness. But reality didn’t match my expectation. Not only did he not apologize, he also didn’t seek my forgiveness. In his mind, what he did made sense at the time and there as no reason to say sorry for it.

As I got older I began to understand the phrase “life happens, we all make mistakes.” And it’s true. None of us are perfect in our decision-making, and it’s often through our mistakes we learn the quickest.

I can’t tell you what motivated my father to leave, but I can tell you I understand how overwhelming parenthood can be, especially when you’re a young twenty-something. I understand how, when we have a tough upbringing (as my father did) and we don’t let go of our past, it can negatively impact our lives and decisions in the present and future.

Sometimes people don’t say sorry. Sometimes people don’t believe they were wrong. But that doesn’t matter. Apologies aren’t what vindicate you—you vindicate yourself. Don’t wait for someone to apologize and hold a grudge against them until they do.

You know why?

Because the person that feels the wrath of your anger, frustration, and hatred is you. Those hostile feelings, emotions, and thoughts pulsate through your bloodstream like venomous poison, and you become the host keeping that poison alive.

Rather than waiting for an apology, or expecting one to come, realize it may never happen and that’s okay. Because your life and happiness don’t depend on someone else saying sorry. Your life and happiness depend on you and no one else.

Find The Lesson

Thrive on tough times! Because these tough times are simply life events that allow you to exercise your internal muscles. The more life throws at you, the stronger you’ll become.

If my father hadn’t left, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. If he hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have the same perspective and appreciation for life, love, and relationships. I am grateful for my father leaving because he taught me why forgiveness matters, which has enabled me to appreciate life more, be empathetic to others, and love more, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Sometimes things happen, and we don’t understand why. Sometimes people hurt us. Sometimes life and its circumstances seem unfair. But the truth is, every experience we have in life is meant to guide us, to teach us, and to re-direct us.

So when you’re in a place where you’re feeling angry, resentful, and enraged, step back and ask yourself what you can learn from this experience. Even if this answer isn’t immediately clear, you will find it eventually and understand.

Reclaim Your Power

The misery I felt after my father cut me off was heartbreaking. My soul hurt. My body was tormented. My mind shattered. I lost my power when I lost my father because I associated his actions with my value, happiness, and purpose.

But we can’t control what other people do. They’re living their lives the best way they know how. We can only control how we react to them. And we either choose to empower or disempower ourselves with our reactions.

Grief, sadness, and anger are all normal emotions. They help us understand the world around us and build our emotional intelligence. At certain points in our lives, we will express these feelings, and doing so is healthy. So, I’m not suggesting you repress your feeling, but I am suggesting you evaluate them.

Ask yourself, “Why am I feeling this way?” And if your answer is “because BLANK did BLANK,” then ask yourself, “What can I do to move forward with my life?“

Create a strategy and timeline for how you can empower yourself to move forward and begin acting on it immediately.

Forgive

“Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a different past.” ~Anne Lamott

After I forgave my father I was able to move forward with my life, and my relationships with men, in a positive and loving way. No longer did I sulk in disappointment, depression, self-hatred, or stress. Nor did I seek validation from outside sources. Instead, I found internal peace, happiness, and love.

Forgiveness is the final step in this healing process. When we let go of our painful past, we make way for a bright and hopeful present and future. Our thoughts, feelings, behaviors, and actions align with our newly freed state of being, and we become happier, healthier, and more positive.

Forgiveness is the ultimate expression of love, and one of the best gifts we can give to ourselves and others.

By practicing these methodologies, I was able to climb the ladder to forgiveness. Each one was a critical rung I had to experience and consciously step up to. Only then did I regain my power. The most important part is that he didn’t change, apologize, or live up to my glorification. Instead, I simply made it to the final step, at the top of the forgiveness ladder.

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About Antasha Durbin

Antasha Durbin is a spiritual writer, life-long student of the universe, and psychic tarot card reader. Her website, cajspirituality.com, is dedicated to casualizing the spiritual experience and making it attainable for anyone, anywhere, anytime. Follow her for free, easy-to-digest and highly actionable advice on spirituality, mindfulness and empowered living.

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5 Life Lessons from a Brain Tumor That Could Have Killed Me

“Life is a balance between what we can control and what we cannot. I am learning to live between effort and surrender.” ~Danielle Orner

I was slumped against a wall at Oxford Circus Station early one Sunday evening when an irritated male voice suddenly barked, “MOVE!”

Moments beforehand, I had lost my vision.

Without conscious thought, I muttered, “RUDE!” and staggered off without clearly seeing where I was going.

It was only months later, on retracing my steps at Oxford Circus, that I realized I’d been blocking his view of some street art.

I’d allowed a guy to bully me out of the way while in a vulnerable state so that he could take a picture for social media.

Lesson 1: Not all disabilities are visible.

We can never fully know what someone else is experiencing. Mental health, chronic pain, and disabilities are not always apparent. So, when we come from a place of not knowing and are patient with others by default, we open up a window of possibility that exists outside of our judgment.

Minutes prior, I’d stepped off an underground train and onto an upward escalator. A pain hit my right temple like a bullet. It took my breath away, everything went black, and I felt I might faint.

Desperately, I clung to the railing. And as the top of the escalator approached, my right foot went floppy, and my vision disappeared. I could see light and color, but the world was blurry, lacking definition.

I used what little vision I had to follow the distinctive white curve of Regent Street down to a spot where I’d arranged to meet a friend

Panic finally set in when I realized that my friend was walking toward me, and I could recognize his voice but I could not see his face at all.

We sat down in a restaurant, and a concerned waitress brought a sugary drink.

My mind went into overdrive: “Had I cycled too much? Was my blood sugar low? Had I eaten/drank enough? Given myself a stroke? Was I just stressed?”

Twenty minutes later, my vision slowly returned.

Relieved but freaked out, I asked my friend if he thought I should go to A&E (ER). He said, “Only if you think you need to.” I felt silly. Scared to take up space. Afraid of being a drama queen. I didn’t trust myself or my experience.

LESSON 2: Don’t seek external validation.

The opinions of others are helpful, but only you see and experience life from your own unique perspective. Learning to trust and validate our own experience first and foremost is how we step in our power.

Later I went back home but couldn’t shake it off.

The next morning, I visited my doctor, who sent me straight to A&E (ER). The hospital admitted me overnight, concerned it was a mini stroke or aneurysm. But the following morning they discharged me, citing dehydration as the cause.

One week later, I was back in A&E. More dizziness, more foot numbness, more blurred vision. A doctor described it as “classic Migraine Aura.”

My gut leapt; that didn’t feel right. “I don’t get headaches,” I protested. “I rarely take painkillers. Why so many all of a sudden?”

They seemed confident it wasn’t serious, but booked an MRI scan, just to be certain.

Twenty-five minutes of buzzing, clanking, and humming later, I glided out of an MRI scanner.

I thanked the technician. “All good?” I asked.

“It’s very clear,” she replied.

LESSON 3: Listen to your gut.

If your gut says that something is off, listen to it. A gut feeling is typically a lurch from your stomach rather than chatter from the mind.

My gut knew it wasn’t migraines; it told me so, and if I hadn’t strongly advocated for myself, then I may not have got that MRI scan.

A week later, I was back with my local doctor, experiencing vertigo and earache.

Did I have an ear infection? Was that the issue all along, some sort of horrible virus affecting my sight and balance?

The GP opened my records up on his computer and his face immediately dropped.

“Do you mind if I take a moment to read this?”

“Of course,” I said.

He composed himself but his face was ashen.

“Has anyone spoken to you about your MRI result?” he ventured at last.

I found myself detaching from reality, like I was watching a movie.

He told me that they’d found a lesion on my brain and there was a possibility of brain cancer. “I’m so sorry,” he offered finally.

I left and immediately burst into tears.

Six days I lived with the idea of having brain cancer.

Had it spread? How would they treat it? Could they treat it?

More dizziness, more vertigo ensued, and a wise friend firmly told me to go back to the emergency room and refuse to leave until I got answers.

Reluctantly, I entered A&E (ER) for the third time.

After a long wait, a neurologist sprang from nowhere, took me to a room, and showed me my MRI scan. I was shocked by the large white circle in the middle of it.

“How big is that?” I gasped.

“About the size of a pea,” the doctor said casually. “I believe it’s a colloid cyst, a rare, benign, non-cancerous tumor. It can be removed by operation, using a minimally invasive, endoscopic camera.”

Relief flowed through me. “It’s not cancer?”

After reassuring me it was not, the doctor sent me away, telling me to await further news.

Outside the hospital I hung around updating loved ones by phone. Suddenly a withheld number rang.

It was the neurologist: “I’ve spoken with neurosurgeons, and they think you should be admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery. If the cyst bursts you have one to two hours max, or that’s it.”

“Okay,” I stammered. “I’m actually still at the hospital.”

“Not this hospital,” he said. “A different one.”

A taxi ride later, it was 5 p.m., and I was in an emergency room for the second time that day and fourth time that month. Despite the chaos around me, I eventually curled up and got a little sleep.

Suddenly it was 3.30 a.m. and I was still in A&E. Staff rushed in, grabbed my bed, and hurtled me through corridors. Bright lights from London’s skyscrapers flashed past windows, everything surreal and movie-like again

The next day, surgeons explained that they wouldn’t be sure that they could reach the tumor until they operated, and there were four different options for surgery, ranging from a minimal endoscopic camera through to opening my skull up with major surgery.

I hoped and prayed for endoscopy but wouldn’t know the outcome until I woke up.

The operation was planned for 8 a.m. the following morning. I said an emotional goodnight to my sister. Suddenly a lady interrupted us and said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I saw you earlier and you don’t look sick enough to be on this ward.”

And there it was—the trigger again, the gift, the insight, the lightbulb moment:

“Despite how bad I feel on the inside, I don’t look ill enough to have a brain tumor.”

I didn’t look ill enough to the guy at Oxford Circus taking a selfie.

I didn’t look ill enough to my friend.

I didn’t look ill enough to the doctors who turned me away initially.

And now I didn’t look ill enough for this lady’s expectations of who should be in a head trauma ward.

I breathed into that pain. Into the feeling of not being seen. Of not being heard.  Of not being validated. Of feeling like a fraud, an imposter. Of not deserving to take up space. Of not trusting my experience.

And when I found my center, I quietly replied, “Actually, I’m having surgery to remove a brain tumor tomorrow morning.”

Her face fell, then she wished me luck and moved on.

LESSON 4: Our triggers are our gifts.

When we are triggered, it shows us what needs to heal.

It was me who felt unworthy of taking up space. It was me who felt like a fraud. She was simply my mirror. It’s up to me to heal those aspects within myself and to believe that I’m worthy of taking up space—and to then take it.

The next morning, my operation got pushed back. It was a major trauma hospital, and bigger emergencies took precedent. I engaged in mindfulness to stay centered.

I did an hour of breathwork to calm my nervous system. I listened to uplifting music to raise my vibration. I watched emotionally safe movies to collect warm, fuzzy vibes. I drew on my iPad and alchemized my head tumor into a cute pea cartoon character—benign, polite, and cute, not threatening at all.

A porter arrived at 5.30 p.m. and whisked me away for surgery. After weeks of surrendering to the unknown, it was now time for the ultimate surrender of any illusion of control. I took a deep breath as anesthetic filled my veins.

LESSON 5: Surrender.

We can’t always control what happens to us or the outcome. We can only control what happens inside of us and how we choose to show up. We take our power back when we lean into the unknown and surrender. When we resist our current reality, we suffer more.

I woke up two hours later and got sick.

My brain was rebalancing after months of increased head pressure. Clutching a blue plastic bag, I looked up to see one of London’s best neurosurgeons waving cheerfully at me. “Your operation is over. We used an endoscope. Minimal invasion. We think we got it all, and it’s not likely to come back.”

Relief, nausea, and gratitude flowed in abundance.

I dozed a little while morphine played tricks on my mind. Delicious little dreams filled my head, and I saw the world as one big, animated garden with flowers as cartoon characters.

I giggled at the thought of plants acting as humans do and imagined an aggressive rose bush declaring war on all of the other plants and throwing bombs. It seemed ridiculous. Humans should be more like flowers, I thought—less ego, just growing, flourishing, blooming.

I enjoyed this magical trip a little longer, a welcome respite from the hell of the last month, and eventually they wheeled me back to the ward.

I arrived in time to see the sun setting across London from the twelfth floor.

It was magnificent. Its beauty, color, and intensity moved my weary body to tears.

A nurse came to check that I was okay, and I assured her that I was crying happy tears.

I silently watched the sun as it made its final slip over the horizon, safe in the knowledge that I’d survived another day.

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About Ruth AJ Wilson

Ruth AJ Wilson is a cartoonist and the founder of Littlest Nopes, a social media space for mental health illustrations and animations. She’s also a creative life coach, helping others to step into their power and to follow their soul’s mission.

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How I Learned to Love My Body Instead of Hating Her

“Your body does not need to be fixed, because your body is not a problem. Your body is a person.” ~Jamie Lee Finch

I was thirty years old when I realized that I was completely dissociated from my body.

I grew up in the height of the purity culture movement in American Evangelicalism. Purity culture was based on one primary concept: abstain from sex until marriage. But the messaging went further than this.

I sat next to my peers in youth group while the male pastor stood on stage and told us young women to always cover our bodies. For example, two-piece bathing suits were completely out of the question for summer activities. Why?

Our female bodies cause the young men to “stumble” and have impure thoughts. So out of love for the young men in our group, we must cover up and never do anything “suggestive.”

The message was clear: My body caused others to sin. My body is bad.

It would be impossible for me to accurately detail how many times and in how many different ways I received this message growing up.

I didn’t know it was happening, but over time, I learned to dissociate from my body. My body was bad, and I was trying to be good, so I must distance myself from her.

Thankfully, I listened to my body when she told me to leave this religious group and find my own way in the world. Yes, my body talks to me. More on that later.

Recently, society has seen more acceptance of bodies. We see variety in body shapes represented in the media. While that’s a great sign that we are moving in a new direction, simply saying that we love our bodies isn’t enough.

That feeling of positivity toward our body when we say that is momentary. We must take consistent action in order to make meaningful and lasting change.

Here are the ways I was able to radically change my relationship with my body and learned to see her as my greatest ally and most prized possession.

See Your Body as a Person

A concept introduced to me by Jamie Lee Finch, seeing my body as a person changed everything.

It allowed me to do one key thing: cultivate a relationship.

Once I started referring to my body as “her,” I understood how far from her I really was. I didn’t know my own intuitive “yes” and “no.” I didn’t know what I really wanted in life.

When was I safe? When was I in danger? These are questions that our bodies are designed to answer.

So I learned to listen to her. And I talked back.

A number of years ago, I noticed that I was constantly pushing people away. I really beat myself up about this, seeing myself as a cold, unloving person.

Eventually I realized that this behavior started after a traumatic body violation that I had experienced. I understood that my body was resisting vulnerability and closeness in relationships as a way to protect me from further harm.

I could see that my body had not been working against me, but for me. And I had the opportunity to say to her, “Thank you so much for trying to keep me safe, but I’m going to start trusting people again. I have learned from the experience and will trust my gut to alert me to danger.”

I realized that things I thought of as “wrong with me” were in fact genius protective and defense mechanisms that my body wisely developed in order to keep me safe in my environment.

I started talking lovingly to her, full of gratitude for all the ways she worked to keep me safe over the years. I started seeing past experiences through a different lens.

About ten years ago, I was in a relationship with a man who wanted to marry me. I was in constant turmoil inside about the relationship, plagued with doubt and uncertainty, unsure if I should stay or go.

I was so mad at myself for not having a clear “yes” or “no” about the situation. I didn’t realize this at the time, but I can see so clearly now that the anxious feeling in my gut was my body trying to tell me that this man was not my person.

In truth, my body was always working for my best interests. No one looks out for me the way my body does. She has always been my most fierce protector.

So I talk to my body and she talks to me. It’s the most important relationship I have.

Write a Thank You Letter to Your Body

There is a reason that gratitude practices have become so popular: they work.

One I started to understand just how hard my body had been working to protect me, I wanted to show my gratitude.

Writing a thank you letter can be the catalyst for a powerful mindset shift. It’s so easy to see all the things we hate about ourselves and our bodies.

Write a letter to your body. Think about all the millions of ways your body  has worked to keep you safe.

How your body has  alerted you when there’s danger, enabled you to speak truth by giving you gut feelings, and allowed you to experience the greatest pleasure.

We can never know all the ways that our bodies tirelessly work for us. Gratitude allowed me to further cultivate a positive relationship with my body and work in partnership with her instead of against her.

Gaze into Your Own Eyes

If you’ve done eye gazing with another person, you know how powerful and bonding it can be. This is true when you eye gaze with yourself.

I practice this by sitting on the floor in front of my closet doors that are large mirrors. I feel my body rooted into the ground before looking deeply into my own eyes.

As a woman, I often look into my left eye, which is generally considered to be the feminine side. The masculine is the right side.

This practice can bring intense emotions, so start with only a few minutes. You can grow your practice to twenty minutes or longer should you wish.

See yourself. Really see. And feel the feelings that arise.

It’s not uncommon for me to cry during this practice, reflecting on all the ways I’ve spoken negatively about my body and remembering how truly spectacular she is. She is beautiful, wise, and strong.

Eye gazing will allow you to see and experience these truths. And when you embrace those truths, your relationship to your body will change.

Try Mirror Work

Remember when you were younger and a parent told you to say one nice thing about your sibling or friend that you were fighting with? There’s something about acknowledging the good in another person that regulates emotions and stirs positive feelings. The same can be said about your body.

Mirror work is standing in front of the mirror and pointing out things you love about your body. This can be done clothed or unclothed depending on your comfort level.

The thing you love can be as small as an eyebrow or as large as your torso. As you start to focus on one thing you love and sit with the positive emotions that arise, you will start to consistently feel more positive about your body.

You’ll notice things you never saw before. Or see things as beautiful instead of ordinary.

The sexy curve of your left thigh, the strong shape of your ankles, the color of that freckle on your shoulder. You are uniquely you and that is inherently valuable.

Mirror work can be a ten-second practice or ten-minute practice. You can focus on the same part of your body every day or something different each time.

I incorporate mirror work into my morning routine when I’m brushing my teeth. As I brush, I look at myself in the mirror and pick one thing I love about my body that morning. This way, it doesn’t feel like I’ve added another self-help practice, but rather I’m taking advantage of opportunities to multitask.

When we take the time to see ourselves, what we really like about ourselves, we will learn to love what we see.

Commit One Loving Action

Similar to saying something nice about someone, doing a kind and loving action can also foster feelings of fondness and compassion.

For a week, do one focused, loving action to your body. If you can’t think of anything, ask this question: What’s something I have been wanting to incorporate into my daily self-care or hygiene routine, but haven’t done?

For me, this was moisturizing my feet. When I first did this practice, I had just moved to a new city with a much drier climate. My feet were so dry, but I wasn’t taking the time to moisturize them.

So I committed to do this once a day for a week. It wasn’t long before I started seeing my feet in a new way.

I was intentional when I sat on my bed and did this. I took my time rubbing the lotion in, observing new things about my feet I had never noticed before. Thinking about how hard my feet work and all the places they’ve stepped over my lifetime.

After doing this for a week or so, moisturizing became a natural part of my daily routine. In fact, I consistently moisturize all of my skin now, something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.

Some extra tender loving care will naturally grow your love for your body and cause you to care for them better.

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About Melissa Hart

Melissa Hart is a life coach, speaker, and mentor at www.melissahart.org. Melissa supports women feeling lost and overwhelmed by life’s changes to find clarity and build confidence so they can step bravely into the next chapter of their lives with renewed purpose and freedom. Grab her FREE journal guide 30 Minutes to Disarming Fear & Taking Purposeful Action.

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Why Codependents Don’t Trust Themselves to Make Decisions and How to Start

“Slow, soulful living is all about coming back to your truth, the only guidance you’ll ever need. When you rush, you have the tendency to follow others. When you bring in mindfulness, you have the power to align with yourself.” ~Kris Franken

Codependency previously created a lot of pain and agony in my life. One of the ways it manifested was in my inability to trust myself. I would overthink decisions to death, fearful that I would choose the “wrong one” or upset someone if they didn’t agree or were disappointed by my choice.

I was terrified of “making a mistake,” and I exhausted myself trying to collect everyone’s opinion (to ensure they would be pleased with me) before finally settling on a choice.

As annoying as it was, for me and everyone around me, I couldn’t seem to stand firm in my decisions. I longed to be more confident in my choices but couldn’t understand why it was so hard for me.

Growing up with an authoritative, controlling parent, I didn’t have the opportunity and support I needed to feel my feelings and let my intuition guide my choices. I didn’t get to learn from my mistakes. When I made a mistake, it felt like death. I was often blamed, shamed, and criticized, all too much for my empathetic system to bear.

I learned that if I placated and pleased, others were happy. And because I became so others-focused from such an early age, I never learned how to build my muscle for good decision-making.

Feelings and emotions were not welcome in my world, so my only way through was to disconnect from feeling at all—though I felt responsible for others’ mood swings and feelings. I learned that sharing my needs or opinions was triggering for others, and I didn’t have the skills to navigate the weight of that. All this combined felt mentally paralyzing, so I began to look outside of myself to others for advice and guidance eventually.

When you’re reliant on other people’s opinions and guidance, you’re much like a feather in the wind—susceptible to any small or big gust that comes along. You aren’t in control of your life, and you give others way too much power over how you feel.

One of the best ways to begin to build self-trust and heal from codependency is to begin feeling your feelings again, living from the neck down as I like to say. Moving from our cognitive thinking brain (because I know you know making decisions shouldn’t be this hard) to the wisdom of our bodies.

I believe that in order for us to really build this self-trust muscle, we have to learn how to trust our feelings. And that requires us to build a sense of awareness around why we might be codependent in the first place.

Perhaps, like me, you were programmed from an early age not to trust your inner knowing, or intuition. This results in low self-worth. And this happens for a number of reasons.

• You were abused or neglected (physically and/or emotionally).
• Your feelings and needs were minimized.
• You were judged, shamed, or mocked for your feelings, maybe even being called “too sensitive.”
• Your feelings and needs weren’t as important as other people’s.
• You didn’t have at least one parent or caregiver validating your feelings and sense of worth. You didn’t have someone mirroring back to you your value.

If you experienced any amount of neglect, or had emotionally unavailable parents, like me, you probably learned to suppress your feelings in order to survive. And what we resist persists, so those feelings that we try to shove down only intensify.

3 Tools to Build Self-Trust

These three tips might help you learn to trust your inner wisdom so you can make decisions from an empowered place.

TOOL #1: Daily check-in of your feelings.

When we check in with our feelings regularly so we can meet our needs, we learn to trust in our ability to do what’s best for ourselves.

When I first started doing this, I would set four alarms on my phone. When the alarm went off, I would do a quick check-in by asking myself, “What am I feeling? What am I experiencing right now?”

Often, we run through life, not checking in to see how we are doing and feeling (especially if we struggle with people-pleasing and codependency). We do a lot of things every day, all day—go to work, make decisions, parent our kids—but we often don’t check in with ourselves and ask if we need to shift something.

This is a big part of self-love, checking in and asking, before I have this conversation with my child, my partner, my boss, or customer service rep for my computer, what’s going on with me? Oh, I’m feeling ornery or hungry; here’s how I can address that before I have this conversation.

You can also do this by journaling. Keeping track of your feelings in a journal can be a beautiful way to understand, process, and look back on your experiences.

Here are some journaling questions to help you get started:

• What do I need to hear from myself?
• What do I need to do for myself to feel my best?
• What do I love about my life right now?
• Today I woke up feeling (fill in the blank).
• Am I living a life aligned with my values?

TOOL #2: Reparent your inner child.

Reparenting your inner child is a beautiful way of giving your inner little one the things that he or she needed and never received in childhood. You become the parent you needed when you were a child. And, by giving to yourself what you didn’t receive then, you free yourself from the past.

So much of reparenting yourself is about making choices every day in your own best interest. It’s becoming aware of your patterns and behaviors, understanding why you do what you do, and carving out time to give yourself what you really need. When you give yourself what you need, you start worrying less about other people abandoning you because you know you won’t abandon yourself.

One of my favorite ways to reparent myself is to give myself the words I never got to hear as a small young child.  Words like:

• I love you.
• I hear you.
• You are perfect and complete.
• You didn’t deserve that.
• I see that really hurt you.
• What do you need right now?
• That must have been very difficult for you.
• I’m so sorry that happened to you.
• You are smart.
• You did your best.

TOOL #3: Creating safety within.

Because we, as codependents, were raised by either emotionally unavailable or narcissistic caregivers/parents, we developed what I refer to as “a hole in the soul.”

Our parents’ responsibility is to mirror back to us our worth and value, but when they fail to do that, we will look to someone or something outside of ourselves to show us our worth and, in essence, feel safe.

It’s an endless battle of trying to fill that hole. Low self-worth, self-value, self-esteem, and self-regard are typical for codependents. We look outside of ourselves for safety and approval, becoming dependent on that next hit or rush. That safety might last for five minutes, five hours, and if we’re lucky, a whole day.

One of my trusted and reliable systems for safety was shopping. I would spend frivolously, buying things we didn’t need with money we didn’t necessarily have. This created a lot of stress and conflict between my husband and me, and further decreased my self-trust.

He couldn’t understand why I had this insatiable push to spend, and I didn’t either. I just knew that my system felt safe and relaxed once I made my purchases—until the excitement wore off, which usually happened quite quickly, and I was back in the store, searching and spending, trying to get my next fix.

I had a lot of stress and guilt because I knew what I was doing wasn’t healthy. Yet it was compulsive. I couldn’t stop.

I longed for the connection and safety that I never received as a child but didn’t know how to get it in healthy ways. So I suppressed my needs in relationships and tried to fill that hole with shopping.

It didn’t happen overnight, but once I learned how to create that feeling of safety within myself (with lots of support through trauma-informed coaching, therapy, breathwork, meditation, and proper nutrition, and after learning to speak up for myself), my codependent strategies (shopping, relationship addiction) slowly seemed to disappear.

I no longer needed to rely on my old strategies because I knew how to trust myself and offer myself what I truly needed.

I invite you to try this: Close your eyes and imagine something that makes you feel at ease, calm, and safe (maybe your favorite forest or beach, perhaps a little cabin nestled in the woods). Notice where the sensation of ease lives in your body. Be with it for a moment—just sit with and experience it. That feeling you just created was created by you. It is yours.

Every time you do this exercise you release the belief that you can’t create this feeling alone. That you can’t be trusted, and that you must rely on things outside of you to create safety.

When I first started this practice, I had to implement it every time I entered a store. I took a few moments while I sat in my car and created that feeling of safety within. That way, I felt a sense of calm and ease as I was shopping, keeping my prefrontal cortex online so that I could make rational purchases that I felt confident and good about.

I started to build evidence that I could, in fact, trust myself to make healthy decisions. It was incredibly empowering and freeing to walk into a shop and simply admire the textures, patterns, scents, and products without feeling an overwhelming compulsion to put things in my cart that I simply didn’t need.

Every time we connect with ourselves this way, we prove to ourselves that we can create safety within. And every time we make healthy choices from that place of internal safety, we deepen our trust in our ability to discern and do what’s best for us.

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About Krista Resnick

Krista Resnick is a master coach who specializes in helping women master the art of boundaries and speak their truth. She is passionate about helping women break free from codependency so they can experience unconditional self0love.  You can learn all about boundary basics in her upcoming free workshop, Build Better Boundaries happening May 17th.  Also, be sure to download her workbook and mediation, Compassionate Boundaries.

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Freedom Is the Space Between Each Judgmental or Righteous Thought

“It is inner stillness that will save and transform the world.” ~Eckhart Tolle

Life is hard. Impenetrable at times. How can we use our spirituality to navigate through the density of life?

That question inspired this piece of writing. And my navigation tool is almost effortless; I feel compelled to share it.

When my mind is churning and burning with thoughts and fears and worries, I take myself off to a quiet place, get still, and watch my mind. I wait for the tiny gap between each thought. Bingo.

That space, that little gap, is freedom in its truest, purest form. It is the birthplace of peace. And every time I enter that space, I am no longer at war with anything. Despite what madness may surround me, that place always remains untouched. It is like an infinite reservoir of strength and love—one that feels like, well, freedom.

How I came to find that reservoir is a long and nuanced story (that’s why I wrote a whole book about it), but I’ll try and give you the nutshell version.

Essentially, to even find it, I had to first get to the point where I was so disillusioned—with my cancer, with people, with the system, with the greed, with the house chores, with the destruction of the planet, with war, and with life full stop.

Little did I know it then, but that disillusionment was freedom’s gateway.

For so long, I looked to ‘the other’ as the source of my disillusionment.

Sometimes ‘the other’ was a person, sometimes it was a situation—my cancer, the pandemic, the person who I believed had wronged me, the political party; anything or anyone that caused a disturbance to my happiness fell into this bucket.

Of course, it felt good to blame cancer, that person, or the pandemic for my woes, at least on the surface. Yet the blaming was also the root of my suffering. The biggest wars I’ve had in my own life were when I was trying to get ‘the other’ to yield / change / admit they have it wrong so I could live in peace.

But the true source of my disillusionment was never with them. When I stopped waiting for the situation to change and shifted my attention to my mind, I observed something that floored me at first: my own righteousness.

Staring back in the mirror were my tendencies to be correct, envy, judge, complain, and win. That mirror revealed one simple truth: I was adding to the war I desperately wanted to end. I had arrived at the place where I was simply fed up—no longer fed up with life but rather fed up with the suffering caused by my very own mind.

The challenges and hindrances of life may have taken you to a similar point—the point where you’ve had enough. Before freedom is even possible, this stage is necessary, essential even.

The world is unsatisfying. So, now what? This is freedom’s front door. It is the opening to the very core of your being. When we have had enough of looking outside for contentment, only then do we look inward. This is where the rubber meets the road.

But we have to go deeper—beyond the mind, beyond our thoughts about what is right vs. wrong, left vs. right—to our essential oneness.

And, as a collective, I think we get there by asking ourselves one simple question: Do I want peace or war?

If it is peace, we must start with the peace in our minds. In all the frenzy, it is possible to simply stop and enter into the space between every thought. Rest there for a few scared moments. Feel the ease wash over every cell of our being. Come home to that again and again. Life doesn’t need to be any different to enter that space.

That space is freedom. And true freedom is not bound in any person or situation. Freedom is what sits underneath the war. It is found in the tiny gap between every righteous and non-righteous thought; it occurs through stillness.

From this stillness, I’ve learned (yes, the hard way) that we can speak our truth, but now we speak it without the need to control any outcome.

For example, rather than trying to force my husband to read a spiritual book instead of opting for Netflix—as if I know what’s right and best for him—I can respect him for where he is at in his inner journey. I still act. I still suggest books. But my happiness is not dependent on his choice.

Instead of being angry at a friend who hurt me, I can step out of my righteousness and cultivate empathy for where she is at in her life. I still reach out. I still attempt resolution. But my peace is not dependent on her response.

I throw my seeds of truth, dug up from the depths of my heart, out into my family and the world. Sometimes they land in the fertile soil of ‘the other,’ and sometimes they don’t. So be it. It is action without criticism, judgment, blame or control—without the war. I had found a place within where I could look at ‘the other’ and feel compassion and even love instead of anger and annoyance.

Eckhart Tolle says, “It is inner stillness that will save and transform the world.”

I couldn’t agree more. Because from that place, from the silent stillness within, war is not escalated but instead averted.

So, to anyone feeling disenchanted, I want to honor you and say one thing: The freedom your soul is aching for is within arm’s reach. It is as close as your breath, as close as the space between each of your thoughts.

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About Lara Charles

Lara Charles is an Australian writer and mother living in New Zealand with her husband and four children. Lara writes at the intersection of spirituality, motherhood, and modern life. Her work has been featured in national and international media outlets. Her first book, a memoir about the longing to know if there is more to life and the process of awakening amid everyday life, will be ready for publication in 2022. Read her reflections at laracharles.com.

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Why Judging People Is Really About You (Not Them)

“It’s easy to judge. It’s more difficult to understand. Understanding requires compassion, patience, and a willingness to believe that good hearts sometimes choose poor methods. Through judging, we separate. Through understanding, we grow.” ~Doe Zantamata

“Why doesn’t he say something?”

I was sitting at the dinner table with my partner and friends. Everyone was interacting and talking to each other, except my partner. He was just sitting there quietly. I had to admit, this situation made me very uncomfortable.

Why was he so quiet? We had been dating for over six months and normally, when it was just the two of us, he was very talkative, we had vivid discussions, he knew his opinions and was not afraid to speak his mind. But now, at a dinner with friends, he was a shadow of his normal self.

To be honest, I felt a bit embarrassed. What would my friends think? Did they quietly judge him too? Did they think he was boring and uninteresting?

When we got back home, I was irritated and annoyed. Have you ever had that feeling, when all you really want is to be brutally honest with someone? To explain exactly what they did wrong and explain how they should behave instead? I wanted to lecture him. To tell him this: “It’s rude not to interact at social gatherings. It’s weird. Can’t you behave? It’s sloppy! What’s wrong with you? What’s your problem?” 

I didn’t say those things to him. Instead, I allowed what had happened to sit with me for a few days. Slowly, I started turning that finger I was pointing at him toward myself. Maybe this wasn’t all about him, maybe it had something to do with me?

That’s when it struck me. He wasn’t having a problem. I was!

I realized that my upbringing had given me certain values and “truths” about relationships and social interactions. This is how you behave: You actively participate during conversations, anything else is considered rude. You ask people questions and share stories during social gatherings; otherwise, people will think that you’re uninterested. That’s what I learned growing up.

Because my partner wasn’t acting in accordance with what I had been taught, I judged him. Instead of asking myself why he was behaving the way he was, I put labels on him. When we came back home, I had, in my mind, labeled him as rude, boring, self-conscious, and not living up to the standards I wanted in a boyfriend.

Now, eight years later, I know that my husband was quiet during that dinner because he needs more time with new people before he’s fully comfortable. He didn’t do it because he was rude. On the contrary, I know he cared deeply about me and my friends, he was just showing it in a different way.

When I understood this, I knew that my judgment really had nothing to do with him—it was all about me. In judging my partner, I realized that I most of all judged myself. My judgment was never about him—it was about me.

This insight did not only bring me more compassion, less judgment, and more closeness in our relationship, it brought me a new perspective and new values that made my life better.

Below you’ll find the steps that I followed:

1. Identify: What judgment do you make about someone?

The first step is to be aware of the judgment(s) you make about other people. In my case, it was thoughts like “He’s rude and awkward,” “I’m better than him at interacting socially,” and “Maybe we’re not a good match? I need someone who can interact socially.” Often judgments include a feeling of you being superior, that you know or behave better than other people.

Just become aware of the judgments you’re making (without judging yourself for having them). This is the first step in transforming the judgment.

2. Ask yourself: How should this person be instead?

In the specific situation, ask yourself how you think the other person should be or act instead. According to you, what’s the best behavior in the situation? Be honest with yourself and write exactly what comes to mind, don’t hold yourself back here.

In my case, I wanted my partner to be fully involved in the conversations. I wanted him to be talkative, interested, and curious about my friends.

3. Go deeper: Why is it important to be this way?

Be curious and ask yourself, why is it important to be or act in the way that you prefer? If a person doesn’t act that way, what does it signal about the person? What is the consequence of not being or acting in the way you desire?

For me, social skills translate into good manners and that you can behave appropriately. I used to think that people that weren’t behaving in the “right” way, according to my viewpoint at the time, weren’t taught well by their parents. I labeled them as uninteresting and not contributing to the group. (Now, I know better, but more on that soon).

4. Spot: What underlying value is your judgment coming from?

Ask yourself what underlying values and beliefs that are fueling your judgments. What’s the story you’re telling yourself about the specific situation? Be brutally honest here.

In my case it was the following: Being unsocial is negative and equals weakness. Not being socially skilled is awkward and weird. It means that you are less—less capable, less skilled, less smart/intelligent, and ultimately less worthy. (Just to clarify, this was my judgment and insecurity speaking, and it’s obviously not the truth).

From my upbringing I had learned that social skills are highly valued. I was taught to be talkative, to engage in social interactions, and to articulate well. If you didn’t live up to these expectations, you felt inferior and less worthy.

5. Make a choice: Keep or replace your values?

When you have defined your underlying values and beliefs, you have to make a choice: Either you keep or replace them. And the crucial questions are: Are your values and beliefs serving you or not? Are they in line with your moral standard and aspirations?

I chose to replace my values. Instead of valuing people based on social skills, I chose to replace that value with acceptance, respect, curiosity, and equality. As much as I didn’t want to judge someone for their skin color, gender, or ethnicity, I didn’t want to judge someone based on how they behave socially.

Instead, I made a conscious choice to accept and respect all individuals for who they are. And to be curious and kind, because in my experience, every person you meet can teach you something.

Transforming Judgment to Your Benefit

Looking back at that dinner with my partner, I was so close to falling into the trap. To get into a fight where I would hurt my partner badly and create a separation between us. It took courage to turn the finger of judgment I was pointing towards him and to turn it towards me instead.

I realized that my underlying values and beliefs had consequences, not only for the people close to me, but also for myself. They implied that if someone has a bad day and doesn’t feel like interacting, that this is not okay. That others and I are not allowed to be ourselves and to show up just as we are (talkative or not).

I realized that the values that my judgment stem from did not only make me judge my partner, they also made me judge myself. I was not allowed to just show up. I realized that my upbringing had given me a sense of insecurity and uncertainty. Sure, I had learned how to interact and be the center of attention. But the underlying painful feeling was there. I had to be an entertainer. I had to always be smiling and in a good mood. I had to be curious and ask other people questions.

If not, I’d be excluded. I felt that I was only accepted when I was happy, outgoing, and enthusiastic. That was stressful and it didn’t make me feel safe.

Also, to my surprise, once I stopped judging my partner, he became more social and talkative at social gatherings. Why? Because previously he’d probably felt my judgmental look, and that made him even more uncomfortable and introverted. When I stopped judging he felt acceptance and respect. And that, in turn, made it easier for him to be himself, even at social gatherings.

The bottom line is this: When you judge someone it always comes back to you. What I discovered was that because I judged others, I was also very hard on myself. The more I have worked on this process, the more forgiving, accepting, and loving towards myself I have become.

Next time you find yourself judging someone else, stop and reflect. Follow the five steps and remember: it’s key to be honest, vulnerable, and curious.

Free yourself from the chains of judgment and allow acceptance, compassion, and liberation to enter—both for yourself and others. You got this!

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About Sophie Rosén Hellström

Sophie Rosén-Hellström is on a mission to help you move from fear to fearless—and to unleash your confidence, greater potential, and true self-love. Download her free and powerful worksheet: "The Secret to Boosting Your Self-Confidence [Easy Worksheet]."

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After the Assault: What I Now Know About Repressed Trauma

The small park down the street from my childhood home: friends and I spent many evenings there as teenagers. We’d watch movies on each other’s MP3 players and eat from a bag of microwave popcorn while owls hooted from the trees above.

Twigs lightly poked against our backs. Fallen leaves graced skin. Crickets hummed in the darkness. The stars shone bright through the branches of the redwoods.

Eight years later at a park in Montevideo, Uruguay, darkness again surrounded me. Leaves and twigs once more made contact with my skin. This time, though, I couldn’t hear the crickets or notice the stars. Details of nature were dimmed out, replaced by the internal clamor of a rapidly beating heart and shock flooding through me.

By day, Parque Rodo bustled with life. Later that year I would ride paddle boats there with my girlfriend of the time. I would feed crumbles of tortas fritas to the ducks alongside my Uruguayan housemate, while he shared with me his dream to become a dancer in New York City. I would do yoga on the grass with fellow English teacher friends. It would become a place of positive memories.

That night, though, it was anything but.

~~~

One week earlier, I’d moved to Montevideo to teach English and become fluent in Spanish.

My first week passed by in a whir of exploratory activity. I traversed cobblestone streets past colorful houses resembling Turkish delights; past pick-up soccer games in the middle of some roads; past teenagers walking large groups of varied species of dogs.

I learned Spanish tongue-twisters from native Uruguayans while drinking mate on the shores of the Rio de la Plata. I sand-boarded for the first time and became accustomed to answering the question “De donde sos?” (“Where are you from?”) in nearly every taxi I took and confiteria (pastry shop) I set foot in.

Now that it was the weekend, I wanted to experience the LGBTQ+ night life (which I’d heard positive things about). Located on the periphery of the expansive Parque Rodo, Il Tempo was one of Montevideo’s three gay clubs, catering mostly to lesbians.

I hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so my plan before heading in was to grab a chivito sandwich (one of Uruguay’s staple foods). Chiviterias abounded across Montevideo, present on nearly every corner, so I imagined I wouldn’t have to walk far to find one.

After taxi-ing from my hostel, I asked the bouncer if he could direct me to the closest chiviteria. Pointing down the street, he told me to walk for half a block. I’d then make a right and continue down 21de septiembre until reaching Bulevar General Artigas.

” Y alli encontrarás una” (“And there you will find one”), he said.

A few blocks didn’t sound like a lot, so off I went.

I walked for what felt like a while, without crossing paths with any other pedestrians.

Isn’t this supposed to be a major street? I wondered. Also, shouldn’t there be some streetlamps?

It was then that another pedestrian—a young man wearing a backward baseball cap—came into view.

He was walking briskly toward me from the opposite direction. Pretty much the minute I saw him, I knew my evening wouldn’t be playing out as I’d envisioned. A chivito was no longer on the table. I wouldn’t be dancing with a cute Spanish-speaking lesbian at Il Tempo.

“Adonde vas?” (“Where are you going?”) the man asked me as he got closer. Tension immediately took hold of my body, which I did my best to hide while quickly responding that I was on my way to a chivito spot.

Yo sé donde comprar un chivito” (“I know where to get a chivito”), he said, gesturing toward the park. “Te muestro” (“I’ll show you”).

My heart hammered, but I again tried to obscure any signs of fear. Maybe if I exuded only niceness and naivety, it would buy me more time—because the grim truth (that there was nowhere within eyesight to run to) was quickly becoming apparent. The foggy pull of disassociation came for me, wrapping its wispy arms around my heart and mind.

Similar to how Laurie Halse Anderson wrote in Shout: “The exits were blocked, so you wisely fled your skin when you smelled his intent.”

I chose not to run—because who knew how long it would be before I found a more populated road, or even a passing car? And how far could I flee before the man caught up? He’d likely become angry and violent if and when he did. Also, flip-flops make for pretty dismal running shoes…

Maybe if I kept walking with him, we’d cross paths with another person, went my reasoning at the time. No one else was present on that dimly lit street, but maybe in the park someone would be—a couple taking a late-night stroll, or a cluster of teenagers cutting through on their way to the next bar; or someone, anyone who could step in and become a buffer. Parque Rodo’s website had, after all, mentioned that many young people hang out there at night.

~~~

I don’t remember what the man and I talked about as we walked. I do remember a half-eaten chivito lying atop a trash can off to the side of the path; the sound of my flip-flops crunching against the gravel; that we continued to be the only pedestrians on our path; and that after a minute or two, the man announced, “We’ve almost made it to the chivito place.” I nodded in response, my appetite now completely nonexistent.

Part of me still hoped I could buy time. That I could pretend I didn’t know what was about to happen, for long enough so that someone, or something, could intervene—so that maybe it wouldn’t.

Nothing and no one did though. When the man finally grabbed me and pushed me against a tree, my feigned composure broke. Noticing the shift, he used both his hands to cover my mouth while whispering that he would kill me if I raised my voice (“Te mataré,” he repeated three times in a low hiss).

Over those next few minutes, I kept trying to hold eye contact in attempt to get through to his humanity. I desperately and naively hoped that at any moment he would awaken to what he was doing and feel ashamed enough to stop.

He didn’t though.

When he tried to take my shorts off, a disorienting sequence of imagined future scenarios swiped through my mind like sinister serpants.

They showed me dealing with an STD.

Taking a pregnancy test.

Getting an abortion.

Doing all of these things on my own in a country 6,000 miles from home and from everyone who knew me.

My fear of those imagined outcomes pushed me to speak up.

”You don’t want to go down there,” I warned, feigning concern for his well-being.

He reached for my shorts anyways.

And so I tried again, this time while looking him in the eye. Though I wouldn’t know the Spanish word for STD until years later when taking a medical interpreter certification course, I did have others at my disposal. Enough to explain that I’d once had “a bad experience” that left me with algo contagioso (something contagious).

If this man cared at all about his health, he’d stop what he was doing, I explained.

Maybe I was imagining it, but I thought I saw the slightest bit of uncertainty begin to share space with the vacancy in his eyes.

Whether or not he believed me, he stopped reaching down and settled on a non-penetrative compromise.

Afterwards he snatched up my shorts and emptied their pockets of the crumpled pesos inside them (the equivalent of about fifty U.S. dollars). Then after tossing them into a nearby bush, he ran off into the night.

~~~~

As I stood up a dizziness overtook me, my soul quavering and disoriented in its return from the air above to back inside my skin.

Still shaking, I found my way to the closest lighted path, walking quickly until I reached Il Tempo—the club I’d started at.

I asked the bouncer if I could use the bathroom.

Once inside I washed my mouth with soap—one time, two times, five then six. No number of times felt like enough.

After returning to my hostel, I fell asleep, telling not a single soul. I wouldn’t for another six months.

~~~

Part of it was that I didn’t want to bother anyone. What had happened was heavy, but it was over now. I was fine—and what was there to say about it? Telling people, this soon into the start of my year abroad, would just be needlessly burdening them. Not to mention disrupting the momentum of what I’d wanted to be a chapter of growth and new beginnings.

Another aspect of it was that I feared the questions people might ask, even if just in their own heads:

Why were you walking on your own at night? Why didn’t you take a taxi? Why were you wearing shorts? Why didn’t you run? Scream? Why did you follow him into the park? Why weren’t you carrying mace? Why didn’t you…?

I too had asked myself these questions. And I had answers to them.

I was walking on my own because I’d just moved here and didn’t know anyone; I didn’t take a taxi because I thought the walk would be quick, and taking one every time you need to walk even just a block or two gets expensive; I wore shorts because it was a hot summer night; I followed him into the park for the reasons outlined in my thought process above, and perhaps because fear was clouding and constricting my rational thinking.

Still, I couldn’t shake free from the shame.

The people I confessed to months later turned out to be wonderfully supportive. Looking back, I can see that though I’d worried about them judging me, I was the one judging myself—then projecting that self-judgment onto them.

Still, even though my support group didn’t, I was also aware that society does lean toward placing accountability on victims—even more so in the years before the Me Too movement. Often, even now, the knee-jerk reaction is to question victims.

After determining that the best way forward was to put the incident behind me, I then locked it away into a mental casket and began the burial process. I covered over it with mate and dulce-de-leche; with invigorating swims through the Rio de la Plata; with meeting lively souls in the months that followed.

Though unaddressed, at least safely buried the memory couldn’t harm me. Or so went my thinking at the time.

~~~

Following the assault, I began my teaching job at the English academy. I assimilated to Uruguayan culture as best as I could, all while providing positive updates to friends and family back home.

The pushed-down trauma manifested in other ways though—in stress, depression, and near constant irritation. As Tara Brach put it, “The pain and fear don’t go away. Rather, they lurk in the background and from time to time suddenly take over.”

I drank unhealthy amounts of alcohol (not just in groups, but also when alone). Many things overwhelmed me. Countless triggers seemed to set me off.

The Uruguayan girl I’d been dating even said to me once, “Te enojas por todo” (“You get irritated by everything”). I ended up getting banned from that lesbian club I’d gone to the night of the assault, after arguing with the bouncer one night.

Nightmares plagued me. I’d learned in my college psych class that one of the functions of sleep is to escape from predators. I wondered why, then, I came face to face with my predator every night in my dreams.

~~~

I’d had other traumatic experiences prior to this one—many of which I’d stuffed away.

The pain pile-up will level off, if only you just stop looking at it, I often tried to tell myself.

It didn’t level off though. I’d flown down to Uruguay with the pile still smoldering, my conscious mind numbed to the fumes (having been trained to forget they were there). Following the assault, the pile grew—and continued to grow well into my return to the U.S.

When we avoid processing, the traumas form a backlog in our hearts and minds, queuing up to be felt eventually. Numerous studies have found avoidance to be “the most significant factor that creates, prolongs, and intensifies trauma-reaction or PTSD symptoms.”

It was only when I began inching closer toward my pain that I began to slowly heal the parts I’d stuffed down for so long.

Healing took place when I began opening up to people. It took place in therapy and through getting a handle on my drinking. It took place when restructuring my network, prioritizing the friendships that were better for my soul, while trimming the ones that had served more of a distracting and numbing purpose.

It took place in redirecting care to my relationship with myself—spending more gentle one-on-one time with her, out in nature or in a quiet room.

Every time I run barefoot on a beach, my heart heals a little.

Every time I leave an interaction (with either a human or the planet) with my soul purring like a pleased cat, my soul inches closer toward realignment.

I practiced turning toward my truer self in all these ways—until eventually, as phrased beautifully by Carmen Maria Machado, “Time and space, creatures of infinite girth and tenderness, [had] stepped between the two of [the traumatic incident and me], and [were] keeping [me] safe as they were once unable to.”

Though I want this for everyone who’s survived an assault, or any other serious trauma, it’s only within judgment-free space that true healing is possible. This means letting go of self-judgment, and surrounding yourself with people who can validate you.

May the idea be wiped from our collective consciousness: that the choice to wear a particular item of clothing, or to consume a few drinks, or to seek out a snack late at night—basic things men can do without fearing for their safety—are responsible for what happened to survivors.

May the prevailing understanding become that what is responsible—100 percent—is a person’s decision to assault. Full stop.

May all of these things become true—because no survivor should have to experience shame alongside the pain that’s already so difficult to bear on its own. Because every survivor deserves a space to heal and reclaim what was taken from them: the ineffable sense of emotional safety that should be our birthright. We deserve a viscerally felt “you are okay” coursing through our veins. We deserve to feel completely at home inside our skin.

May we arrive there some day.

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About Eleni Stephanides

A queer bilingual writer, Eleni was born and raised in the Bay Area. She has been writing since elementary school, where she handed out her stories and magazines to her classmates. Her work has been published in The Mighty, Thought Catalogue, Elephant Journal, and Uncomfortable Revolution. You can follow her on IG eleni_steph_writer and read stories from her time as a rideshare driver at lyfttales.com.

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