Returning to the body I left behind

I used to feel so overwhelmed by confusing sensations in my body. 

Unaware of how my nervous system struggled to process sensory data like lights, loud volumes, sudden sounds, terrible textures, fuzzy emotions, and unclear social dynamics, I did what many would do. 

I suppressed everything. 

My entire life’s goal until I was 40: No one can ever know. 

I internalized all of it. “It must be my fault. I just need to work harder. I just need to understand other people better. I just need to catch up to everyone else.”

Then I arrived in Edmonds, Washington for a new job in the midst of the newly arrived global pandemic. 

My nervous system exploded.

All my coping mechanisms fell apart in the span of 19 months. Looking back, the pandemic sped up the process that was likely about to happen anyway. But still. It was A LOT all at once. 

I internalized a no-win set of expectations. I adapted in any way I could but it meant losing access to my favorite parts of me. My mental, emotional, and physical health rapidly declined. 

One day, I walked around the church over and over and over until I was finally honest with myself. I had to leave. I had to disappoint people to save myself. I had to figure out what was going on in my inner world. 

So I left. Mid-year. Rarely ideal for a United Methodist pastor.

Then, just as I was beginning to take a tiny breath of release, my youngest brother unexpected passed away three weeks after I left my job. 

I never really got to metabolize what happened in Edmonds. My nervous system filed it as, “Unresolved, come back to this later.”

Over the last 3-4 years, I have learned how to return to my body in profoundly honest ways. One step at a time, I’ve spent time with the pain and confusion from that season of implosion. I’ve slowly untangled it from the grief of losing my brother. They fused together in a way. 

Then about 6 months ago, two women from that church asked if I wanted to facilitate their women’s retreat. I checked in with my dear friend who is now the pastor to this community and we both saw it as a gift. I said yes. 

Twenty-four hours before heading north, I noticed a sharp pain in my right upper gums. I grinned for a surprising reason. It was the EXACT same spot where I had lost a tooth that cracked and died due to stress during that previous season of life. There’s an implant there now. It’s fascinating how our bodies hold memories from past seasons. I offered that pain some compassion and awareness. It resolved a few hours later.

This past weekend, I walked into a community of women, not quite sure what to expect. But I knew my body felt rooted. Strong. Awake. Trusting. Steady. I had done the work to arrive here.

During challenging seasons, parts of ourselves freeze as a way to survive. And they freeze at the age we were and the nervous system capacity we had at that time. 

We can go back and spend time with those parts and give them the support they needed but didn’t get. It’s a profoundly healing process. 

As I walked the beach in Edmonds and spent time with congregants, I noticed how metabolizing and integrating the stories my body held about that season really enabled my body to update its timeline. The pain used to feel lodged inside of my body. Stuck. When I would touch into it, it felt fresh and current. But placing my body in those spaces now feels much different. Those frozen parts of me have softened. They feel seen, understood, and supported. They don’t need to clamor for my attention now. 

Honestly, the whole weekend felt like my current self got to go back and reclaim the younger me I left behind there. What a freaking gift.

I noticed how conversations with long-time friends and congregants I only knew through a mask offered moments of grace and love for us both.

Pastoring during the pandemic to a church I never really got to meet meant putting so much energy and love into the internet void, unsure if it was landing. This past weekend, I got to receive some hugs and deeply gracious words from people who got to bear witness to another part of my journey. 

As we hugged, I imagined my younger self receiving their love. Ease and relief bubbled up inside. They got to hug the version of me that felt really lost trying to be their pastor. 

She tried so hard. 

She unraveled in all the ways she didn’t know she needed.

And now?

She gets to land back in her body that has far more capacity to be with the complexities of life.

And maybe the best part of all of this — I got to try out new content as I prepare to step into my Gentle Way chapter. It felt awkward to teach in a different way. More vulnerable and honest. There were elements of the me I’ve always been mixed in with the me I’m meeting lately. 

It feels fitting that one of my hardest seasons is a bridge into the next part of the journey. 

Almost as if release, presence, flourishing, and love are the whole point of this life. May it be so.