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Trust in Us

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TRUST IN US
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i’m not afraid of you
take me inside
show me all of your fragments
and see how the light will dance
through your seams when you shine it through
hear how the heart song sings its loudest when it’s finely tuned
and know how just when the end of your rope is met with shaking hands
does the earth reach to meet your feet
despite how ungrounding love’s fall may seem
know that miracles only come from thin air
so take my hand and leap
trust in us
trust in me
and maybe this time
we won’t come down

Home Is

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HOME IS
if home is where the heart is
i’ve found mine in many places
i’ve left a nest in
iron skylines
redwood rainforests
lovers from campbell to canaan
home is where i am
but also where i want to be
in a cluster of stars i swear i’ve seen
and in the damp sweet soil mother gave me
is my heart shattered and scattered?
or rather expanded,
encompassing hours of
ruffage and road?
perhaps home is not a place
but rather a state
beyond the surveyor’s tape
beyond the postmarked letters
or white picket gate
home is in knowing
our fate is in the hand
or rather foot-drawn map
of every step before
and even more
each to come
home is here
wherever we stand
welcome
,

The Paradox of the Extroverted Empath


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I have a pretty clear image of the “classic empath” in my mind.

She’s shy and sensitive and loves nothing more than curling up with a good book, a cup of tea, and a pair of socks she probably knit herself. She’s a gentle soul, deeply in touch with her emotions and sensitive to the feelings and experiences of those around her. She cherishes her solitude and the lucky few she trusts enough to love.

It’s a pretty picture—but it’s not that simple for everyone.

For those unfamiliar with the term “empath,” it’s a character structure built upon empathy for other beings. There are many other terms to describe this experience—including HSP, intuitive, “giver,” and more. Many consider it a gift, but also a challenge to navigate in our high-pressure, high-stimuli world.

Empaths have a few identifying characteristics including:

Hypersensitivity to people’s emotions, noises, stress, and stimuli of all kinds.

Emotional absorbency—taking on others’ feelings as their own.

Strong intuition or “gut feelings” about people and situations.

Loving and needing alone time.

Through all the pieces I’ve read and personal conversations I’ve shared, these qualities seem relatively undisputed, but one in particular I just cannot resonate with—introversion.

As sensitive and spongy as I am, I’m also (and have always been) a die-hard extrovert.

I thrive in relationship with others and need a boost of human interaction to keep my energy up during the day. I can’t help but feel an unending love for people. The truth is, when I spend extended periods alone, I actually feel heavy and drained—the exact way most empaths express their experience after too much socializing.

This is the paradox of being an extroverted empath:

We need human connection to thrive, but still feel drained after spending time with people.

We can relate deeply and personally to many people at once.

We feel a great sense of purpose from understanding other people’s experiences.

We need our alone time, but don’t always want to take it.

This is a highly challenging place to be in, but it’s the truth I’ve been trying to balance my entire life. Frankly, not all the “empath survival guides” out there speak to this experience and the unique needs of the extroverted sector of this community.

I’d like to change that.

How do we take care of ourselves as outgoing, extroverted sensitives in this life?

Here are a few practices that have proven helpful to me:

1. Breathe.

Some sort of personal breathwork practice is imperative to staying in balance. As an empath—especially an extroverted one—we are exposed to the emotional dispositions of many. So familiarizing ourselves with the feeling of our own bodies, feelings, and energy allows us to recognize when we’re holding something that isn’t ours.

I have benefitted from basic Buddhist meditation, self-reiki, and chakra balancingpractices, but the options are limitless. Find one that works for you!

2. Ground and center.

Carrying other people’s emotional energy leads to feeling overwhelmed, exhausted, and ungrounded. Once we recognize we’re feeling this way, re-centering our awareness back to ourselves and getting grounded expands our capacity to hold space for others without sacrificing our own well-being.

Grounding is as simple as sitting in meditation and bringing awareness to our tailbone being supported by the Earth, or the simple sensation of our feet on the floor. We can also get grounded by spending time in nature, noticing all the sights, sounds, and smells around us. In terms of centering, I like to just close my eyes and take a few deep breaths into my heart and belly—visualizing all my scattered thoughts and emotions drawing back to me.

3. Let go of what isn’t ours.

Extroverted empaths are drawn to engage with many kinds of people, and naturally absorb thoughts and feelings that aren’t ours. For example, that sudden feeling of anxiety was actually our mother’s, that grief was our colleague’s, or that flood of love was our best friend’s. Whether or not the feeling is pleasant isn’t important—only that it’s not ours.

When we choose to regularly engage socially, it’s even more important to check in with ourselves and make sure that what we’re feeling is actually our own. Pause frequently and take a big sigh out to release anything that isn’t yours to hold.

4. Seek out smaller groups.

I’ve found that smaller, simple interactions are enough to fill me up with the human connection I need to thrive. We don’t have to be the fluttering social butterfly at a 50-person party every weekend to feel connected—in fact, more intimate personal relationships often generate the fulfillment we’re looking for more effectively anyway.

Have dinner with a few close friends, or meet one-on-one with someone to share a creative project. When I do find myself in spaces with many people—like a concert, party, or bar—it helps to have an “anchor person” who I know and trust to check in with if things start to feel intense or overstimulating.

5. Take breaks.

We have to be willing to take breaks alone to recharge—even if it’s for an hour or two—to avoid emotional burn-out. This has been a lifesaving lesson for me. If I want to be social after work, I’ll go home to make dinner, lay down, listen to music, or read solo for a little while before reconnecting with people again.

Meditation, or even a five-minute walk, is an incredibly effective means to do this when we don’t have time to take a full break. Finding (or creating) small windows in the day to reconnect with ourselves ultimately allows us to keep up the energy to support our extroverted nature.

6. Be alone in the presence of others.

Many of my favorite “me-time” activities involve taking myself out to enjoy things I love in public spaces where I don’t know anyone. Extroverted empaths can’t help but engage on a deep, emotional level with people we know, and this takes energy, but complete solitude can be equally draining. Solo time in public is the “Middle Way.”

I love to take my laptop to a coffee shop and write, or take a book of poetry to a bistro and enjoy a nice glass of wine. Others may like to hang out at the beach, hit the rock climbing gym, or maybe peruse an art museum. Enjoy the company of the strangers without directly engaging with them.

These are just a few practices I have found allow me to fully express my social, people-loving nature while maintaining my sense of balance and energy as an empath in this world. Are there any other extroverted empaths out there? I’d love to hear how other tips for embracing the paradox that we are.

In Soul, Danielle

(This post was originally published on Elephant Journal)

Human Heart

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HUMAN HEART
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as a human being
with a human heart
i will never hold back its breaking
so when love arrives as mine for the taking
you better believe I’ll say yes
to the risk of the fall
to losing it all
every time
before i opt out in favor of safety’s illusion
it’s never my heart who knows confusion
it’s my head who’s mixed up
and it’s pretty fucked up
that I once considered love less than first
so let me say that here, today
this human being
with this human heart
is saying yes
to you
,

Father’s Day Cards for Complicated Relationships


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What kind of card do you give the father you don’t speak to?

This is the question that hung in the front of my mind while I stared blankly at my grocery store’s festive Father’s Day display.

“World’s #1 Dad!”

“Thank you for your never-ending support and love.”

“You are, and will always be, my hero.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I fought the impulse to dart away. It all felt so disingenuous—but how could I say nothing? It’s Father’s Day and I still have a dad. I still love him. I still want him to know how much I care.

But after a lifetime of struggling to “make it work,” I made the decision to take a break from our relationship, and I stand by this choice.

My eyes floated over to the sympathy section of the carousel. Somehow “I’m sorry for your loss” seemed more appropriate.

I left the store with two avocados, but no card.

Although this is the first holiday I can’t pick up the phone, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t struggled to do so for several years. “Will he be in a good place? Will he be mad? Will he use this opportunity to pressure me into things I cannot do?” Anxiety, mixed with love, mixed with god knows whatever cocktail of buried feelings unearths every time I see his name.

I know I am not the first person challenged with complicated feelings on Father’s Day. And I don’t blame them. Our parents are our original caregivers, and as much as I truly believe they raise us to the best of their ability (even if their best is hurtful, distant, or altogether absent), most often our parents are our original heartbreakers too. We were young; we trusted them with our lives and our deepest truths, and in that tenderness we learned what is lovable and what is “unacceptable” about ourselves.

That sh*t doesn’t resolve itself. It takes work. It takes dedication, patience, insight, and time to heal and rewrite the impressions our parents made on us.

I actually believe that taking time away to get right within ourselves and to understand what happened between us is the greatest Father’s Day gift we can offer. We give the relationship a real chance in the long-term. For some, even this may not be possible, and disconnecting completely becomes the only self-loving option for a healthy life.

I wish this for no one, but I understand and support those who have made (or are considering) this choice.

I know my father has always loved me and he didn’t mean for his words and actions to be received as hurtfully as they were. I know he’s had a hard life. I know he’s sensitive on the inside. I know he ultimately wants me to be safe, stable, healthy, and happy. But historically, I haven’t felt that way with him. And the thing is, I want those things for myself too.

It’s not as easy as “good dad/bad dad.” Every dad is just human—trying to learn and live and figure it all out, and sometimes we kids get caught in the web of that. Because we’re human too.

It’s all just so very…complicated.

Which brings me back to the cards. Standing in the grocery store aisle, where all the prior thoughts came to mind, I found myself wishing for more emotionally-inclusive options to better reflect the melting pot of father-daughter relationships.

So I decided to write my own.

Here are nine alternate card inscriptions to reflect the mixed-feels of Father’s Day:

“I don’t know what to say, but I’m thinking of you anyway.”

“I wish we were closer.”

“I am working on forgiving our past.”

“I know you never meant to hurt me.”

“I miss you, even if I can’t see you right now.”

“I know you tried.”

“Thank you for all you did, and didn’t do. I’m grateful for it all.”

“I wish you nothing but healing and peace.”

“I love you, and I always will.”

For the children with complicated father relationships out there, my heart goes out to you. And your dads. And perhaps most of all, to my own father. There is nothing we want more than to be loved by our closest relations, and it hurts on both sides if that experience of one another is not intact. I believe where there is love, forgiveness, and understanding, there is hope.

Know you are not alone, you are lovable, and you are under no obligation to reach out to a father-figure just because one out of 365 calendar squares told you so.

May we have a peaceful Father’s Day, and may we all become the fathers we needed most.

In Soul, Danielle

(This post was originally published on Elephant Journal)

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Honoring Sensitivity in a High-Pressure World


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I’ll come out and say it—I’m sensitive.

Indeed, a “highly sensitive person,” as my closer companions often call me—“HSP” for short. And I’d like to acknowledge for a moment that it takes courage to share this identification with the world.

We pay a lot of lip-service to sensitivity these days. Brené Brown’s Power of Vulnerability skyrocketed from bestseller to instant-classic-manifesto status. We proudly proclaim ourselves as “empaths” (albeit with a twinge of self-pity) and we find ourselves riding the wave of the millennial self-love revolution. “Staying in is the new going out!” read lifestyle magazine headlines. And I can’t argue with any of it—most of the time I’m in full agreement—but does our culture actually mean what it says?

Frankly, I’m calling bullsh*t.

At the end of the day, we live in a high-pressure world. The new American Dream demands us to rise up, keep up, and make a name for ourselves—all while being 100 percent self-sustaining, “healthy,” environmentally conscious, and making a thriving living off our entrepreneurial dreams. In a culturally-relevant (i.e. expensive) urban oasis. Oh, and honoring our sensitive nature.

I have a hard time believing our culture is sincere in supporting this sensitivity. We can be sensitive as much as we want—off the clock. We can be sensitive as long as we are still highly-functioning, profitable members of society. Ultimately, we can be sensitive if we keep it to ourselves.

Does this pose a dilemma for you? Because I’ve been mulling it over for months, if not years. How do we honor our sensitivity in this high-pressure world?

First of all, we have to honor it within ourselves.

This is easier said than done—but it’s a must. It starts with a simple acknowledgement: “I’m a sensitive.” Hey, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Honoring our own sensitivity requires deconstructing the judgments we hold against it. I am in firm belief that our true nature is one of self-acceptance, so sourcing our inner-critic requires a little personal archeology.

Who said it wasn’t okay to be this way? Was it the boss who told us to get our sh*t together after a breakup? Was it the parent who signed us up for countless extra-curriculars, or demanded academic perfection? Or perhaps it was the schoolyard peers who said crying is for sissies. Dig deep and find the root of the belief.

Once I understood why I didn’t accept my sensitivity, I was able to have compassion for myself and change the script. While the outer world may still supply this message, I was no longer one of the voices. I became my own voice of care.

Then, honor it with our actions.

This often requires compromise. I hate to burst the invincible bubble, but we actually cannot do it all. We are human beings. As a sensitive, this is even more valid. Honoring our sensitivity means assessing our energy-level frequently and respecting where we’re at. Checking-in with our physical and emotional bodies allows us to make loving and informed decisions about how to fulfill our deeper needs.

We aren’t going to be up for every invitation or request. This requires saying “no” to others a lot more than we’re likely comfortable with. Start practicing. If we need to, we can say “no” in small ways and work our way up. “I’m sorry, I can’t drive you to the airport next week. I have a lot on my plate.” could eventually become “I love you, but I can no longer engage in this relationship.” or “On second thought, I never wanted to be a doctor.” If it was scary to read that, don’t worry. Baby steps.

Lately, I’ve scaled way back on the expectations I put on myself in my spare time. I spend a lot more “me time” at home: cooking healthy meals, playing music, journaling, or reading inspiring books. I love people, but when I acknowledge my sensitivity, being an on-the-go social butterfly doesn’t fit my life right now. Maybe again someday, but what’s important is I’m listening to my needs in the present and making the kindest choices I can to reflect that.

Get clear on priorities.

Sensitivity is not a get-out-of-jail-free card for life’s difficulties. There is no such thing. Sensitive or not, there are aspects of life we have to face to survive (and ideally, thrive) in this world. And I believe it’s entirely possible for us, so long as we’re clear on our priorities.

I like to think of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs for this thought exercise. I’ve literally drawn the pyramid out in my journal and made commitments to each layer of personal development. The base of the pyramid is “physiological needs,” meaning food, shelter, and sleep. If any of these aspects are out of whack, it’s highly difficult to feel balanced and healthy, much less engage with the world without getting drained. So we start there. Prioritize a good night’s sleep. I know it’s not “sexy,” but you know what else isn’t sexy? A zombied-out HSP.

Then, prioritize a stable, sustainable work and home situation. Sensitives are more impacted by change than others, so finding a good fit long-term in these areas is super important. Despite my sensitivity, I’m highly ambitious, so I used to set myself up in harsh, demanding work environments for the challenge and prestige, but ultimately would burn out and return to the same ungrounded, high-risk place I started in.

I’ve learned my limits and I’m clear about them with everyone in my life, so now I’m confident in the long-term potential of my current life choices. I go to bed before 11 p.m., I maintain a nutritious diet, and I created a cozy, modest home that feels good to return to. Much peace arises from these choices.

Lastly, commit to self-care practices.

Reclaiming my sensitivity began when I learned (and consistently practiced) meditation. This is something I believe all sensitives would benefit from embracing. Meditation is, quite simply, taking time to be with ourselves. Free of demands, judgment, pressure, or misunderstanding. Sitting with ourselves allows us to get to know what’s actually going on in our minds, bodies, and hearts. How else could we know how to best take care of ourselves? After several years of practice, I now receive direct, intuitive insight in my meditation sessions about the best choices to make, and answers to questions I’ve struggled with off the cushion.

There are infinite other self-care modalities we can adopt, as unique as each of us. I have a friend who is devout about her yoga practice. Another who is basically a mermaid and jumps straight for an Epsom-salt bath. Another swears by reiki to rebalance after tough weeks.

We all benefit from different tools at different times. Usually, quiet time writing does the trick for me, but other days I just need a long talk on the phone with someone who loves me. When sh*t really hits the fan, I break out my emergency first-aid kit (“When Harry Met Sally” and a very large bowl of popcorn).

I write all this in hopes that I, and my fellow sensitives, can embrace who we are and empower ourselves to build our strength, restore our health, and live out our best lives. I don’t want to view this quality as an adversity; it’s just another part of how we walk through the world.

We can, and we will, rise to meet every day with integrity, honesty, and the beautiful sensitivity we have to offer. We are everything we need to be. We are enough.

In Soul, Danielle

(This post was originally published on Elephant Journal)

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Finding the Freedom to Fail

One would think by now, what with all my professional experience, that I would be a seasoned and savvy fucker-upper.

But, alas, whenever I drop the ball, struggle, or straight-up bomb, I feel like a failure. A failure at said task, but also a failure at failing.

Such is the plight of the chronic perfectionist, a title I used to consider resume-worthy but now realize is one of my greater hinderances.

I’ve recognized a similar pattern between myself and other Type As. We were the classroom kids who sat in the front row and quickly mastered our textbook’s lessons. We were the know-it-alls. But the problem with “knowing it all” is there’s little room for anything new. Maybe we can get by this way for a while, but eventually our luck runs out.

>> Read the rest of this post on Elephant Journal << 

In Soul, Danielle

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Breaking-Up With California

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It’s hard to write this. It’s even harder to publish.

There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to admit I’m moving on. Will they think I’m a failure? Do I think I’m a failure? Am I letting the people who love me down by not coming back? The river of insecurity rushes by me faster than I can offer compassionate answers.

But here’s the hard truth: California never felt like home. So I left.

We had a good run. This feels like one of those break-ups between two good people who just aren’t right for each other. I planted so much love there, and despite the fact that for a while there we were on thin ice, I feel like we turned it around in the end. After years of trying to make it work, I finally understood that what’s right doesn’t take so much effort.

I’ll spare you all the sappy details. Because let’s be real, California has been through so many break-ups by now it will surely move on to someone new by the end of the week. It has a way of attracting sparkle-eyed adventure girls like me.

Regardless, I’d like to share a bit of what California meant to me during our three-year rendezvous.

Moving to Los Angeles was my first attempt at making it in the real world. I thought I was equipped for it, which I find unceasingly amusing now. Is anyone ready for the world at 22? I learned more about myself leaving the Midwest than I ever thought possible—and in such a short amount of time.

That’s what coastal energy does to us, I believe. There’s a sense of impermanence that feels heightened. The tides ascend and then decline back to Mother Ocean’s blue belly right as we dip our hands in to catch. The breezes carry seasons of rain and colorful wanderers into town to change the scenery and tell stories rich with lessons if we listen closely.

It was exciting but damn, was it ungrounding.

You know what else California taught me? Fucking up is normal. It’s human nature. If our Souls were perfect and had it all figured out we wouldn’t be on Earth, wobbly-kneed in these depreciating bodies. We’d be living it up, floating around somewhere golden and celestial.

We’re here to make mistakes, learn the lessons, and evolve.

Not every chapter is meant to be comfortable. Not every chapter is meant to grow roots. I’ve moved ten times in the past three years. I lived on the top floor of a Hollywood studio with a primo view of Capitol Records, and then I lived in a tent. In the process, I lost a lot of “stuff” I thought I couldn’t live without.

I did, in fact, live.

The funny thing about comfort is it makes change a hell of a lot scarier. We get slow, we get a little sleepy and complacent. The roaring fire of our dreams shifts from its perch under our asses and onto the back burner, slowly going out. Our new dream now is one day installing granite over the kitchen sink. Not me. I’m grateful for the upheaval since 2014 because in never settling down I never settled for less than my heart’s calling, even when I didn’t know what she meant or where to go next. Not this? On to the next thing.

Perhaps the greatest gift California gave me, though, was trust in myself. She has pushed me to endure more than I ever thought possible. I used to believe I couldn’t handle the demands and pressures of this world. That everyone wanted something from me and I would always come up short. I relied on others to rise to the occasion when shit hit the fan. But that changed. I’m my own guardian now, and it feels so good. I know, at all costs, I will show up for myself. Now I can leap off the most daunting cliffsides, into the darkness, without a clue of what lies below, because I trust that I know how to fall. How to heal. How to listen to Soul and take that next first step all over again.

Thank you, beautiful Golden State, for guiding this adventure. Thank you for breaking me so I could grow my bones back stronger. Thank you for holding me, and now, thank you for letting me go.

And just like that, it was over.

Next stop, Boulder.

In Soul, Danielle

Sun Comes

Luna y Lobo