We make up stories to protect ourselves from feeling pain.
In the past year, I found myself wanting to quit my fourth career as a publisher. The joy hadn’t been there, the experience of love was absent, and I was primarily focused on what wasn’t working. Also, for the past year, a familiar fear lived permanently in the pit of my stomach. Every time I was about to open my email, I expected bad news from advertisers or another message from the corporate office (my magazines are franchises). A few weeks ago, I started to self-sabotage. I began doing things that were completely out of alignment with who I am and with my publisher role.
Becoming aware of all of this led me to want to get this issue resolved. So, I put on my big girl pants and addressed it in my most recent coaching session. That’s when another one of my stories finally came to light.
When those stories are created when we are children, they often become the invisible filters through which we build our entire lives. For a long time, one of my foundational narratives was built on a very specific triad: I am a phony, I do not measure up, and therefore, I quit before things get good.
I spent years doing everything in my power to hide the fact that I felt inadequate, that I always felt rejected, that I had imposter syndrome. As for the quitting, there was really no hiding from that. Instead of facing the underlying narrative, I chose a much more powerful story of reinvention and bravery, and I went with it. It sounds crazy to say it out loud, but that’s what I did.
During the session, I had my usual somatic reactions of release and sobbed like a baby. Instead of feeling a sense of relief, I felt super sad for the remainder of the day. I woke up the next morning feeling like a tank full of water was sitting inside my chest. I felt heavy. I tried to talk myself out of it, practiced my routine, and nothing lifted.
When I spoke with my coach at 6:30am of that same morning, she asked how I was feeling. I told her I was sad and I started crying. She started asking questions about my mother, following up on the session from the day before. I started to sob again. Harder this time.
What followed was the wildest experience of my healing journey. As I cried, I felt my mother’s pain physically leaving my body. I realized that I was healing generational trauma. I felt her presence. It was crazy. It was beautiful. It was painful. I cried hard for about ten minutes.
When the tears finally stopped, I asked my coach how I ended up “here”. Her reply was, “it’s the little girl hungry for her mother’s love”. And that made me understand that my mother didn’t have her mother’s love either; this loveless pattern between mothers and daughters from my ancestors probably goes back hundreds of years back.
My coach then helped me come to completion and integrate the release. I felt lighter. My chest felt dry. We ended the call, I finished my coffee, and I went to yoga.
As I walked back home, I noticed something incredible. The chronic fear in the pit of my stomach that had taken up residence over the past few years was gone. It vanished completely.
And as I am finishing this article I can’t help but smile: yesterday marked 18 years of my mom’s passing, and she is still with me helping me heal.
