My eyes and heart are filled with tears of joy, getting to share with you that I’ve written another book.

and also…

My body—the depths of my soul—are fatigued right now. I hit a wall of overwhelm last month that I’ve been slowly thawing from, holding the complexities of chronic illness and neurodiversity that make daily life and navigating stress uniquely delicate.

I wonder though if writing from a raw place is actually the best way to honor introducing this next book to you, precisely because this book is incredibly raw, tender, wild, and dare I say, absolutely beautiful.

So, here we go…

More than anything else I’ve ever created in my entire life (big statements here, I know!!), the words in this book fell out of me. This is not a book I tried to write. This is not a book I planned to write. This is not a book I knew I was writing. This is a book that made her way out of my body, onto pages across personal journals (see below!), a book that I genuinely didn’t realize I was writing until I was months into writing her.

She was unexpected, scary, freeing, and soothing to write.

Writing her also connected me to depths of trauma, darkness, and grief that I’ve been carrying for over a decade, and while this was incredibly healing, it was also incredibly heavy.

So, why write this book? And, before I get too far ahead of myself, what’s the book even about?

For today, I’ll share two brief things…

The book is called When Wounding Strikes the Soul: A Gentle Journey Toward Embodiment and Wholeness after Spiritual Trauma. In and through a unique format (more soon!), I explore many of the both-ands, messiness, grief, confusion, and pain that can feel impossibly invasive and inescapable after experiencing wounding that we never asked for, but are still left to live with, on the other side of spiritual trauma and harm. No prescriptions, no answers, and no agendas—other than a longing to offer a safe space for others to feel witnessed and held in pain and grief that can feel crushing to the very substance of our souls.

That last sentence gets to the question, why dare write about something so heavy? Since I didn’t start writing this book intentionally, the better question is, why did I craft spontaneous writing into pages that I could share with you, bound together in a book?

Speaking from my body—the depths where trauma lives—alongside my therapist brain, I wove this writing together for one main purpose: I know how incredibly painful and lonely it is to try and navigate life after experiencing spiritual trauma and harm that I never asked for, that I never wanted to have as part of my story.

And if these pages can help even just one person who resonates with this kind of gut-wrenching grief and loneliness to know that they are not alone—to offer another a sense of witnessing the sacredness of this kind of pain—then creating this book will have been worth it.

More soon :)

For now, enjoy this picture that gives you a window into where this writing came from. I took this November 2025, when I started to compile writing across personal journals into googledocs to play with what this project might become :) And while it looks like these journals span years, believe it or not, I was only pulling writing that I started to play with in March 2025…! That’s when words started falling out of me that became this next book. For most of 2025, I was grabbing the nearest journal to write down what was stirring up and out of me each day/week. Excited to share more in the coming months!

March 2025 sunrise across the Sound of Iona, overlooking the Isle of Mull

We were created for so much more than rushing through life.

It’s easy for everything in our lives to seem fine on the surface. Deep down inside, there are often other stories at play—narratives of overwhelm, stress and heartache, of finding ourselves stuck in old patterns. Rather than feeling the weight of it all, it all to often feels easier to spend our days on autopilot, ignoring the noise inside.

But what if the peace and relief we most long for comes from tuning in with what’s happening inside, instead of tuning it out? And what if slowing down to connect with the depths of our being could help us to move through life in freer, more wholehearted—and wholebodied—ways?

That’s what these pages are about: an invitation to connect with our body and get curious about the spaces within that we often have no idea what to do with—finding where we need safety, attunement, and care.

Rather than a prescriptive “how-to” guide, these pages invite you to simply be before starting to do.

Rather than feeling like you’re working against yourself, these pages invite you to be with—and work with—what’s happening inside.

Rather than chopping ourselves up into good parts and bad parts, these pages invite you to holistically explore the cognitive, emotional, spiritual, and somatic strands of yourself—all wrapped up in one embodied being.

Rather than shaming you to get it together, these pages invite you to embrace tender compassion and care—especially for the most wounded parts within.

Think embodiment meets parts work meets polyvagal theory meets spiritual trauma healing meets experiential exercises meets narratives… basically, all of my favorite things :)

As I wrote these pages, again and again, my hope was that they would be a sacred space for all parts of you to be seen, held, and nourished in new ways. If you’d like a bit more of a window into my reflections on this writing process, you might enjoy this post.

Available on these and other sites:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Tyndale

Bookshop.org

Target

Amazon UK

the sun

warms my face

strung together

with

cold air

beneath

the stars

which soon

i will not see

for months

.

the last cycle through

i did

not know

to say

goodbye

before

it was

too late

.

missing

their diamond

dust

sprinkled

across

silky seas

of sinking

blue

.

and so

i waited

warmed

each day

by

slanted rays

until

we came around

and the night

stretched down

.

a blanket

cooling

covering

the

ground

.

my feet on the ground

knowing exactly where i am

with the earth

.

not knowing

exactly which direction

i’m facing

not remembering

the day of the week

not noticing

the time of day

entirely unaware of what i need to go do next

having fully forgotten

even if only for a moment

the items

cascading down

every list of to-dos

.

savoring

not doing

sinking

into the ground

steeping

in the thick of the air

stretching

into space a little more

with each

and every

breath

.

no longer in the land of doing

but instead

simply being

here.

If you’d like to hear how the pacing of these words flows in my body, enjoy the audio included above.

Kemback, April 2025

There’s something curious to me about how we use the word wild—what it indicates, and also, what it doesn’t indicate.

I also can’t help but continue to chew on the ways an untrained eye (including my own!), sees what looks just like a domesticated tabby cat when looking at a Scottish Wildcat. Even though I’ve been shown the differences, if I’m not straining to notice those distinctions, what I see before me looks like, well, a cat, minus the wild designation. And rather than going down the road of zoology here, I’d love to play with some metaphors we might glean from how we see these Highland Tigers.

Before I moved to Scotland, I started to enjoy cold plunges in the mountains of Tennessee, preparing myself for swims in the North Sea. Once I arrived on this side of the Atlantic, I started to notice that people called here called this wild swimming. Part of me loved this, it felt fitting as I like to consider myself a wild woman, untamed, adventurous, and at times a little too feral for the constraints of the culture around us. And at the same time, another part of me found this curious, starting to wonder why we use this word—wild—in the ways that we do.

Sometimes we use the word wild to denote animals, plants, and places that are in their most natural form. In this way, we’re saying something about their rootedness and belonging — all just as they’re meant to be. There’s a sense of the puzzle pieces being placed just right, nothing’s been altered or messed with. They’re real and raw and wonderful. For the Scottish Wildcat that’s being rewilded, she’s stepping into her truest home. The place in which her little body knows how to belong most naturally. She simply fits.

We also sometimes use the word wild to describe people as uncivilized, unrestrained, or chaotic. And while I know that people are not cats (although sometimes I wish I could nap all day in the sun…), I can’t help but wonder why we use this same word in such different ways depending on the facets of creation that we’re referring to.

We’d never look at a glorious meadow exploding with wildflowers and think, Oh wow, these flowers are much too uncivilized, unrestrained, and chaotic. And if this is someone’s response, I’d like to suggest it’s simply silly, if not also shaped by societal scripts that have conditioned us to value control and dominance in ways that suffocate beauty and freedom.

When we hear about projects that are helping rewild animals like the Scottish Wildcat, even if we secretly might wish to have our own little litter of highland tigers in our home, we can clearly see these wildcats are where they belong as their paws anchor on the earth beneath them in the expansive Scottish landscape. We don’t think, These cats are far too feral and uncontrolled. Instead, we’re amazed at their intuition and instincts, and heartbroken that people have contributed to their near extinction.

And yet, when a child, uncontrolled, runs in full freedom outdoors, we’re trained to see them as a wild child, all too often in a negative light, rather than one that delights in the wildness of a wildflower or a wildcat.

When someone simply goes swimming in natural water around them, it’s called wild swimming, rather than simply, swimming.

When a woman is in touch with her intuition and lives freely, uncontrolled by systems or people around her, she’s referred to as a wild woman, rather than just a woman.

And so, while the rebellious and free parts of me enjoy the designation of wild, other parts of me long for our wildness not to be viewed as something that diverges from the norm, but instead, is rightfully planted to flourish in its most natural habitat.

With all of this, I can’t help but wonder…

What are ideas that have been passed down to us, shaping how we move through life—domesticating us—even if we never consented to them?

What are the assumptions about things like control and autonomy that have trained us to stay within certain bounds, cultivating behavior—and even a whole life—that’s restricted in ways we might have never actually wanted?

What might be the most free and unharmed expressions of our wildness—not judged as chaotic or out of control, but instead, embraced as our most innate and natural ways of showing up in the world?

What might make it feel threatening or scary to explore the constraints of control that have deemed freedom as wild? Autonomy as dangerous? Instinct as untrustworthy?

And what difference might it make if we reimagined what it means to be wild? What might we discover—who might we uncover—if we both invited and delighted in the wildness in ourselves in the same way we delight in the wildness of wildflowers, a wild coast, or a wild cat?

A grazing sheep in front of the Cuillin Mountains on the Isle of Skye, December 2024.

Read more

The series takes you through years of careful preparation and strategic steps to prevent the Scottish Wildcat from becoming extinct, something that’s become a genuine risk. Footage shows you how the wildcats are cared for in a sanctuary, and then every stage from those enclosures, to creating new little lives, to their reintroduction to the wild.2 And as wildlife conservation is not my field, let me say, please forgive me for any missteps I might make in terminology or description here…

The reality of the story’s starting point for these felines is that their numbers have dwindled to nearly nothing. So watching their conservation and pre-release care is not just watching the rehabilitation of an injured animal—it’s witnessing intentional care to foster flourishing for a whole population that’s been in Britain since the last Ice Age.

Rather than treating these Highland tigers like the house-cats they look like to the untrained eye, experts create homes that are as wild as possible, preparing food as wild as possible, and consider how each step of their development is not just personal growth of their little bodies, but also a relationship with the earth and elements around them—a relationship that must be cultivated apart from too much human interaction to prepare them for the wilderness they’ll be released in.

Following their time as adorably fluffy kittens, they’re moved into pre-release enclosures, a space that’s meant to bring them one step closer to their truest home, providing the scaffolding they need to hone in necessary survival skills for free-roaming life in the Highlands.

And then, when they’re ready, they’re taken to a remote “soft-release” enclosure in the Highlands, like a landing spot to first smell their new home—their truest home—and start to press into that place beneath their paws. These soft-release enclosures are still contained for a short amount of time to allow for some acclimation to new sounds and smells, like a liminal linchpin before they’re launched.

And then, at long last, the final near-human interaction before they’re free to be fully wild, is the unlocking and opening of a door, providing a portal from a contained life to a life unbound.

Now, this part of the story wasn’t a surprise. The documentary made clear this is where the narrative was going—it was the whole point. Still, something in my body was not entirely prepared for what I was about to witness. Perhaps more accurately, something in my body was not entirely prepared for the sacredness of what I was about to witness.

With cameras set up for the team of humans to follow the outcome of their years-long efforts, they watch from a car in the distance. The documentary shows the footage of these cameras, along with the team’s reactions as they’re watching in realtime.

It’s in this scene that the first of the wildcats steps out of her soft-release enclosure. Her paws reach forward onto a branch, a bridge connecting the only kind of world she’s ever known—enclosure—to the open wild world that is her home. Rather than looking scared or anxious, she stands tall, as if her bones know this is where she belongs. And it’s as she steps out onto this branch toward the expansive Scottish landscape around her that the words, bold cat, fall out of the mouth of one of the team members watching these steps in realtime, from a car in the distance.

Now, I need to back up a moment and say, during the build up to the final release, I could sense something stirring inside. It’s not uncommon for me to cry at movies and documentaries. It’s actually a joke in my family that my mom, sisters, and I can all easily start blubbering just 30-seconds into a well-produced trailer. But this was different, the force and tone of this emotion brewing beneath the surface resonated at a distinct register.

Minutes later, as the wildcat took her first steps home, this emotion erupted into feral tears that could not be contained. Now, my husband is used to me crying at tv shows and movies. He’s also used to me being loud and expressive and unfiltered in my emotions, which is important to understand for what he said next. My entire body was so uncontrollably wrecked by what I was witnessing that he gently, but seriously, asked me, “Do we need to stop watching?”

He could see that something was happening beyond my usual being-moved-by-a-story tears. And even though I didn’t quite understand what it was at that moment, the answer for me was a simple, “No.” I wanted to witness what I was witnessing, and feel what I was feeling, even if I didn’t understand it. Because even though I didn’t understand it, I knew it was significant.

In the moment, as I tried to make sense of what was happening, I had some thoughts scurry through my mind. I couldn’t help but think of the opening story of Glennon Doyle’s Untamed, depicting a cheetah in captivity who’s reduced to chasing a dirty pink bunny and moments of returning to her wild instincts when she’s not set to perform. It was as though something in my brain was trying to parse through whether this was the same, or if it was something different.

Yes, both had a cat.

Yes, both cats were ultimately wild.

Yes, both had themes of wild and captivity.

But that cheetah only had glimpses—tastes of her wildness—and was most likely confined to captivity for the rest of her life, with only the imaginative flip-side of an untamed life to contrast with her containment.

And instead of having performance or captivity ahead of her, this bold wildcat freely stepped into the Scottish Highlands. And represented so much more than her one being. She was part of a long lineage of striped felines who were nearly extinct—with estimates that had reached as low as 35 Scottish Wildcats left only a couple of years earlier.3 Her steps were an embodiment of hope and movement into a different kind of future, one that moves away from the extinction of these wildcats, and instead, advocates for, promotes, and celebrates their flourishing and freedom. One where harmful, oppressive, and lethal interference with their flourish and freedom is taken seriously and understood for what it is. From this bold cat’s first steps, this project has seen an incredible success rate in the survival of these wildcats,4 including 24 (known) kittens born in the wild to released females in one year-cycle alone.5

And something about these nuances, these distinctions, poked corners of my soul that run far beneath intelligible speech.

I was moved by the care and concern to not let these Highland tigers simply disappear—the way they were seen, valued, and advocated for, despite the fact that they will never offer gratitude or repay these teams for their efforts.

I was struck by the echoes of home and belonging that resounded from this cat’s silent footsteps (or should I say paw-steps?). It was like a stake in the ground was anchored and settled in its rightful home. Like a critical puzzle piece perfectly placed where it so clearly belongs.

And, a curiosity was piqued about what we might learn from these wildcats and their journey. Not so much a sense of how can we make this about us, but how can get out of our own head, our own confines, and let their wildness teach us something we might not learn in our own bounds?

What could be our truest home that we might also step into, boldly, if we had a branch to bridge between the place we find ourselves, and the place our bones most long for?

What might the branch be?

What have we mistaken as our home, instead?

What difference would it make to become reacquainted with wildness, not only within, but also, around us?

And how might we become reacquainted with wildness, not only within, but also, around us?

These questions (and more!) are ones I want to continue chewing on—and as a spoiler alert, reflections on these wildcats deepened as they intersected with wisdom from the brilliant Sharon Blackie, who I got to spend a week with contemplating place as a teacher, what it means to be rooted, different types of belonging, connections between stories and place, and more… now just to find time to keep writing :)

For today, I’ll pause here, and leave you with this little poem that I wrote about witnessing that bold cat taking her first steps into her truest, wild-Highlands home. And fun fact, there’s a whole section here on acseiple.com of me Playing with Poetry. If you want to check out more of these wild-written words, check them out here. For me, this has been a bit of a practice of exploring wildness not only within, but also around.

Hiking down from Driesh, Corrie Fee Nature Preserve in the Cairngorms National Park, May 2025.

bridging open space

and an open cage

standing tall

an unknowing escape

they call her bold

.

when all she holds

within her fur

is all she knows to be

is she being brave and bold

or is she simply free?

.

they do just fine

when on their own

it’s us humans who got in the way

and what if that’s true

not only for these little tigers

but also, for us too?

.

how do we find a branch to bridge

where we are and our own wild

when we’ve been whisked away

—planted in a wasteland—

not yet longing for home?

.

If you’d like to hear how the pacing of these words flows in my body, enjoy the audio included above.

like when your hair is long enough

it’s weighed down

but still has

body

to move

.

just enough pressure

that nothing shatters

or snaps

but bends

cracking

open

.

just enough madness

anchored by grief

gutted by

sadness

laughter

relief

.

and just enough hope

to believe

it matters

to still

speak

.

If you’d like to hear how the pacing of these words flows in my body, enjoy the audio included above.

And, the reason I’m writing, is that I’ve just uploaded a new season of the New Rhythms podcast, which I’d love to share a little intro to below.

First, to be completely honest, I didn’t think I’d be putting more episodes together anytime soon, I simply didn’t have the headspace to think about what I might craft for a third season. And then, a conversation happened last month that sparked a snowball of thoughts — all of which you can find me rambling through in these five episodes…!

The topic? Disembodiment + spiritual trauma and harm.

In these episodes, I start with a seemingly harmless disembodied assumption that popped up in a conversation with someone last month, an assumption that was quietly lurking beneath the surface. Then, I trace how disconnection from our bodies — even when it’s lurking beneath surface — can have serious and even harmful implications in faith spaces, especially considering that we live in a time when it’s estimated that 1 in 3 Americans have experienced religious trauma, and yes, that’s only a conservative estimate.1

For me, the curiosity that was swimming through my brain and body enough that it was actually a helpful thing to sit down and write out all of these episodes was this… even if we might not even realize we’re holding disembodied assumptions, how much might this still be tangled up with trauma and harm that’s happening in faith spaces? And if it indeed can be tangled in that web (spoiler alert, it can), what does it look like to parse out these disembodied assumptions that have been handed to us? What might it look like to consider if we ever consented to having these disembodied assumptions handed to us? And what might it look like to choose if we want to continue to carry them with us?

Now, there are so many more things that could be said about disembodiment, so many more things that could be said about spiritual trauma and harm, and so many more things that could be said about embodiment. But this PhD student who has had way too many sicknesses the past few months and may or may not be working on some other fun projects is only one human. So, these episodes are just a tiny slice of a much larger conversation, of much larger curiosities. Still, I hope you’ll them beneficial to chew on, journeying with me through some questions we might not typically ask ourselves.

Listen in for more…

You can find the New Rhythms podcast on Spotify (click here), Apple Podcasts (click here), or right here on acseiple.com, through the direct links below.

Each episode is 20 minutes, enjoy!

S3E1: How Disembodiment Shapes Faith Spaces

S3E2: Disembodiment, Trauma, & Harm In Faith Spaces

S3E3: Dismantling Disembodiment In Faith Spaces

S3E4: What Holds Disembodiment Together In Faith Spaces

S3E5: Toward Embodiment

Please listen with care as these episodes reflect on disembodiment in conversation with spiritual and religious trauma. I’ve tried to make these episodes as safe as possible to listen to, and still, I want to acknowledge how tender this topic can be.

New Rhythms is also available on Spotify & Apple Podcasts.

Please listen with care as these episodes reflect on disembodiment in conversation with spiritual and religious trauma. I’ve tried to make these episodes as safe as possible to listen to, and still, I want to acknowledge how tender this topic can be.

New Rhythms is also available on Spotify & Apple Podcasts.

Even though I honestly wasn’t planning on it, we’re back with a third season of New Rhythms! This little season came together after reflecting on a conversation I had with someone last month, a conversation that made me realize just how deeply we can be disconnected from our bodies, and just how far reaching the implications of disembodiment can be.

Please listen with care as these episodes reflect on disembodiment in conversation with spiritual and religious trauma. I’ve tried to make these episodes as safe as possible to listen to, and still, I want to acknowledge how tender this topic can be.

New Rhythms is also available on Spotify & Apple Podcasts.

Please listen with care as these episodes reflect on disembodiment in conversation with spiritual and religious trauma. I’ve tried to make these episodes as safe as possible to listen to, and still, I want to acknowledge how tender this topic can be.

New Rhythms is also available on Spotify & Apple Podcasts.

Please listen with care as these episodes reflect on disembodiment in conversation with spiritual and religious trauma. I’ve tried to make these episodes as safe as possible to listen to, and still, I want to acknowledge how tender this topic can be.

New Rhythms is also available on Spotify & Apple Podcasts.

This question has been stirring inside the last few weeks as I’ve been settling into life on the other side of my book launch, which is also life as I start year two of a PhD program, which is also regular life of tending to daily chronic health issues, which also includes what’s becoming regular life of recognizing the extra toll that neurospicey-ness plays in day-to-day living… along with some part-time work and creative projects I’m playing around with..

To summarize: it’s simply been too full, and the way my body has been navigating it has been to press on the gas, leaving me feeling stressed and strained and unable to really enjoy any of the many things I’m doing…

I wrote about this analogy of an internal gas pedal and brake system in my book, specifically how much of my life I spent with that gas pedal revving up, even when I didn’t want it to, and how my body slammed on the brakes when I became overwhelmed by too much longstanding stress.1 These are things I know in my head and in my bones, and still, practicing what you preach is simply not that easy, or perhaps more accurately, living what I write.

And as I’ve shared in other posts here, since moving to Scotland, I’ve been surprised to find that my old muscle memory of pressing on the gas has resurfaced in ways that are both old and new, propelling me to move through my days with stress and strain. This isn’t what I’ve wanted, and I’ve honestly been frustrated with myself—and a bit worried—wondering, how/when can I get this to calm down? I’m doing the work, on my own, in therapy, with the trees, and overall tending to stress, but still, it’s not been enough. And that’s what led me to the thought: This will never stop, unless I stop it. So, how do I want to stop it?

I don’t think I’ll ever stop researching or learning, whether it’s in a PhD program or another format.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop creating, whether it’s writing books or other resources.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop cultivating healing spaces, whether it’s facilitating retreats, therapy, or something else.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop coming alongside others in their own growth, whether it’s instructing in a classroom, dance studio, or somewhere else.

I don’t think I’ll ever not have some form of chronic health issues to tend to or manage each day.

And I certainly won’t ever stop adventuring in the world around me, or soaking up time with loved ones, or simply being out in nature.

So, the equation doesn’t seem to be adding up. Too many things, not enough time, right? Maybe not.

This is where my perspective is starting to shift in new ways, beyond what I was trying to tease out in The Sacred Art of Slowing Down. I’m starting to get curious about the fact that even before I approach what’s ahead of me, part of me believes the equation is already stacked against me — no matter how I approach it, there is not enough time for all of the things I enjoy doing/must do/should do — unless I recognize that perspective is making certain assumptions about time.

The too-many-things-not-enough-time equation only exists if I’m trying to complete or produce things within a certain timeframe. It’s the pressure of that timeframe that pushes parts of me to press on the gas, sensing that unless I get into gear and go, I’ll run out of time.

Now, I know, some things are set within a timeframe not determined by us. And also, a lot of things are set within a timeframe that is determined by us, or that at minimum, is agreed to by us.

So what if we shifted the timeframe? And what if shifting the timeframe is what creates space to gently pump and release the brakes, allowing us to experience a kind of coasting — not a laziness, but instead, a different kind of posture as we move through life, one that includes less tension, strain, and stress?

Now, in my circumstances, yes, I’d probably finish my PhD sooner if I kept my foot on the gas the whole time.

And also, for that few months difference it would make, I don’t think it would be worth the daily toll it would take to press on that gas pedal, every day, for years.

And the same applies for the other things before me. Yes, I could probably “get more done” or “accomplish more” in the next year—or two, or five, or ten—with that gas pedal on, but at what cost? How does that shape each day, and is it really worth it to squeeze things in over the long haul when it shapes the moment to moment lives that we are living across that long haul?

More than ever, I’m realizing the circumstances that effortlessly prompt me to press on the gas pedal are never going to stop — they’ll always be there, meaning, I’ll likely always be prone to get tangled up in a muscle memory of stress — unless I choose to stop it. So, I ask again, how do I want to stop it?

Practicing what I preach, or living what I write, I want to play with what it might look like to press and release the brakes in new ways. For now, I think that means viewing time differently. Rather than subscribing to certain timeframes in my head, or agreeing to timeframes set by others that are often more arbitrary than we’ll let ourselves honestly acknowledge, I wonder what it would be like if I viewed how long something would take differently—mostly simply viewing it as, as long as it takes. This is not a new thought or phrase, things take as long as they take. So in one way, this is super simple, yes. And also, could it be life changing? I think also, yes.

Now, parts of me don’t like this. Parts of me love this. And all of me knows, I need this. I don’t want to keep pressing on the gas until my body slams on my brakes, that’s no way to live, and I don’t know about you, but I’d like to enjoy the life that I’m living, and I’d also like those around me to enjoy it too. I’m not sure what prize we think we’re going to win by stressing ourselves out and pushing to accomplish things in a shorter amount of time than they’d organically take on their own, but spoiler alert, there is no prize, and even if there was, it’s certainly not the prize of being present in the life that we’re living.

As I often do, after spilling all these thoughts onto my keyboard, I’m curious, is it just me, or does this resonate for you too?

Can any part of you resonate with feeling like there’s too much to be done and not enough time? (if the answer is no, please make your unicorn self known…!). Does expanding or shattering a timeframe shift how you view that equation?

How do different parts of you feel about expanding or shattering timeframes set by you or others? What fears, worries, or reactions pop up inside at that thought? What makes it feel impossible for those timeframes to shift?

Some misty magic from a hike this weekend.

Person after person has asked me over the last week or so, What are you doing for Thanksgiving?

Last year, we had friends over and enjoyed pumpkin and pecan desserts, searching for scraps of home while still figuring out our footing here by the sea.

This year, something was different.

We had wanted to host a similar dessert night, we enjoyed it last year and thought we’d made a little tradition out of it. But, our calendars didn’t have feasible space.

I had two dance performances this week (along with rehearsals!), Elijah had pickleball, and we also had relaxing evenings planned to watch movies and play games with friends. When would we squeeze in some sweet treats to try and savor a slice of being home?

It wasn’t until it was actually Thursday—a day that I kept joking with family and friends was just a Thursday in Scotland—that I realized what had changed: our root system is settled differently than last year.

Last fall, I kept using the imagery of feeling like a propagated plant who was ripped out of the ground, feeling the pain of raw, exposed roots. And while I was the one who said yes to a PhD in Scotland, did the propagating, and was mesmerized that I got to move to this marvelous place, that didn’t change the fact that I was gutturally grieving the home I had just left. Even if I liked the place I was propagated to, that didn’t mean my roots were yet soothed and secure in this new place.

So, last year, Thanksgiving was not just a Thursday in Scotland. It was a day when my body was painfully aware that I was still in the thick of the both-and of this transition.

Now, I don’t think life here will ever not include this both-and tension. Still, that tension was held differently for me this year.

This year, it was a Thursday in Scotland in a life that is anchored and rooted in this place, a Thursday when I kept forgetting it was Thanksgiving in the US, and instead, was simply living my life here, a place where it was simply a Thursday. And while I’m not sure how many Thursdays like this I’ll have on this side of the Atlantic, I know that on this one, I was so grateful to viscerally feel the difference from last year, to smile and savor how I’ve been able to sink into this place over these months, to be present enjoying this wild place that surrounds me in this season.

And also, I was grateful for a copy of my mother’s pecan pie recipe that I’ve adapted to my gluten free and many other dietary needs so that at the end of a long Thursday in this place that is currently home, I could sink my teeth into a different dimension of home, holding both together in body, creating something, and enjoying something, new.

A sunrise walk to school along the sea :)

Tonight we enjoyed moving together to an 80’s playlist, which I was delighted to see was known not only by me but the younger faces all smiling back at me as well. And toward the end of the hour, as I was looking at my bare feet while we were stretching, I had a thought—and mind you, I am not a pedicure girl, and it’s getting cold and dry over here in Scotland, so there’s an unpainted toenail super dry skin situation happening here that includes a not entirely healed big toe that incurred a massive infected ingrown toenail last year...

Now that we have that clear… As my feet caught my attention for a moment, without really thinking, a thought ran through my head about making a joke to the class, apologizing for how rough of shape my feet were in, pointing out that they were probably in rougher shape than others around me and I’ve had a little more wear and tear in my decades of life.

And just as quickly as one part of me jumped to unkindly judge my feet as looking gross, another part of me ever so gently countered this, leaping to another thought: Look at them! These are the feet who walk deep into cold sand as I run into the North Sea, who take me on coastal paths and swimming in crystal clear coves. These are my feet who have traveled around the world and dance freely with friends and carry me through my days, mundane, adventurous, and everywhere in between. Look at them! They are beautiful. They are incredible. They. Are. Awesome. Period.

And while this might feel like a most random and silly story of internal dialogue that I maybe didn’t need to share with the world, I can’t help but wonder if there’s any part of you that might want to join me in thinking differently about your body. Is there a part of you that you’re quick to judge, call gross, or feel insecure about around others that you’d like to see differently?

Maybe you want to appreciate how your hands hold all the things, type all the words, drive your car, pick up children, and/or prepare food that keeps you and others alive.

Maybe you want to indulge in some gratitude for your hips, thighs, ankles, or glutes who move with each step, carrying you from one moment of your day to the next, stabilizing you and speeding you up or slowing you down with the cadence of what’s before you and behind you.

Maybe you want to trace the lines of wrinkles on your face, chest, arms, or hands, honoring the ways you stretch, smile, see, and reach for people and the world around you, how the movements of your life and imprinted and preserved on your being, like a living legacy.

Or, fill in the blank for any other part of you that you want to slow down and see not as gross, bad, ineffective, or less than, but instead, that you want to see as one piece of what holds you together, that you want to see as good, that you want to celebrate and delight in, even if just for a moment.

Our bodies — ourselves — do so much even as we simply stay alive each day, let alone all the other doing we carry each moment. How might we experience life more freely if we moved through those days cheering on all the muscles and bones and skin and wrinkles and grit that makes up the whole of who we are? Who move together, in tandem, as the whole of who we are?

And if offering this kind of posture feels entirely impossible and foreign to offer to your own self, I wonder if you can imagine this for another person. And if you can imagine holding this posture toward another person, please know, I can certainly hold this posture toward you, and I hope one day, even if it feels like the most remote hypothetical not-so-possible-possibility, that you might hold this posture toward yourself too.

May it be so <3

Fall in Scotland has been nothing short of dreamy. This is from a walk on Saturday morning with a friend.

I’ve thought about hopping on here and sharing some thoughts for the last few weeks, and continually not happened. I love the freedom I’ve created in this space to write in stream-of-consciousness, letting myself spontaneously feel and express things in a way that’s therapeutic for me, and as a bonus, that others seem to enjoy (at least that’s what you tell me…!).

And while I could say that I haven’t really had margin these last couple of months to write — between travel, jet lag, getting sick, jumping back into a new term for my PhD, trying to enjoy a little fall break with Elijah, etc. — really, I think the main reason I haven’t written here is illustrated in that story: I’ve been waiting for my soul to catch up. And it’s been taking a lot longer than I thought it would.

As a kid, when my family moved to the Netherlands, we flew back and forth to the states each year. And then after that, for most years of my life, I flew back to Europe or another continent regularly. So when we planned to move to Scotland, I boldly thought this transition and distance wouldn’t feel like a lot for me. Turns out, I was very, very wrong.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m more connected with my body than I probably ever have been before.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m finally feeling depths of grief from previous moves that I never let myself feel before.

I don’t know if it’s because with age, I simply have less energy and bandwidth.

Or maybe it’s something else — or all the things and all the something elses…

Regardless, I’m noticing that I’m not “bouncing back” in the ways that I used to after travel, during jetlag, or post-sickness. I’m feeling that the whole of who I am simply needs more space, more breathing room, more recovery time. And while part of me is honestly annoyed by the inconveniences that brings to an already full schedule, and an already taxing task of caring for autoimmune issues each day, another part of me is curious about it.

I’m starting to wonder if in the past, when I would “bounce back” more quickly, if this was really a bouncing back, or if it was a sort of bypassing that neglected pieces of me that needed more time, more attunement, rest, or care. And if that’s the case, I can’t help but wonder if there’s almost been a trail of sorts, a trail of pieces of me that’s been left behind across years and decades, of the parts of me that I ignored or brushed past as I charged ahead, entirely unaware of the spaciousness I needed to honor the integrated whole of my being.

And now, as I’m tapping into spaciousness that (I’m realizing more and more!) is needed to be whole, it feels like each day and week there have been invitations to go down rabbit holes on that trail, finding and collecting pieces of myself, I’m starting to wonder: Maybe what I’m needing most right now isn’t time for my soul to catch up, maybe what I most need is to create space to collect the pieces of me, a process that can’t be forced or rushed, and may very well get in the way of the routine I had hoped to jump into this fall…

In one way, there as so many things I feel worlds behind on since coming back from my trip to the states in September/on the other side of my first book launch/as I’m stepping into year two of my PhD. And also, I don’t want to get up and keep moving if it means leaving any of me behind. I want to be and move forward wholeheartedly, and wholebodiedly… And while these two perspectives often feel at war with each other, more and more, I’m increasingly convinced that the latter has my heart.

While I could probably find a better way to land this plane, a load of laundry just finished that I’d like to fold before it wrinkles and before I need to be on my way to enjoy a walk on a pilgrim’s path with some friends… so I’ll land the plane here and leave you with this:

I’m curious, are there any parts of you that feel left behind that long to be gathered up and held with the whole of who you are? And if so, would you like to join me in honoring those pieces of yourself right now, even if all you have to offer today is the briefest of moments or the briefest of acknowledgments that you see them, and haven’t forgotten them?

A cave in Algarve, Portugal. In the whirlwind of these last couple months, I was grateful for some moments to slow down here with Elijah last month.