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]]>Re-Indigenizing Myself: Claiming My Identity as a Native WomanRead More »
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]]>I began questioning my identity early on because my paternal grandmother lived with us. She was blind from diabetes and it was my job to care for her and help her get around. We shared a bed so I could help if she needed to get up in the middle of the night. I was one of the few grandkids who had seen her with her hair down, much less touch it, and I would comb it for her every night. This intimacy with my grandmother afforded me the chance to hear things I believe she rarely spoke aloud because of the consequences.
She never revealed which nation she was from or her tribal affiliation, but she would speak of her ways and whisper the memories. She would whisper to me every day that I was not Catholic but Indian and would remind me not to share this out loud with anyone, as it would cause so much trouble for us both. I believed her with my whole heart even though I had no idea what it meant not to be Catholic or what being Indian meant or looked like. I did, however, understand very clearly that being Indian was not a good thing and was the opposite of Catholicism.
When my grandmother died, it was the first death I had experienced and it also felt like the first major change in my identity. When she passed, I secretly decided I was not Catholic but Indian. At the same time, I knew I had to DO all the things expected of me as a Catholic or my life would be hell. I went through the motions of Catholicism as a young adult, but within me a whole other awareness was growing. I began paying attention to what identity meant to me, to what kind of person I was showing up as depending on the identity I believed I was putting on at any given moment. How was this person who I believed I was affecting my loved ones and the world and, most importantly, how was it affecting me?
As an adult this experience led me to focus my studies and dedicate my life to understanding my identity as an indigenous woman. I learned about and fully embraced my indigenous background as a tribal member of the Carrizo/Comecrudo Nation of Texas—not only on a personal level but also on a societal one. I began to commit my life’s work to dismantling the doctrine of discovery—that erroneous but popular belief that Christopher Columbus somehow discovered this land when he set foot on it, even though we carried so many centuries of tradition, community, and discovery here before him. I began walking as a teacher (to anyone who would allow me) informed in historical trauma and how it manifests in our Native communities.
As an indigenous woman not allowed to live as one for much of my life, I understand deeply the importance of our identity, especially as women. In our Western American culture, women are constantly told what we should identify as and how to show up as women, as leaders, as mothers, as friends, as sisters, etc. Showing up as I am, as an indigenous woman, has brought beauty as well as challenge. It can even sometimes feel dangerous, as indigenous women face a much higher murder rate than the general U.S. popoulation, as well as the highest rate of domestic violence—something I’ve experienced in my own life.
Although it is difficult, I have come to experience a fierceness and comfort knowing exactly where I come from. I can now recount my ancestors’ land base, our life ways, and our tribal family. This also allows for a more intimate connection to other indigenous peoples of this land who are ready to welcome me as an original person of this continent.
The process of decolonizing myself has meant diving into learning wholeheartedly my true background, before the Western invasion and before Catholicism, before it was bad to be Indian, when we weren’t called Indians but by our nations, clans, and tribes.
The most challenging part of identity has been knowing for myself exactly what that means to me—navigating my own ideas along with society’s ideas about what I should be identified as. But in the process, I’ve discovered so much power.
And that’s what I want to share and say: Seek where you come from. Bypass your family’s resistance—or your own—to tell your whole story and see how empowered you can become and how strong your voice can be. I guarantee that in this process, you can find yourself standing strong and not taking any shit. We can all become more empowered—as individuals, as women, as fierce carriers of our family lineage and wisdom. I can’t help but think back to my grandmother, to all she endured and lost as well as the strength she carried inside, and how honored I am to have the chance to carry her whispered ways and secrets proudly forward into the world.
Illustration by Elena Ray; photos by Christian Newman via Unsplash and Teresa Cisneros
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]]>The Naked Self: A Photo Exploration of the Sacred Sensuous Female BeingRead More »
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]]>Let’s Dive into the Mystery of IdentityRead More »
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]]>Finding Freedom: Healing the Patriarchal Wounds of My Indian LineageRead More »
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]]>Rama Sethi Gulati is one such woman. She has dedicated her life to awakening in a very raw, real, and messy way: through the personal, familial, and cultural. Born in India to refugees from what’s now Pakistan, she works continuously to see the disempowering patterns of her lineage to end the chain of habitual suffering and oppression of women. And she reminds me that this path is ever unwinding and far from perfect.
Rama models awakening to me in a very humble, un-glittery day-to-day way. Through her uncompromising courage and steady reflection, she continues to break down the walls of the identity she inherited from her family and culture, revealing the warm and fluid center. Her deep, dark eyes anchor me in their warmth, a compassion that comes only from having passed through the underworld.
Rama pours me a cup of chai as we sit down to have a conversation around identity. Her laughter echoes throughout the yard, a sound as beautiful as birdsong, a testament to the wild, untamable nature of woman. A beautiful blend of the generosity and hospitality innate to Indian culture and the carefree expressiveness of a modern Californian, Rama bridges worlds with her every gesture as her eyes water tenderly, about to reveal the intricacy of her story. I open my heart to listen, for she, too, knows why the caged bird sings.
Dominique: Tell me about your family history. What were the prevailing beliefs around what it meant to be a woman?
Rama: I grew up seeing women being used and abused—just like the way we use Mother Earth—plundered without any regard to the fact that they are even humans.
I was born in New Delhi, India. When I was 7, we moved from India to the U.S.
My mother was from current-day Pakistan and was one of five girls and one boy. She was given away at the age of 5 because her uncle didn’t have any kids. She was disposable. At 15, she had an arranged marriage and a child at 16. A month after getting married, she had to leave her home to go to Punjab as a refugee, living in refugee camps. After some time, they were resettled in New Delhi by the government.
I was born with a twin brother who died minutes after birth. I was girl number nine when my mother and father had been fervently praying and desperately waiting for a second boy. I lived. He died. I was the wrong gender, and I have spent my entire life making up for it. I felt it in my body as a newborn—the terror, the rejection, the grief that had turned into hatred and was projected onto me. Growing up, my nervous system was constantly on guard, making up for being unwanted because I was female.
I can feel in my body this terror that I could have been killed because I was born the wrong gender. There is still female infanticide in India, particularly in North India where I come from. Ultrasounds are banned because they don’t want women aborting female babies.
Growing up, I remember my dad saying to my mom, “Who do you think you are? You are not even equal to the jhuthi (shoes) on my feet.” She had bore him 12 children.
I saw my sisters growing up, getting married in arranged marriages without any choice, and often these men were physically abusive, just like my dad was.
How did these beliefs about being a woman shape your identity?
At a really young age, I learned from my upbringing that because I’m a woman, I’m not allowed any needs or wants. To prove my worth and justify my existence, I had to find a way to make myself useful. I built an identity around staying out of the way, always being of service, not being disruptive, not being seen or heard. It was as if all my life was an apology for being alive. I believed for a long time that if my brother could have lived and I could have died, then everything would have been better off.
For me, the hardest and the most tricky, deeply drilled lie my culture has fed me is the shame of being a woman. That I am bad because I am a woman. That I am the wrong gender. I’ve been uncovering layers and layers of how deep this runs.
The subjugation of women is true in a lot of cultures, but in India it is so tightly woven into its very fabric that even the slightest tug against it goes straight to a deep, instinctive sense of survival. It feels like dying. Our entire sense of belonging is literally determined by men. We don’t have or know our place, but it is always beneath him—a man gives us a place and he can take it away with zero consequences for him.
How is this dependence created—is it built into the societal structure?
In India, the woman lives under her father and then her husband, and if her husband dies, then she lives under her son. The system requires a woman to have a male “protector,” so a son is required so that you can live with him in case you become a widow. If you don’t bear any sons, it’s your fault. There is so much shame, responsibility, and burden around it.
Traditionally, there is arranged marriage and no divorce in India; you can only leave your husband’s house upon death. Even if you are in a horrible relationship, there is no way out. Imagine that. The system is created so that the consequences are huge—almost unbearable—for a divorced woman. It’s changing now in urban areas, but there is still so much stigma around it.
My dad was a big, burly, fiery raging man who would abuse my mom. I remember asking him at 16, “Why did you hit Mom?” He wouldn’t even fess up to it. He would say, “I never did that.” My mother would make me apologize for it later, to keep this artificial peace in the home, at huge sacrifices. She lived in fear; we all did.
My sister’s husband would cheat on her and abuse her, and my mother would say to her, “Oh it’s ok, it will pass. It’s a sacrifice that women have to make. Don’t worry, your sons will take care of you. Just bear through it.” And she would send my sister home.
The denial is huge. At some level, everyone knows it is wrong, but we have to keep the system going. It has gotten us this far, to survival. So what would we do without this belonging to our system and beliefs? The feeling is so visceral that a woman can’t survive without a man—even a horrible, abusive one.
What was the contrast like growing up with the models you were raised with and being exposed to the very different cultural norms of the U.S.?
On some instinctual level in my body, it felt really freeing. This was not a land where I was going to get prosecuted or be under threat constantly because I’m a woman.
Being one of 12 kids, I wasn’t given much attention or space. But growing up in the U.S., I got so much affirmation. I was hiding at home, but I could shine at school. I was smart and intelligent, and for the first time I was seen in ways I had never been.
I remember being so contracted one day in high school, scribbling in the corner of a paper in art class. Mrs. Manchester, my art teacher, came up to me and held my hand. She said to me, “Draw! Just draw! Use the whole page!” She gave me permission to take up space.
I got really committed to education at a young age. I figured education was going to be my way out, that having my own money and being financially independent would give me freedom. I ended up going to law school and had a mantra that I wasn’t going to marry a man from India. But then life happened like a hurricane. My parents brought this proposal for an Indian man to marry me, someone that our family knew. I didn’t realize how deeply vulnerable and insecure I was, how hooked in I was to the lineage; the loyalty ran deep to what I learned. And so I married.
Tell me more about how you came to marry. What was your married life like?
We met when we were 5 years old at my sister’s wedding in India; my sister is married to his uncle. There was always talk from our parents of us being together. At the wedding, my sister picked me up, brought me over to him, and said, “You’re going to marry Rama.” He and I had our first fight the next morning. It was karmic.
Years later, he was living in India and engaged, and I was living in the U.S. A month before the wedding, his engagement broke off. To save face, all his parents’ friends started offering up their daughters to keep the date and cards. His grandparents were in the U.S. traveling at the time and said to my parents, “We’ve always been fond of Rama. How do you feel about giving him her hand?”
When I heard about it, I refused to get married until I had finished law school. His uncle convinced me to have a conversation on the phone, just once. I wanted to please my family, so I did.
He was so charming, I thought I was floating on air. I had been to the Osho ashram in India and thought to mention it as a test; it is such a radically open-minded place, I thought it would scare him away. But instead, he said he had been to the ashram too, that he went there regularly and loved Osho. He didn’t sound like a typical Indian man, the type my sisters had married. He seemed too good to be true. I thought he must be so open-minded, and I made all these assumptions about who he was. And so, contrary to my beliefs and strategies, I agreed to marry him before seeing him and before finishing college.
One thing that brought me and my ex-husband together was our love and longing for freedom within the structures and beliefs we were born into. We both wanted freedom from the conditioning, from our traumatized selves. I think in this way we had been drafted by our lineage to bring this forward and help heal it. This led me to pursue Family Constellation Work and other healing modalities that inform and keep revealing.
But, like me, my ex-husband’s conditioning was so deep; he didn’t know how deep it was until we got together. It was really hard for him to recognize the layers of control, dominance, and insecurity that would come to play out in our marriage—how invested we both were in the model where the woman means nothing and takes care of everything.
I like to believe that my ex-husband is a good guy; he didn’t want to hurt me, and yet he did. Like my father, he was deeply wounded and entrenched in the Indian patriarchy. So like my parents, we played out our parts. I was holding one piece of it and he the other.
He would say things like, “You need a rooster to keep the hens in line.” Those were his beliefs. He thought he was the rooster and that without a man, there is chaos. And to some level I can see the truth in that when it’s held in a way that is proper and with a steady man, but he was just so unstable. He was wounded.
One night, my husband was throwing a tantrum when we were supposed to go to dinner and the kids were hungry. I asked him, “Are you going to come to dinner or not?” He said no, so I took the kids and left. He shamed me for leaving. “How could you leave your husband and go eat with the kids?” He would say, “You have no heart. You have no place.”
Complying is how I survived. Speaking out was dangerous; wanting what I wanted and shining was dangerous. I had to know my place. In the end, I kept myself in place, even if part of me fought against it. There was a split in me.
Of course, in my own way, I also fought back. I worked and made my own money. I would make these plans in my head that when my son was 5 and in kindergarten, I would leave. I didn’t want to leave; all I’d ever wanted was a harmonious family. Then we bought our first house and began to feel a bit settled. Then our daughter was born in 2002 and our family felt complete. And yet we were not happy.
Where did you find your freedom in such hard circumstances?
When my son was in first grade, I found Waldorf school, because something inside me knew I wanted more for my kids. What I couldn’t do for myself I would do for the love of my kids. My children are my shining stars.
I learned I was living in reaction, fear, and survival. All of us were unhappy, including the kids. We were caught up in a lot of fighting, blaming, and shaming drama.
I had always been striving for freedom. I wanted peace. We both did. After years of trying, of hanging on, I just wanted to get out. I was terrified, but the more I hung on, the more he pushed. And then finally I let go. I was terrified, but I knew I could no longer go on like this; I had no choice. In 2015, I filed for divorce.
I honor you so deeply for the courage it takes to follow that longing for peace, to divorce even amidst the huge pressure and cultural taboos to stay in something unhealthy. How has your family reacted to the divorce?
Going to family events is still hard: I am the odd one. It’s awkward, people don’t know how to behave around me or how to relate to me. I don’t look or play the poor divorcee (widow) part. I am generally happy and upbeat, which throws folks off. I still get so roped in and tested. But I’m going to get through it.
When I visit my mother, she still asks me with a tone of pity if I live alone. And why don’t I ask my ex to come back? Even now, after all I know and have accomplished, I can feel the aftertaste of the shame, as if something is wrong with me. It’s mind-blowing at times, because I actually feel I deserve a medal or two!
Where does your identity rest now, after all this journey and reflection? Where is your freedom now?
I feel like I’m at a milestone in the journey. My identity rests more and more within my inner knowing. Even the word identity doesn’t have the meaning in me that it used to. Identity was a way to belong. As long as I was looking to belong outside myself, I needed an identity.
But if my belonging rests inside of me, identity is not there so much. When I move in the world, people ask me, “What do you do?” If I say I’m retired, I get funny looks. Sometimes I say I’m raising my daughter. I have to say something to the world, but it’s not true to how I feel.
I feel more and more like a being, more spaciousness in my life. I feel more content in the little things in life, seeing what today brings. I don’t have an agenda for my life anymore. I don’t have a strategy. I’m not trying to be productive all the time like I used to be. I’m allowing myself to be more.
I think whether we know it or not, if I put aside my personality, my story, at a soul level, I really know that my ex and I are in service to each other. I really know that. In a couple years from now, I’m going to be bowing to him and saying thank you.
We’re all being polished. Awakening to our true selves is a crossing over, a shift in perception. Everything remains the same on the outside, but you change screens, like crossing over the street. We are helping each other cross over into what is true, what is real, what is alive.
How does a guy from North India so embedded in the patriarchy end up in a progressive small town in the U.S. and go to Burning Man? How does that happen in a single lifetime? It’s like going from Polaroid to digital imaging in one generation.
How does it happen that my mother, with a fourth-grade education, exiled from her birthplace in Pakistan, makes a life in India and then ends up in the U.S. out of all her siblings? No one else brought little babies over. She was the one who said, “I want to go to America.” She left three married daughters behind, picked up seven babies and moved oceans across. Who does that at the age of 45? There was something in her, something telling her she had to get across, to cross over. I think at a soul level it’s what we’ve all been doing; it’s what my ex-husband and I have been doing.
We’ve all been crossing over.
We’re all going home at some point. All we’re doing is getting each other home. And I so know that. I feel it in my bones.
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]]>Postpartum Depression: What My Dark Night of the Soul Taught Me about IdentityRead More »
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]]>“The thing you are most afraid to write. Write that.” —Nayyirah Waheed, Salt
Let me start by saying, I used to judge women who said they had postpartum depression. Maybe it was because the few stories I had heard were from famous actresses “bravely speaking out to try and remove the stigma.” Before having my own child, I would roll my eyes and assume they were selfish women who were too surprised by motherhood or maybe they just didn’t have the nurturing instinct at all.
The truth is that with any major life transition, even the ones we desperately want, there are challenges to face. While many of our cultural stories emphasize the very real joy of new motherhood, we often ignore the massive restructuring of identity that takes place as a woman leaves maidenhood behind. Many women like me become so adapted to the identity of the maiden (youthful, energetic, sweet, sexually and emotionally available) that we confuse that role with our true essence. And sometimes the only way to find our way back to ourselves is by going into the darkness.
Maureen Murdock explains in her book “The Heroine’s Journey” that “women often make their descent when a particular role, such as daughterhood, motherhood, lover, or spouse, comes to an end.” In order to leave my youth behind and become the mother I was meant to be, I had to travel like the ancient Sumerian goddess Inanna into the underworld to be stripped bare of the symbols of my old identity, die, and be reborn. In that process, I learned that life demands sacrifice but the rewards are great.
I had always wanted to be a mother. From a very young age, I carried around dolls and tended to them with utmost care. I looked after my little brother with a devotion that earned me the family nickname “little mother.” I babysat my sweet-faced cousins in my teens and generally looked forward to the day when I could dress and bathe my own little ones.
Still, I waited until my 30s to get pregnant so I had plenty of time to get my education, develop a career, travel, and invest in my personal growth. I wanted to make sure I understood how to best care for myself before I raised a child. I had a blessed life in many ways. My son’s father and I realized early in our relationship that we wanted to have kids so we could share our love. I was so excited to show my child the wonders of nature and see them discover things like their first snow.
My pregnancy was healthy and full of the joys and worries every mother encounters. I worked full-time and nested and found a wonderful birth center. When labor started, I felt prepared and supported to surrender to the mighty process that was taking place. I actually had an orgasmic birth (yes, it’s a real thing ladies!). My son came out in such glorious perfection that I was euphoric. He was my love embodied. My birth experience felt profoundly empowering and sacred. So far so good.
What happened next was a descent. It started when I didn’t sleep or truly rest after the birth. The first night I was too excited. The second night I was too worried. I went on like that until four nights of no sleep later, I handed my baby to my mother while trying to say the words “please take him, I’m too tired,” but my mouth could only form sobs. She understood what I meant.
Weeks passed and my midwives checked in on me, my husband made me smoothies and baths, my friends visited and brought food, family members came to meet the baby and cook chicken soup. I was lucky to have caring people around, but I was slipping away. It felt like I was being pulled down into an underwater realm where I could only view life behind a glass wall. In this place, my loved ones could see me and maybe even see I was drowning, but it felt like there was no way to cross the barrier into their arms.
My days felt like torment. I didn’t know how to communicate what I was feeling. I didn’t know how to ask for help. I could only mouth the words “I’m not ok” and “I’m so tired” and count each excruciating hour I made it through. My mind searched desperately for anything to buoy itself up. I made to-do lists in my head and tried to anchor myself with things like going to the grocery store or a phone call with a friend. My journal went blank, my normal enthusiasm for life drained away. When I was strong enough to take a walk, I passed a bush full of flowers that I used to delight in and I just stared at them wondering who that cheerful person could have been. The world went black and white and foggy.
I’ve never felt more alone in my life. The only thing that helped was being around other moms. I craved their company desperately. But like many urban transplants, I had moved to the Bay Area for work and wasn’t really settled in a community. I was one of the first of my friends to have kids. My son’s grandmothers both came to help for some blessed days, but each needed to return home to their work and lives.
I dreaded the nighttime and was afraid of darkness. Every evening my mood dropped with the setting sun and I wept when anyone turned off the lights in the room I was nursing in, presumably to help the baby fall asleep. “Hello!” I thought, “I’m still here! A live human adult! Can anybody hear me?”
My cell phone became my lifeline, an artificial light source to huddle under, a fake hearth to warm myself with. I scrolled through Instagram, seeing posts from other new mothers about how overjoyed they were, how every day was like Christmas with their new babe. I beat myself up inside and felt ashamed.
My midwives didn’t notice, and my pediatrician didn’t either. I honestly didn’t know that I could be treated or helped, I just figured this was motherhood. I blamed myself for not enjoying each tiny sock and whimper. I blamed myself for not thriving while my beautiful and healthy baby boy charmed the world. When I finally sought therapy six months in, my therapist concluded I was grieving due to a number of rapid changes in my life but that it wasn’t postpartum depression.
Granted, there were other challenges going on in that first year. I was pushing myself too hard at work after returning three months after birth, I was fighting with my son’s father, we were moving our family from the Bay Area to LA, and we spent close to two months at Standing Rock. But all these factors have become so interwoven with that period that it’s hard to see what was the true cause (if such a thing exists) and what was a symptom. Suffice it to say, my life and my family’s life was unbalanced. Yet I continued to pretend to be OK. I smiled and conversed and dressed my baby and took him to the park.
I was going through the motions but my heart was below the ground. A spiritual person by nature, I felt completely cut off from the beauty and love I had known my whole life.
Now I should mention here that I was trained as an actor from a young age and had been accustomed to performing at a high level in most areas of my life, whether academically, professionally, or personally. I’m generally embarrassed about seeming weak or in need of help. Chalk it up to my stoic German heritage, my Capricorn stubbornness to succeed, or just outsized pride, I don’t like to be vulnerable to anyone but my nearest and dearest. So I can see why professionals might have missed the signs. All new mothers are exhausted and in shock about what they just went through and the fact that they’re responsible for a fragile human life. The “baby blues” are normal and it takes time to find your groove. But what I experienced felt deeper than “baby blues.” I view it now as a blend of exhaustion and hormonal and chemical imbalances paired with unmet emotional and social needs—all of which are difficult to pull apart.
The shift from maiden to mother can be challenging for anyone living in a culture that privileges youth and makes mothers and older women feel invisible. I noticed I had become invisible once I started to venture out of the house with the stroller. I was used to being a confident and attractive woman in the world and it took me a moment to get used to the glazed-over look of strangers on the street that seemed to say, “oh she’s just a mom.” Hold up, wait a minute folks, I thought, should I just hang it up, stop showering, and wear sweatpants for the rest of my life?
I fully understand why so many cultures encourage seclusion and rest for 40 days after giving birth. A woman who has just opened up at every level to pull a new human life into this realm is deeply raw, vulnerable, and sensitive during the postpartum period and she needs lots of gentle care. In a way, she’s still in a liminal state between the worlds and very connected to her infant’s needs minute by minute. More than anything, she needs mothering herself so that her own nurturing energy can flow.
In my case, I was blessed with resources and people who cared about my well-being. I had access to good medical care and lived in a country at peace with more than enough to eat. So what did I do? I beat myself up about that privilege almost every day.
How could I, who had been given so much, dare to suffer when a million other women have so much more hardship and still smoothly transition to motherhood?
My ambition and overachiever tendencies had become my worst enemies. I didn’t know how to slow down and loosen the reigns. I had been conditioned to value myself based on productivity and status in the external world, but now my accomplishments were of such a private and domestic nature, I didn’t know how to evaluate myself. All the tools I had counted on to succeed in my previous life were suddenly useless in this context. I was lost and embarrassed to be lost.
The personality I had built for 30 years was shattered. I had to rebuild from the ground up. I finally admitted defeat when my son was 9 months old. My son and I flew to Chicago for Thanksgiving and stayed, first at my mom’s house then at my aunt’s. It frightened me to see myself in their eyes. They had never seen me like this. I had never seen me like this.
I took comfort in familiar places and introduced my son to landscapes from my childhood. I took on some extra work and enrolled him in a wonderful daycare for a few days a week. I tried to remember what I used to enjoy (art, singing, long hikes, thick books, and hot cups of tea). My aunt offered me her old house to rent, a home so loved up by her family, it started to heal me the day we moved in. In rare moments of nap-time quiet, I gingerly started to make flower mandalas on my living room floor and publish snippets of writing online. I set about nesting for a second time and dreaming up a life that could work.
As I healed, bouts of unexplainable rage and grief would overcome me and I felt as if I could taste the suffering of generations of women before me. Every so often, I would leave my son with his father for an hour to walk along the shore of a nearby lake. The waters always managed to soothe me.
I’m not gonna lie, it took months to recover. If I’m honest, it took a full year after the birth to feel fully present and another year to feel like myself again, albeit an upgraded, stronger version of me. This kind of timeline is not what our culture typically accepts for transitions. We are, after all, a 24/7 digital on-all-the-time culture. Women are praised for bouncing back to work at three months postpartum or sooner (which feels barbaric to me now), and many of us try to get back our “pre-baby bod” as soon as possible. But this is not something you can bootcamp your way out of.
Motherhood is not like putting on a new dress or persona. Motherhood is the rearranging of your bones, the expansion of your core, the breaking of your heart. Along with the joy, there may be mourning. Some of us may be called to deal with childhood traumas or grieve for our mothers and grandmothers.
Unfortunately, in our society, the work of mourning is not truly valued or understood and we are often bombarded by distractions and ways to avoid feeling where we are in our hearts. Little attention is paid to the immense integration of experience that a new mother must navigate. Her task of growing a new identity and way of being in the world is precious and may take awhile.
I now believe that sometimes depression shows up as the soul’s way of working through grief and transition at its own pace. I ultimately view it as a blessing and something I am grateful for. Because what I met in that underworld reshaped me completely. I uncovered in the dark my primal will to survive, the strength beneath my weakness, the dark mother of grief who turns our tears into rain. I met a well of love that poured through me into my child with more vitality than I could fathom with my mind. I met the seeds of my new life and a gratitude for simplicity that I hadn’t known before. I learned the real joy of the sunrise and the value of a mother fully awake to the rainbow of her child’s smile. I felt a broken heart sprout shoots of life up and up back into the world of the living.
I rose slowly and steadily. Each day I felt myself returning from the long journey away from my joy. I remember the first time I slept in my bed feeling safe and the first time I woke up without crippling anxiety. I remember the first time I gave my son a bath without weeping inside. I remember the first time I was home alone with him and felt confident about our day together. I remember the day I started drawing colorful affirmations on my kitchen chalkboard and felt excited for tomorrow. I remember the day I realized that I was going to not only make it but actually thrive.
Human beings need time and space to grieve, grow, and blossom. So maybe I wasn’t on my “A game” for one year of my life. I was learning how to do the most important job I’ll ever have plus reconfiguring my relationship with my son’s father and navigating family dynamics and choices like where to live, how much to work, and so on. I was growing what I now call my “mama backbone,” the strength of a woman who can make any place a home, whose love shows through myriad small daily tasks, a woman who trusts her intuition and knows how to voice her needs.
When the ancient Sumerian goddess Inanna returns from the underworld, “she is not all sweetness and light,” says Maureen Murdock. “She now realizes the extent to which she has sacrificed herself in pleasing others, and she is not willing to do things the old way.” I am stronger and more compassionate now. I don’t procrastinate (who has the time?) and I find myself deeply protective of children of all kinds. I don’t say yes when I mean no. I don’t work until I’m exhausted. I am more balanced than ever and I’m enjoying the small triumphs of domestic life as I build a business that nourishes me and works around the needs of my family.
And so, on the eve of my son’s second birthday, newly wed to his father and brimming with creativity and optimism for the future, I can tell you that I’ve recovered from what our culture calls postpartum depression. I like to call it an initiation into my truest self, a sacred trial that took and then gave back a world more beautiful than it was before. I didn’t do it alone, but in the end it was me who learned how to heal. It was terrifying and deeply humbling but I’m here, having emerged from the underworld to blossom into life again.
1. Don’t try to mother anyone but your children.
Everyone else is grown, so save your energy. Period.
2. Make a postpartum plan.
Most women spend their time thinking about the birth and don’t fully plan their postpartum period. Do your homework and set up a support system in advance. This article is a great place to start for learning about “the fourth trimester.” Have a friend create a meal train in which your community signs up for a specific day to drop off a meal at your door. Stock your fridge with easy and nutritious foods and lots of drinks. Make sure you have a friend or family member with a car who can run to the store, as there are likely to be last-minute needs in those first days after birth.
3. Surround yourself with community.
A baby belongs to the village and it takes a village to raise one, for real. Join a mom’s circle, meetup, or playgroup before you give birth so you can build connections. If you live near family members, discuss how they can best be involved in your child’s life. Connect with other parents in your neighborhood. Make sure you have a trusted person (who’s not your romantic partner) to confide in after birth.
4. Know the signs of PPD.
There’s a misconception that you only have PPD if you have serious thoughts about harming yourself or your child or feel that you’re not bonding properly. But there are many other symptoms and ways that women experience PPD. Here’s a useful postpartum depression quiz to help you understand your symptoms.
5. Remember it’s not a competition.
I’ve concluded that type-A personalities and high achievers may be at risk for PPD because the ways in which they’ve measured success in the past are counter to the rest and slow pace needed in the postpartum period. They also may be too embarrassed to admit any trouble for fear of looking like a failure.
6. Ditch the Instagram comparisons.
We all know that our social media lives aren’t telling the whole story. So don’t assume anything about what others are going through based on those adorable photos. Here’s a great example: This photo was taken of me during one of my lowest points with PPD. Yeah, I know, crazy right? Invest your time in real heart-to-heart conversations, ideally with experienced moms.
7. Create a routine.
A regular routine is challenging with a new baby, but try to automate anything you can. Get diapers and food delivered to your door, put bills on autopay. When the baby is older, establish routines that the family can enjoy like Saturday morning library visits or walks each afternoon. Make a simple family meal plan and stick to it weekly to eliminate unnecessary choices. Trust me, the family meal plan is a life-saver.
8. Know it’s only temporary.
I never used to believe people who said, “enjoy this time with your baby, they grow so fast!” It felt like my little guy would be tiny forever. But it’s true, he changes every day and I miss holding my infant now. So soak it all in and remember that if you find a particular phase challenging, it will shift before you know it.
Photos (from top to bottom) by Alba Soler via Flickr (cc), Christopher Campbell via Unsplash, and Mickael Gresset via Unsplash
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]]>Being Bisexual: No, I’m Not Confused, Posing, or a Sexual TouristRead More »
The post Being Bisexual: No, I’m Not Confused, Posing, or a Sexual Tourist appeared first on Invoke Magazine.
]]>The first time I ever heard that word I was in 9th grade history class. I remember my entire body suddenly … listening. I looked down at my bare legs and the sandals I was wearing, taking in that provocative word, wondering if this was the word I had been unconsciously searching for. The word that would explain things. The word that would explain me.
“What does that mean?” I asked my friend who was sitting next to me, the one who had just proclaimed “I’m bi.”
“It means I like both boys and girls,” she said, watching my face closely to see if I was shocked.
I rolled the word back and forth in my mouth. Bisexual, meaning both. A thrill of excitement washed through me and I remember thinking, “So that’s what I am. I’m bisexual.” The teacher called for our attention and I faced the front of the room, stenciling “Bi” on the paper-bag cover of my history book. Claiming the word for myself.
Today we have several terms that indicate non-binary sexual identity—sexual fluidity, pansexual, omnisexual, bisexual. But in 1982 bisexual was the only word I had access to, and it was enough. Enough for me to have a deeper understanding and awareness of myself, an acceptance of myself. The magic for me was not only that I could put a name to what I had been feeling for as long as I could remember, but also the very fact that if there was a name, it meant there were others like me. I was no longer alone. And I had felt alone for a long time.
It wasn’t until I was a senior that I learned about bisexuality from a sociological point of view. By that time I’d owned the label “bisexual” for three years and had acted on my attraction to girls exactly once, with my best friend. Had it not been for the closeness of that relationship, I don’t think I would have risked it. (I did not, however, have the same inhibition with boys.) I mostly kept my sexual identity to myself, but sometimes I would share my story with close friends and hear “I feel the same way!” or versions of it more often than I would have guessed.
In sociology class I learned that everyone falls somewhere on the Kinsey scale of sexual orientation, with zero being exclusively heterosexual and 6 being exclusively homosexual. Most people fall somewhere between 1 to 5 on the continuum, meaning many people have sexual attraction and/or sexual experiences with the same gender, even if they identify as heterosexual, and with the opposite gender even if they identify as homosexual. Learning that helped normalize my experience in a way that allowed me to be more honest about my sexual identity.
Of course, researchers now understand that the Kinsey scale is limited to understanding bisexuality as the compromise between two poles, rather than as a distinct sexual orientation, which the Klein Sexual Orientation Grid seeks to do. Additionally, research from the Klein Grid shows that sexual orientation is in fact dynamic and can shift over time.
If you had asked me before I turned 29 how I identified, I would have said “bisexual, leaning toward men.” But the first time I fell in love with a woman changed the way I thought of myself. Until then I didn’t think it would be possible for me to fall in love with a woman. I always believed I would end up married to a man, with children. I suppose you could attribute it to societal conditioning, or perhaps the fact that I had never seen two women in a monogamous relationship, but it was inconceivable to me that I could be happy in a monogamous relationship with a woman.
Now, at 50, I’ve been in love exactly four times in my life—twice with men, twice with women. I’ve been married two times, once to a man and now to a woman. Experientially, that puts me right down the middle, but since my same-sex relationships have been in my later years, it’s more accurate to say now that I’m bisexual, leaning toward women.
In my experience, being bisexual can feel incredibly lonely. In point of fact, loneliness is one of the primary stressors bisexual individuals face and can lead to anxiety, depression, and suicidality—even more so than in homosexual individuals. According to research, bisexuals are more likely to experience these negative emotions and behaviors because of the double bias they face from the heterosexual and homosexual communities. This double bias is the reason only 33 percent of bisexual women are out of the closet today compared to 71 percent of lesbians, while only 12 percent of bisexual men are out, compared to 77 percent of gay men.
I have certainly experienced this double bias. In fact, I have experienced more bias from the homosexual community than from heterosexuals. My theory on this is that sexually engaging with two women at the same time is a typical male fantasy that is known and often accepted by women in the heterosexual community, thus allowing women to explore feelings of attraction to other women and creating more natural acceptance in the heterosexual community for bisexual women. However, on the downside, this fantasy is often the lens through which the heterosexual community understands female bisexuality, rather than as a valid sexual orientation of its own. For men, there is no corresponding, widely accepted fantasy that allows men to explore feelings of attraction to other men within the heterosexual community. So, bisexual men tend to experience this double bias more from the heterosexual community.
When I entered the lesbian community at age 29, I was accused of posing, being a sexual tourist, experimenting, and putting the lesbian community at risk many times. I remember being at a party once and being told by a lesbian woman that “I’d go running back to men soon,” even as I was holding my girlfriend’s hand. The fact that I didn’t refer to myself as a lesbian seemed to only make matters worse.
There’s tremendous social pressure to conform to either heterosexual or homosexual. I believe it’s because as humans we are more comfortable with binary systems. Either you are this or you are that, but you are certainly not both. Fortunately this seems to be changing in the millennial generation. GLAAD’s 2017 Accelerating Acceptance report found that 20 percent of millennials identify as LGBTQ, but that doesn’t mean they all identify as gay or as a lesbian either. Millennials are the most sexually fluid group to date. Suddenly there is a whole host of new terms that can help someone speak to their sexual and gender identity.
I look like a heterosexual woman, meaning I present as gender-conforming feminine. Once you get to know me, you realize that beyond my looks, I’m quite balanced (non-binary) in my gender expression—taking on qualities and characteristics of both masculine and feminine. Even so, my gender identity (how I see myself) is female. I’m being very clear here, because we now live in a time where one’s gender identity can’t be taken for granted or reduced to binary concepts. And, I argue, neither can one’s sexual identity.
Most people assume I am the sexual orientation of my partner. Meaning, if I’m in a relationship with a man, I must be straight and if I’m in a relationship with a woman I must be gay.
“Actually, I identify as bisexual” is my handy conversation starter (or stopper) if I’ve been labeled either gay or straight out loud. People’s reaction to my correction usually lines up with one of two responses—“Really? What does that mean?” or “But really you’re a lesbian because you are in a relationship with a woman, right?”
I’ve found that the longer one is in relationship with a particular gender, the more society sees this as confirmation of one’s sexual orientation and the harder it can be to maintain a public bisexual identity, even with friends and family. I’ve been in a same-sex, monogamous relationship for 16 years and my sexual orientation is still bisexual. In the past several years, even straight friends I’ve had since I was in my teens and 20s, who have known me through all of my relationships—both with men and women—have begun to refer to me as a lesbian. That I inherently feel the pressure to accept the label of lesbian and find it harder to maintain my identity within the context of my relationship is grounded in the fear that others will hear my claim as a negation of the commitment or love I have for my wife, which it is not.
The assumption people make is natural, even if technically incorrect. Occasionally I don’t correct others. Even though it feels like a misrepresentation of a primary part of my identity, it is sometimes easier to allow others to make assumptions. Why? Because nothing about bisexuality is self-explanatory, and the myths surrounding it are disturbing, which puts me in the role of educator or defender every time I speak up.
Here are some of the misconceptions I’ve heard: Bisexuals are polyamorous. Bisexuals can’t be monogamous or faithful. Bisexuals are just straight or gay people afraid to embrace the truth. Bisexual women are sexual tourists in the lesbian community and will run back to their safe straight lives as soon as things get tough. Bisexual men are really gay but afraid to come out. Bisexuals are confused and indecisive. Bisexual women are dangerous and bring STDs into the lesbian community. Bisexual men are dangerous and bring AIDS home to their wives. Bisexuals are promiscuous and sex addicts. Bisexuals are just attention-seekers, trying to take advantage of privilege because it’s easier (if in relationship with the opposite sex) or trying to infiltrate a marginalized group because they think it’s “cool” (if in relationship with the same sex).These myths are a main reason why so many adult bisexuals hide their sexual orientation.
Unfortunately, when a bisexual starts a relationship with someone of the opposite gender from their last relationship, mistrust and misconception within their community often follows. Many bisexuals have had the experience of losing queer friends when they start dating someone of the opposite sex and losing straight friends when dating someone of the same sex. With each new relationship, it can feel like “coming out” all over again. This further compounds the pressure to “pick a side.” And the backlash within the gay community can be particularly intense. In fact, many gays and lesbians refuse to date people who openly identify as bisexual.
Bisexuals, more than other orientations, can be seen as “confused” because of the nature of self-questioning they often undergo. “If I am attracted to both men and women but have been exclusively in relationships with men, am I bisexual?” “If I am in a monogamous relationship and haven’t acted on my bisexuality in years, am I still bisexual?” “If I’m unhappy in my current relationship, does that mean I’d be more suited to a relationship with the other gender?” These are natural questions for bisexuals to ask themselves as they navigate a dynamic sexual orientation, but it would be a mistake to invalidate the bisexual experience as merely “questioning.” Bisexuals aren’t any less likely to commit to a relationship than other groups.
The truth is that we all make assumptions about each other. All of the time. And we are often wrong. It doesn’t feel good when someone makes assumptions that aren’t true about you. We would all be so much better served to be generous in our assumptions about each other. To believe that we each want to be known and loved. We all are trying to be good people. And we could all do with more self-acceptance.
Truly, the more we can accept ourselves, which starts by telling ourselves the truth about who we are, the more we can come to accept others for who they really are.
If you know you are bisexual, give yourself permission to be who you are. Claim it for yourself, even if there is no one you can tell right now. Fully allow yourself to say “I am bisexual and I accept that about myself.” If you can, reach out to others who are bisexual and share your story. There are so many of us, and most of us live alone with our bisexuality as though it needs to be a secret. It does not.
Each time I tell someone that I am bisexual, I feel like I am coming home to myself. I am reminding myself of who I am at the core of my sexual being. And by speaking it aloud, I am helping others to give themselves permission to do the same. I am claiming my truth, and I invite you to do the same.
Photos (from top to bottom) by Cory Woodward, Unsplash, and Elizabeth Tsung
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]]>From Addict to Inmate to Attorney: It’s Never too Late to Reinvent YourselfRead More »
The post From Addict to Inmate to Attorney: It’s Never too Late to Reinvent Yourself appeared first on Invoke Magazine.
]]>I started in middle school with the gateway drugs alcohol and tobacco, added marijuana in high school, then discovered and quickly became addicted to heroin in college. I took two years off to treat my addiction, and with the help of methadone, I graduated from college. In the following years, though, after numerous failed attempts at treatment and sobriety, I found myself addicted to methamphetamine. I started dealing small amounts to support my own addiction. Then, in 2005, I sent some meth through the mail to a friend. The package was intercepted and I was indicted on a federal felony conspiracy drug charge that carried a potential 10-year prison sentence.
Now, looking back, I feel gratitude and compassion for my once-broken self. I see now that the lowest point of my journey was the turning point that made my growth and recovery possible. Out of that brokenness and pain, I have created a fulfilling and joyous life that exceeds all the expectations I dared to hope for.
But at the time, I felt broken and defeated and hopeless. Faced with the severe consequences of prison, anyone without the disease of addiction would have been able to stop using drugs. I couldn’t. I continued to use up until the day I turned myself in to serve a year in prison.
During that year, despite the consequences of my drug use, I was still trapped in the irrational mindset of addiction. I told myself that my drug use wasn’t the problem; I had been set up. It was a fluke. I would do my time and use the experience to write a best-selling memoir.
Then I got out and relapsed within months. When my continuing use was discovered, I was taken into custody, and I found myself back behind bars. As I sat in jail, waiting to see if I would be sent back to prison, I finally broke. I could no longer sustain the rationalization and denial. This was my life. This was a pattern. I begged for help, and thanks to my public defender, the judge postponed my revocation hearing and I was allowed to go to treatment. That was 10 years ago, and I’ve been in recovery ever since.
After completing treatment, I returned to court for my revocation hearing to see if I would be sent back to prison. Unfortunately, the court was not interested in my recovery. The judge told me that I hadn’t learned my lesson and he was going to teach it to me. He sent me back to prison for 18 months, in a maximum-security facility, for relapsing.
The second time in prison was different. I was different. I had just completed treatment and for the first time in my life, I was ready and willing to stay sober and do whatever it took to build a life in recovery. The injustice of being sent back to prison for relapsing—for having the disease of addiction—broke me in a different way. I decided I needed to change things, and to do that I would become a lawyer. So I did my time and studied for the Law School Admission Test (LSAT).
Fresh out of prison for the second time, it took me months to find a job at a bagel shop making $7.25 an hour. I was ashamed, resentful, and angry. With the help of an EMDR therapist and three 12-step meetings a week, I threw myself into recovery and swallowed my pride.
I kept working at the bagel shop and took the LSAT. Thanks in part to 15 months in prison studying, I got a good score. But when I applied to local law schools, I was rejected by them all. Discouraged but determined, I made appointments with the admissions directors and asked them if I had any chance of getting in. They all said yes, but they needed me to have a little more time out of prison with continued sobriety before they were willing to take that risk. (Understandable, given the circumstances.)
I started working at a small law firm as a legal assistant, reapplied to law school, and this time I got in. Three of the schools even offered me partial scholarships! I started school in 2011.
During my undergraduate years, college had been a backdrop for my addiction. This time was different. I loved law school. I soaked up knowledge and cultivated authentic, meaningful relationships with everyone I could: fellow students, professors, senators, representatives, judges, deans, you name it.
Today I am open about my past. I feel a duty—which I gladly accept—to share my experience to help others. But in law school I was still ashamed of my story, and I hid it as best I could. The administration knew about it because I had to disclose everything on my application, but I didn’t share it with anyone else. I lived in constant fear that my past would become known and I would be exposed.
That moment finally came in my last year of law school. I had chosen to do an internship with a judge, which required a background check. I remember a gut-wrenching, sinking feeling and thinking, “Well, here it is. It’s over.” I asked the judge if I could speak with him privately. We sat down in his chambers and I told him my story. By the time I finished I was crying. He looked me in the eye and said something I’ll never forget: “I spend my days sending people to prison, and you are the miracle that I hope for every day.” From that day forward he treated me as an equal, and he often asked for my insight on issues given my experience.
I went to law school to get the education and credentials to use my experience to change the criminal justice system. I also felt driven to help those whose substance use and mental health issues played a role in their involvement in that system. So, during law school I volunteered more than 800 hours of pro bono legal services as a certified student attorney. I helped women being released from state prison with their civil legal matters so they would have a better chance of successful reentry into their communities. I also provided pro bono criminal defense representation in a diversionary treatment court where individuals with mental illness received treatment rather than punishment. Talk about coming full circle!
By the end of law school, I felt restored and confident. I was living a life of purpose while achieving my goals.
I graduated magna cum laude and was one of six students out of a graduating class of more than 200 to be nominated by the faculty and administration for the “Student of Merit Award.” I took the bar exam and passed.
And then the other shoe dropped. I received a letter from the board of law examiners telling me I would not be licensed due to character and fitness issues.
The character and fitness investigation process was hell—talk about retraumatizing. I had submitted character affidavits and documentation of more than seven years of proven recovery and rehabilitation, but none of that mattered. (When I had gotten out of prison, one of the first calls I made was to the state bar association. I told them about my past and asked if I could legally become a lawyer. The association confirmed that my past did not disqualify me, I would just have to prove my rehabilitation after I graduated and passed the bar exam.) The licensing board required me to participate in adversarial hearings, undergo psychological testing and a chemical dependency evaluation, and provide urinalysis. Finally, after six months of jumping through hoops, the board gave me a license to practice law.
That was three years ago. Today I practice law and work on drug policy. It’s a dream come true and would be more than enough, right? It gets even better.
A few years out of prison, about the same time that I was applying to law schools for the second time, I realized something was still missing in my recovery. I had managed to build a stable, sober life, but I still felt uncomfortable in my own skin. I was still at the mercy of my inner fluctuations of mood and thought. I couldn’t always be at a 12-step meeting, and I needed tools—real physical techniques—to manage my stress.
That’s when I created the yoga practice that eventually became Recovery Yoga Meetings. I put together a curriculum of yoga postures, mindfulness, and meditation that allowed me to translate intellectual recovery into a physical experience. I could live and breathe the spiritual principles of recovery with yoga. And by continuing to practice, I learned how to cultivate inner peace and resilience.
So, during my first year of law school, I decided to get certified to teach yoga so that I could teach Recovery Yoga Meetings. (Frankly I don’t know how anyone practices law without also practicing yoga.) Each class begins and ends with a confidential sharing session. In between, we practice a sequence of yoga postures and breathing that embodies the spiritual principles of recovery. We “work” the 12 steps physically. I’ve been teaching for more than seven years now, and hundreds of students have participated in yoga studios and treatment centers. I’ve also created a Recovery Yoga Teacher Training curriculum to train other yoga teachers how to effectively share yoga with people seeking recovery, particularly in health care settings.
So what was it you said is holding you back? Whatever your struggles, they have made you the woman you are today. Own your story and use it to make a better world.
Photos (from top to bottom) by Gaelle Marcel via Unsplash (cc), Annie Spratt via Unsplash, and Ashley Rick of St. Paul Photo Co.
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]]>15 Songs for Your Unfolding SelfRead More »
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