It’s January, which means illness. No surprise there. This week, my youngest has the flu. I’ve been struck by how singularly focused it has made me on her. I feel so grateful to have the space to stop and be fully present. I watch her—my baby—burning up, her breath small and labored, and I feel overwhelmingly protective. I want to do everything in my power to keep her safe.
It’s easier to notice these feelings when they show up outside of me. But honestly, I think the same thing is happening inside me, too. This week, I’ve felt like a monster. Judgments come fast and easy, at myself and others. I’m quick to flare, and I’m easily wounded. I feel fragile.
Protective.
That word emerged as a simple truth while I was bear-hugging Charlotte, trying to help her rest. I feel protective—and not just of my children. Part of the work of TIMBo is recognizing that we all have an inner child, a part of us that expresses fear, weakness, and insecurity. How we respond to that part of ourselves—that is our adaptation. It’s the behavior behind the reaction.
This week in TIMBo we turned the page to talk about Guilt and Creativity. Sometimes, as we move ahead, climbing the emotional pyramid, I think, Wait. I'm not ready. I'm still down here, rutted in fear. I want so much to be moving upward, "rebuilding our house," as we say in TIMBo. And yet, I find myself still sitting on that foundation, questioning just how strong it really is.
I think this is where creativity comes in.
This week, as I felt the ricochet of guilt and judgment come hurtling toward me, I made some mental space for something else alongside it. I recognized that if I could listen carefully enough a quieter voice was beneath the noise. A small one.
Today I heard it loud and clear.
I feel scared.
Of course, I do.
We are all living under an onslaught of threats—to our sense of self, our sense of community, our sense of nation. The news alone is enough to send me into a tailspin. Add in the layers of family, relationships, and personal struggles, and—of course I feel scared.
It takes creativity to recognize that something else exists beyond fear. To step aside the clear assignment of guilt. Because that old voice is loud. It divides the world into moral certainty. This is your fault. This is their fault. More often than not, mine whispers something even more painful:
You are alone. You will always be alone.
I stayed there for a moment. After writing this, I had my hand on my heart and was breathing in that truth. Suddenly, from the next room Charlotte called me to tell me something she had noticed. In her voice, I can hear her strength returning. Before long, she’ll be back to full health, asserting herself in the world again.
And there is the movement–that river of life. She took me out of that small moment into a bigger one. This weekend, I will be stepping into a larger circle. I can allow myself to feel the safety of the community, and to know, for better or worse, I am never alone.
Writing often provides me with a creative space of new possibility. It allows me the perspective to find comfort in impermanence. If I can release into this moment—if I can stop taking everything so seriously and gripping so hard—soon enough, I’ll be in a different place. It will feel different. And that, in itself, can be remarkably healing.
Thank you, as always, for the notes and for the real time reminders that this space is valuable to you. It’s valuable to me too, and I appreciate this space for connection. Indeed, we are never alone. You are all brave and wonderful.
In great gratitude
Hannah Rae