Posted on by palmtreemomma

Choking on Niceness

Tree roots growing out of a crumbling temple in Cambodia.

I still think of the butterfly I saw in my dream all those years ago, right before my husband came out to me. She calls to me still, gently showing me the path towards wholeness. Her ripped, ravaged, and giant wings, refusing to stay in the muck, beating still and carrying her across the water. She beckons me on, silently flying towards freedom.

There have been many dreams since then. I have journals set aside just for them. Sometimes the message is instantly clear, other times a pattern may appear over time. While I once dismissed dreams that were not instantly clear, I have learned to pay attention to the ambiguous ones as well. Dreams have much to teach us.

In her book Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home, Toka-pa Turner, has much to say about dream-work and healing.

For survivors of neglect and abuse, the relationship to the instinctual life can be especially damaged. An instinct is injured when your responses are repeatedly overridden, dismissed, or ignored, often by adults who have a wounded instinct themselves. For instance, you may have been criticized for overreacting when you were having an appropriate response, or perhaps you were told to stay quiet when you knew you should speak. Maybe you had to care for another’s needs before your own. Whatever form the wounding of your instinct might have taken, over time the result is the same. It is the sense of distrusting your own responses, questioning the validity of your feelings and giving your power to another’s information over your own.

Toko-pa Turner

Letting the truth out

I recently had an opportunity to say some things that I have needed to say for a very long time. Things that I had kept bottled tight inside rather than risk being the one to rock the boat. But, when the words came to me, I knew it was time. I said what I needed to say. For me. I spoke my truth. And while I did not get the response I wanted, I am more than okay. It was in speaking my truth that I was set free, not in the other person’s response.

A few night later I had a very telling dream.

I spent the evening caring for a group of children. A 3 year old girl with blond curls was feeling unwell and had vomited. I thought she needed to sleep so I read her a story, thinking that if she held still long enough, she would fall asleep and then feel better. Her parents soon arrived to pick her up and I told them what had happened. As I was talking to them, we looked over to where she had been sleeping, only to find her on the floor, struggling to bring up whatever remained in her stomach. To my horror, she vomited up two large cobs of corn.

I woke from my dream with the realization that the little girl in my dream was me and that I had swallowed down things that were never meant to be swallowed. I had tried to keep in something much too large and the impossibility of it was making me sick.

Falling asleep while choking to death

The years of telling myself stories to soothe and put myself to sleep instead of speaking my truth was toxic. Oh, the stories we tell ourselves to keep our mouths shut and the truth trapped inside! For women who have grown up in a patriarchal culture, it is so much harder to recognize our truth and speak it.

I grew up in a sub-culture where it was expected that men dominate, women submit quietly and children obey without question. This may appear peaceful and yet it was anything but that. Time and again, it proves to be a perfect breeding ground for abuse and enabling.

Under the guise of niceness, I learned to hold much inside. I thought anything else would be selfish. Yet that niceness came at an enormous price. While I knew how to be nice to everyone else, I had no idea how to be nice to myself.

The cost of silence

When a woman’s voice is quieted, the lumps inside swell like cobs of corn, bigger than the throat. Ripping, choking and taking up all the space that was meant for breathing in air, taking in water to give life, and food to nourish. There is no space inside for her gifts to grow and the world suffers that loss.

Darling, you feel heavy because you are too full of truth. Open your mouth more. Let the truth exist somewhere other than inside your body.

Della Hicks-Wilson

The thing is, no one is going to speak our truth for us. No one is standing by to clear our clogged airways and hand us the mic. In fact, there will probably be a stampede to grab the mic out of our hands because the more we stand up and refuse to be silently compliant, the more uncomfortable life will be for those who are the most comfortable right now.

But, sister, you matter. No more falling asleep while choking to death. Enough swallowing down things that weren’t meant to be swallowed. No more being nice to everyone but yourself. Pick up a pen, or the phone, call a friend, admit your truth and let it out.

You will be amazed at how much space the silence took up. Fill it with breathing and living instead. Choose life. For you.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Alone

For all who are weary of pretending, those scared to go home, or alone and forgotten, this story is for you…

Unseen and alone

He sits alone, anxiously rubbing his fingers over the rim of the worn cup. The diner has long emptied. Holiday shoppers with full bellies and full cars, driving off under the twinkling lights to warm houses full of warm glows.

He sits alone, swallowing the lump in his throat that grows and grows. Thoughts swirl in his head faster than snowflakes and darker than the midnight sky. It’s almost Christmas.

He sits alone, agony turning his stomach upside down while tears tumble down his cheeks. Dare he go home this year? All his life he has felt like an outsider, his body betraying him. He just wants to seen and loved for who is. Not having to hide or fake smile or keep calm when the family debates politics or drops snide remarks that cut like the knife he carries in his bag.

He sits alone, the smooth cold blade calming his heart and he wonders again why he is here. Why the heck was he birthed on this earth? If he were honest with those who even now are cooking and baking, getting the tables ready for feasting – he knows he would be more alone. Cast out. Forsaken. Hated. Scorned.

Barn full of shit

He sits alone, so tired of hiding. The diner is closing so he stumbles outdoors. Bitter air freezes his breath and pushes him forward. As he passes the nativity by the old church, he pauses, surprised to see a plastic baby shivering in a fake barn. He smells the shit that isn’t there and wonders at the wonder of a baby in a barn. Who would put a tiny perfect baby in the cow’s supper dish? Did this baby not want to belong, to be held, cuddled until the day breaks and the warmth of the sun filters through?

He steals the plastic baby and walks, no longer alone. In the safety of his apartment, he turns up the heat and wraps them both in blankets. He cuddles the cold plastic baby until the words spill out and he speaks his truth. Every last bit of secrets held tight, the years of pretending and trying to look right. He is who he is and embraces her, pronouns and tears jumbled together in a dance to remember.

Christmas morning dawns red in the sky as their heavy eyes shut. Peace and belonging wrapped tight as their blankets. No longer alone, they breath air that is clean, washed sweet with the truth. The plastic baby in the hands that rescued it from the barn full of shit.

The question of whether to go or to stay has faded away. As he sleeps, the baby whispers softly into his ear.

“Thank you. I’ve been in the cold for so many years, Your honesty and bravery have brought us both home.“

Truth about the holidays

A couple weeks ago I wrote about Austin coming out publicly. There weren’t too many surprises for him, as to who was supportive and who was not. If he spent much time around a person, it didn’t take long to get a sense of how they felt about people like him.

Which brings me to the here and now of the Holidays. We know it is a lonely time for those who have lost loved ones but we may not realize how lonely it is for LGBTQ+ folks. That niece or nephew at the big family gathering who hasn’t told anyone yet. The aunt or uncle who has decided to take their secret to the grave rather than risk being cast out. Cousin Benny who is thinking the world would be better off without him because he knows that the same family hugging him now will throw him out or proclaim that he is demon possessed if he speaks his truth. The friend we share drinks with who wants to find the words to tell us she feels like a fraud in the body she was born in and just wants to be authentic.

They are more than you think, closer than you know. Beautiful butterflies being birthed in cocoons not yet ready to open.

Our posture towards them matters. They read us like a book. It doesn’t take long for them to know if they can relax in our presence or if they must be on their guard, anxious and wary. Our gathering spaces can be barns full of shit or places of belonging.

Now, more than ever, is the time to be an ally. To show that you value authenticity more than cold plastic fakeness. You don’t have to agree to welcome, love and be a safe space.

Tips for creating safe spaces

Start with a heart that loves each person, no matter what. Decide to listen and learn when you don’t understand. Value honesty and forget about perfect public images. Be who you were born to be and accept when other do the same. Shut down conversations that are homophobic and/or transphobic. Perhaps even set ground rules that there will be no political discussions. Even if you think everyone is on the same page, don’t risk it. You may be surprised to know that the leaders you praise may not embody safety to some of your guests. There is a great article here that unpacks what LGBTQ+ people struggle with as they head to family gatherings.

If you are Queer, please know that the most important person for you to care for is yourself. It’s okay to skip family dinners that are stressful. Years of traditions and expectations are hard to break from, but you have more value than tradition. Listen to your gut. If it’s churning, turn around and go “home” to a space that is safe. Queer Theology has 8 tips here to get through the Holidays.

As always, I’m here to listen. Drop me a line if you need someone to talk to. Or if you want to be the first to know when a new post is up.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

In the Winter

Sunshine startles me through
thick gray patches of constant clouds.
I have almost forgotten what it is,
that thing we call the sun.
Naked trees whisper remembrances of seasons gone by while
cold wind shakes the few remaining leaves.
Here in the winter, the cold darkness dances its turn.
I shiver, longing for the light, the green, the warmth that is summer.

I am in the winter.

My tears turn to ice, when I let myself feel
all that is buried deep inside.
Like icicles they hang
suspended between gutters and earth.
Reaching but not reaching.
Striving but not arriving.
The lines between too much and not enough
impossibly blurred and I find myself
walking circles in the snow in a game I do not know.

I am in the winter.

I sink, exhausted, no place to go but within.
She holds me gently in a womb I remember.
Softy the wind whispers her song
of belonging and being enough, not too much.
Of life being remade and the glory of buds.
It is here in the cold, dark, stillness of winter,
that beauty is birthed and life is renewed.

I am held by winter.

My senses come alive when I breathe her in
and I feel the unseen life bursting forth.
The beautiful riot of spring,
the melting warmth of summer,
all the blazing color of fall
they begin here, in the womb of winter.
I turn my face to the patch of sunlight.
It dazzles me and I pick myself up.

I am learning to dance in the winter.



Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Image courtesy of Adrienne Gerber Photography.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Opening the Door

Last week I wrote about the rough patch we hit. Austin, tired of hiding, was slowly coming out to more people. His stomach pains, which had been there for decades, were getting worse. While we had brutally honest conversations, his depression and my anxiety were defining characteristics of this season which lasted the better part of a year. I had days that were okay and days when I was sure it was over.

Looking back, I see several things that were key elements to us moving out of the rough patch and enabling Austin to be the man he was born to be.

A Place for Healing

As long as I have known him, Austin has read and talked about men’s initiation rites and passages. Colonization obliterated centuries of wisdom that once guided indigenous boys on their journey to manhood. In our American culture of the 21st century, we have long cast aside any rituals that were once used to welcome a boy into manhood. In our modernity, we seem to believe that the wisdom of elders is no longer needed and we can become adults on our own. Yet many men (and women) are left floundering, wondering if they have what it takes.

When a friend introduced Austin to The Mankind Project, he was instantly intrigued. They had a spot open in an upcoming New Warrior Training, described on their website as follows –

Take a journey that will fundamentally alter your experience of manhood and the world. Improve every relationship, starting with your relationship to yourself. Show up as the man, husband, partner, father, and brother you were born to be. The New Warrior Training Adventure is a life affirming personal development event, honoring the best in what men have to offer the planet. 

Austin packed his bags and left for the weekend. Neither of us had super high hopes that this would be much different from other weekend retreats or conferences. Yet, when he walked through the door at the end of the weekend, I could see that a thousand pounds had been lifted from his shoulders before he even opened his mouth to speak.

Learning to Breath

I could soon see that much had changed. He no longer hated himself and was finally free to embrace the man he had been born to be. The shame that had long wrapped itself around him was gone. I sensed an opening in his soul, as if he were learning to breath for the first time.

Emotional healing has physical effects as well. He carries himself both lighter and taller these days. And his stomach pains have nearly disappeared.

He also found a freedom to be who he is and not care what others think about him. And that led to the next step of freedom for both of us.

Opening the Closet Door

A few days after that weekend, in the air on our way to a conference, I asked Austin when he planned to come out to everyone. As we talked, we both realized there was no longer any good reason to stay inside the closet – and many compelling reasons to come out. And so began a new era, as he officially came out of the closet to everyone and stopped hiding.

And, while this put us under the spotlight and made us vulnerable as people responded in all kinds of ways, the relief of no longer needing to pretend or hide was incalculable.

Authenticity really is the new beautiful. Queer or not, many of us spend way too much time trying to present ourselves in whichever way we think will get us the most likes. But this kind of living takes so much energy and we have none left to enjoy the life we have, much less be the person we were born to be.

While Austin has no regrets regarding fully coming out, we both realize not everyone has the privilege to do so. Many who are in Conservative families choose to stay hidden because they fear they will be disowned. Some live in countries where they could be imprisoned or put to death if anyone found out their true identity. Some have been married for a long time and fear they will do more damage to their family then they are willing to risk, so they choose to remain hidden.

For those still in hiding

When the air inside the closet
gets stuffy and you struggle
just to breathe,
there is a door that will swing open.
When you are ready.

Those who truly loved you before
will love you still.
And you may be surprised to find
a family you never knew existed.
When you are ready.

A courage you didn’t know was yours
will rise from your chest and
Grow you right out of that tiny space.
To where the dance floor is wide.
When you are ready.

In the meantime
for as long as it takes,
we will sit outside your door.
Close enough so you’re not alone
Until you are ready.

Quiet your restless weary soul.
Until you can hear it whisper.
Until it remembers who you were born to be.
We hold your space for as long as it takes.
Until you are ready.

But if the space is not safe here in the wide open
It’s okay to stay hidden.
We will still hold your place and
Honor your story.
Until the world is ready.



Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Listen to the Suffering

Because my husband chose to marry me, a woman, he can easily pass as straight. And he did, for many years. We settled into our life together, raised our kids and grew our business. Whenever I would bring up the issue of his orientation, he would sort of shrug it off. He was okay with his life. We both worked on our stuff and made great strides toward wholeness. The depression from earlier years diminished and life was almost good. As good as it can be when you are starting a business and raising 3 wild boys in a small house with very little money. But we made it though every crisis that threatened our existence and it felt as if maybe life was almost normal. Whatever that means.

Then, out of the blue, we hit a rough patch. Tired of hiding, Austin started coming out of the closet to more of his close friends. He was always very candid with me about these conversations. While I was grateful to know, I was also puzzled because I sensed depression growing in him again. Something had changed and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

The Painful Truth

The more we talked, the more I began to realize that he hadn’t been as happy all these years as he had led me to believe. Though he said he was fine, things were not always fine.

Once again, I felt the rug being yanked out from beneath me. This time, though, I wasn’t just shocked and scared, I was angry. I had believed him when he said he was doing okay. I trusted and thought we were in a good place. But obviously we were not in a good place if he was feeling miserable.

While my brain knew it was not about me, it still was another blow to my self esteem. The healthy part of my self knows it’s not my job to make him happy and I can’t change his orientation. It just is. But I also feel terrible if my partner is unhappy. It’s pretty hard to be a feeling person and not take it at least a little bit personally.

I was sure this time that we were headed for a divorce. As a big-picture-carry-the-world-on-my-shoulders kind of person, I turned every scenario over in my mind. Who would raise the kids? Who would stay in the house? Would we sell the business? What would I do for a job? On and on my brain churned and my broken heart reshaped itself into tears dripping down my cheeks.

It’s pretty damn hard to see suffering in another and not be able to do a single thing to ease that suffering and bring happiness.

I was still angry too, that he let me think he was happy when he wasn’t.

It’s a weird place to be in – broken because you see the suffering of another and can do nothing but suffer with them. Yet to be so angry you kind of just want to walk out the front door and never look back.

Tired of Hiding

Sometimes the greatest gift we can give ourselves is to lean in and really listen to our suffering. Something began to emerge and slowly make sense as we did this.

Sometimes the greatest gift we can give ourselves is to lean in and really listen to our suffering.

Austin was tired of hiding who he was. He had long reached the place of no longer fighting against who he was or trying to change his orientation. He had accepted his bisexual identity but was still passing as straight. And he was not alone. 26% of bisexual adults are not out to anyone important in their lives, while 54% are out only to a few people.

It takes a heck of a lot of energy to pass as something you are not. There is a longing deep within us that wants others to see us and love us for who we really are. We all get tired of hiding and want to leave our masks and molds at the door and bring our true selves to the table. The dream of finding a place we can both be real and celebrated is in all of us.

Any time we must keep our true self hidden in order to fit in or please the powers that be, we are saying yes to a toxic system.

Any time we must keep our true self hidden in order to fit in or please the powers that be, we are saying yes to a toxic system. One can only survive toxicity for so long before dying from the poison. Rather than die from the inside out, Austin was slowly bringing his whole self to the table.

Receiving the Gift

When someone takes off their mask and shows you their true self, they are offering you a priceless gift.

When I was a child, I loved to give gifts. There was one person I remember, that I could never seem to give a good enough gift to. No matter what I gave or how hard I tried, it was never a cherished gift. It stung my little heart but it also taught me a most valuable lesson. I learned to cherish the gifts I am given and to celebrate the heart that is offering the gift.

Are you able to cherish the gift of authenticity when it is given to you? Or does your religion cause you to argue and debate? Can you accept what you hear without trying to change the gift in some way? Are you able to celebrate the heart that is offering the gift even if it makes you uncomfortable?

I’ve kind of gotten a front row seat at seeing how people respond. Sometimes its beautiful – like the friend and mentor who got up from her seat and wrapped Austin in an embrace after hearing his story.

It can get ugly when people just want to prove how right they are or start hurtful rumors behind our backs.

Sometimes it is awkward when people don’t know what to say.

Sometime there’s a quiet “Me too” whispered back.

The gift of authenticity

So while you may wonder what happened next with us, I want you to sit here in this for a minute. I want you to think about how you receive the gift of authenticity. It’s a dying treasure, swallowed up by a toxic culture. But people around you are tired of hiding and long to be safe enough to show you who they are.

Sadly, some of you will never know the authenticity of those nearest you. There are doors that will always be closed because you have already shown that you are not a safe person.

We need to be safe receptacles for authenticity. We must create safe spaces where people no longer need to hide. If your religion has some folks preferring to hide than be real, maybe you should rethink your religion. If your God can’t love authenticity, maybe you are the one who doesn’t really know your God. When you must argue and convince the other that you are right, you show your own toxicity, along with a fear of authenticity.

It doesn’t need to be this way. There are many who are oh so tired of hiding. We can foster authenticity by living it ourselves and we can dismantle toxicity by being safe people.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Human First

Everyone loves a good story, one filled with hope and redemption. All I need to do is follow the trail of likes, comments and extra visitors on my blog. I can see exactly what people like and want to hear.

Most of us are drawn to what makes us feel comfortable. Our whole lives we’ve been steeped in the lie that tells us life is supposed to feel good. That every story can and should have a happy ending and that bad things aren’t supposed to happen.

The truth is more nuanced and difficult to pin down. My life is much too busy and complicated to figure out what it is supposed to be. All I know is what is. Life is messy, disappointing, surprising, exhilarating, depressing, good, bad, beautiful, ugly all at the same time. It just is.

Many of you shared your love for last week’s post about the business we built out of the ashes of our marriage. Realize however that not everyone has this same story. There are many couples in MOMs who are exhausting themselves with questions and tears. They struggle to figure out whether or not they can and should try to remain in their marriages. Even for us, I still have days when I have doubts. It’s not easy.

Life is Messy

I’ve felt despair shake my body while tears squeezed their way from my heart onto my cheeks, feeling things too deep for words. There are other strains and stresses in my life that I have not shared with you. Years spent living so poor we were an inch from life on the streets. All this in the middle of the earthquake that defined our marriage. Life is messy and sometimes the pain is unbearable.

Perhaps the reason we gravitate toward stories of hope and redemption is because we want to believe that it will be okay in the end, for us. We long for the reassurance that the mud and muck we are wading through will be worth it. We listen to these stories and we share them with others because we want them to experience that same hope. This is not a bad sentiment, but the true test of friendship is when I choose to be present in the midst of the unending crisis. This kind of a friend stays present throughout the course of a disasters or a break-up. Staying for closet door openings and truth telling moments, whether we agree or not. It is not looking for an escape route as soon as the ending is not looking so rosy. True friendship sticks around when life is messy.

It has become clear to me this year that many Christians have a difficult time with this type of love. Loving someone different from themselves seems like too much work and self protection is given a higher priority. All I need to do is to talk about Pride events, the border wall or immigrants and the barriers begin to go up. This is all pretty ironic when you study ancient texts and read the words spoken by their prophet that they will be known (as Christians) because of the love they have for each other.

Perhaps it wasn’t always this way. I hope not. But I’ve noticed a trend in the American church that has been painful.

some things i notice

These Christians feel the need to let us know they love us but they disagree. It’s a weird urge that doesn’t let them commence being friends until they have explained their beliefs. It is as if the only way for them to keep themselves clean is by putting this clarifying distance between us.

This type of Christian loves us but wants to influence us to change in some way. They offer their wisdom or the wisdom of another person who has chosen to live out their queerness in a different way. Perhaps they assume that we have never thought of those things ourselves and wrestled with those same questions.

These folks say their faith is for all people. Much of our experience proves otherwise. They like to surround themselves with those who look like them, speak their language and comply with their unspoken club rules.

Sometimes they are just socially awkward, preferring silence or small talk. They let their discomfort lead them. Instead of leading by doing the work to love all, they prefer to hold on to judgement, especially when life gets messy.

Another way

In February, I had the privilege of returning to Bangladesh. It had been nearly 9 years since I last pressed the soles of my sandals onto the land I had once called home. For 2 weeks I wrapped myself in her embrace. As I listened to her heartbeat, I remembered what my Muslim friends taught me. While the weeks were full of experiences that illustrate my point, the one that shows it best was the day I was so sick the earth felt like it was going to swallow me up.

excerpt from the Kahiniwalla blog –

Misery violently took over my night, pushed sleep aside and sent me rushing to the bathroom. The initial relief was short lived. I soon found myself fumbling in the darkness, desperate for the antibiotics the Traveler’s Clinic had sent with me. I gulped down the first giant tablet, determined to be ready for travel by morning.

Yet, morning still found me pasted to my bed, stomach swirling in unreasonable circles. Eyes squinted tightly shut to block out the light and hands grasping a plastic bag just in case. As we left the city behind and headed towards Dhaka, I laid back in my seat and willed myself to survive the journey.

It was awful, I’m not gonna lie. Our driver, Ramjan, who had been nothing but a gentleman since we left Dhaka, was now doing his best to maneuver his way home. It wasn’t long before I found myself squatting on the side of the road, upheaving the remains of my stomach. Ramjan hovered beside me, full of concern, telling my friend to hold my hand and pull my hair back. He even took a long look at my vomit to try to figure out what I had eaten that was causing my insides to have such a mutiny.

When I was finished, he motioned for me to hold out my hands so he could pour water into them. He showed me how to rinse out my mouth and wash my face. As I squatted in the dirt by the side of the road and cupped my hands to accept his gift of water, I felt the Divine tapping me on the shoulder and I knew I was taking in a holy sacrament. I saw my Creator mirrored so beautifully in the face of our Muslim driver who shared his water with this tired and sick American woman. Something inside came unglued and it’s a wonder I made it back into the van instead of catapulting down the embankment.

Human First

The water shared by our conservative Muslim driver was still wet on my face when I remembered what my Muslim friends had been teaching me all along – to see others as human first. Not once did they share their beliefs before deciding whether or not to be a friend. Though the ancient text they follow may tell them that I am an infidel, they showed me a depth of love and acceptance I rarely see people of my own background and faith giving to those who are, in some way, different.

I cannot count the times I have been shown love and grace by people whose beliefs were quite different from my own. I was a stranger, and they loved me. Though I was different, they accepted me. I was a foreigner and they welcomed me, giving me a seat at the table and the best of their food. Though I was an infidel they took care of me as if I were their own. I held their babies and they held mine. They saw me as human first and they treasured my humanity.

Life is messy and complicated but it becomes beautiful when we see each other as human first. We have so much to learn from those unlike ourselves!


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Photo courtesy of Adrienne Gerber Photography.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Rising From the Ashes

You cradle me in the darkness.
The palm of your hand a giant womb.
I curl my body into the stillness,
Breathing the air offered in this space.
Quiet, darkness, stillness.
If the darkness would not come,
I would exhaust myself with doing
and forget to rest.
But here in the darkness
the quiet seed splits and dies.
By learning to rest in this quiet darkness
beauty rises from the hard split shell and
like a phoenix rising from the ashes,
I find my life again.

The early days, after Austin came out to me, were an upheaval that came alive and breathed heavily down our necks. After a decade of being volunteers, traveling the world with our babies and immersing ourselves in the warmth and beauty of other cultures, we found ourselves back on the shores of our homeland. Ready or not, we were starting over once again.

Austin had exchanged his dream job of designing under a development agency in Bangladesh for a graphic design job in Ohio. We both were doing the inner work of finding authenticity but that didn’t pay the bills. Our marriage was in shambles and we both struggled with depression as we navigated the inner landscapes of pain.

In the midst of trying to figure out if our Mixed Orientation Marriage would work, we did the unthinkable. We started a business. Together. We had no money, no business background, no sales experience and very little energy.

Ripple effects

The smoke was still rising from the ashes when the opportunity fell into our lap. A friend we had gotten to know during our time in Bangladesh, Samantha Morshed, was running a large and growing Fair Trade business that trained women in the rural areas of Bangladesh to knit and crochet baby items. The brand, Pebble, is characterized by an amigurumi style and features a variety of rattles, hats, blankets and stuffed toys.

Pebble grew out of one mamma’s heart who saw how so many women in Bangladesh leave their babies with extended family and move to the city to find work. Often they live in the slums and work long days in the garment factories in unsafe and poorly paid situations. Isolated from the safety of family, they are left vulnerable and are often taken advantage of.

A desire to keep babies with their mothers inspired Samantha to gather a few women around her and teach them how to knit and crochet. She started with 12 women in 2004 and, by the time we met her, it had grown to employ more than 2000 women. Today, more than 120 Pebble centers have opened throughout rural Bangladesh, giving fair wages and steady employment to more than 13,000 women. They can walk to work, taking their babies with them. Entire communities are being transformed by the ripple effects of women who are valued, given a voice, equality, and financial freedom. You can watch a short video here, to learn more about Pebble.

If you’ve followed this blog from the beginning, you will know how difficult it was for us to leave Bangladesh. The people in this beautiful country had captured our hearts and changed our outlook of the world. When Samantha asked us to be her US distributors for Pebble, we saw it as an opportunity to stay connected to this land where strangers are welcomed and curry constantly wafts on the breeze.

Building something new

We named our business Kahiniwalla, which means storyteller in Bangla. We started small, ordering one or two boxes of product at at time, shipping through the postal system. Austin would reach out to potential customers in the evenings or weekends, eventually cutting back his hours at his day job so he could put more time into Kahiniwalla. I did the book work and the fulfillment.

Despite the fact that we didn’t know what we were doing, it grew. Within 4 years we both quit our part time jobs and were working full time for Kahiniwalla. Together.

It was more than a little crazy while, for the next 4 years, a we worked out of our tiny home. The rooms were literally bursting with Pebble boxes, as we had now moved to importing partial container loads by sea. The kitchen, bathrooms and boys’ bedrooms were the only rooms not overtaken in some way with Pebble inventory, with the attic housing the bulk of the boxes. When shipments came in, we moved our dining table into the living room to use as a work station and we would fill the dining room, floor to ceiling with boxes. In the winter, we donned coats and gloves to do our work in our unfinished, uninsulated attic, filling orders for customers. Conversely, in the summer, we would drip with sweat.

No going back

After moments of shattering, it is impossible for life to get back to what it was before. After Austin came out to me, as much as I wanted to get back to the old normal, there was no going back. The choice was to separate and start over separately, or stay together and build something new. Kahiniwalla became our new tangible thing that we built together, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

It’s almost unbelievable how this new thing fit us each so well. Austin is a people person and loves to tell stories, so traveling to trade shows and interacting with customers is the perfect fit for him. His creative side shows in the ads he creates, photography he does, and instagram posts.

As an introvert, I love to be at home, fill orders and maintain the books. I enjoy writing blog posts for the business. When shipments come in, I love to organize everything. Our personalities and skills fit together like a glove. Despite the craziness of starting a business in our circumstances and living on very little income for the next decade, it served to draw us together and grow our love.

I would not advise another couple to start a business together when their marriage is rocking on the precipice of ruin. Not much about it made logical sense. All I know is that in surrendering to the journey, our hearts first led us deep into the darkness until we found something magical rising from the ashes.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Breaking the Silence

This week I watched as a friend was bravely vulnerable. Honest. Raw. Real. Within 24 hours, her vulnerability got her fired from her job.

We often don’t know what to do with utter vulnerability. When someone leaves their masks and molds at the door and gives us a look at the tender heart that is struggling beneath it all, it can be frightening and words can easily fail us.

We are accustomed to a cookie cutter society, where we know there are different flavors and shapes yet we still expect each person to fit into some type of mold. When someone is unflinchingly honest with us, the mold breaks and we see something we are not used to seeing. We seldom know what to do with it.

We have frequently experienced this, since my husband came out as bi. Sometimes the silence hurts more than words of judgement. Silence is interpreted by the hearer and it speaks loudly. Too often, unintended harshness is heard in the words left unspoken.

The unspoken rule

It is as if we adhere to an unspoken rule that says you should not acknowledge what another is going through or show compassion unless you morally agree with the issue at hand. True compassion, however, is the sympathetic consciousness of the distress of another, with a desire to alleviate it. Compassion is universal and goes deeper than morality. It sees distress for the pain that it is. If someone is utterly honest with you, you can show compassion without ever telling them if you agree with them on a particular issue or not.

We don’t know what to do with utter vulnerability, but we can learn. When someone shares something hidden with you – an affair, depression, betrayal, addiction, sexual or gender orientation, and you are left speechless, there are some things you can say.

What to do with utter vulnerability

I’m listening. Every week I get to hear these words from the mom of a childhood friend after she reads my blog post. Two simple words that say everything.

It sounds like you have a lot going on right now. Let me know if you ever want to talk. I’m here. This lets them know you see them and are there for them without pushing yourself onto them.

I hear you. Keep talking. Sometimes simply acknowledging that you are listening is all they need. In a world where we often miss important things, it communicates that you hear and are not ignoring or pretending it never happened.

This is all new territory for me but I would like to learn. Can you tell me more? Admitting you don’t know much is okay. Always be gentle in asking for more. Never pry. Trust must be earned and should never be assumed. Communicate that you are willing to be taught, instead of telling them you have the answers.

I had no idea this was going on. How can I be there for you? In other words, what do you need? Again, it acknowledges the pain without controlling the narrative.

I love you no matter what. This one is overused and can easily sound hollow. Only say this if you are prepared to back it up. Living this one out may prove to be much harder than saying the words in the first place. And be aware that what you think is loving may feel like rejection to them, which defeats the purpose of saying the words in the first place.

Be There

Whatever you do, find a way to acknowledge that you see and you hear. It is devastating to be vulnerable and have people you thought were your friends either ghost you or pretend nothing happened. We must find a better way to navigate the broken bits of life with those we care about, not running away from it, or telling them how to fix it.

Be the person who stays, shows up, listens, finds the words to speak, but most importantly, walks beside. Be a before and after kind of friend. And remember, you can’t love with arms wide open when you are holding on to judgement. Love widely.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

When Your Lips Leak Silence

Your silence speaks sharply
while echoing in the quiet
empty spaces where friendship
once used to exist.
Laughter and kindness bumped into each other
in this place
I thought I belonged
but maybe I was wrong.
I wonder – did you ever truly value me
at all?
I am still
the same person I was then.

Does cracking open the polished veneer
and giving you a vulnerable look at the tender
undo the respect
you once had for me?
I do not understand this distance,
like an unspoken sigh
long held back
has escaped your lips
while I hear what you don’t say
more than what you say.
It feels like judgement.

When your lips leak silence my heart bleeds tears.

I don’t need you to agree with me but please
I just want you to see me,
acknowledge the pain
that has ripped and remade me.
I don’t need you to validate me
or my journey because
that has already been done
by the only one that matters.
I myself love myself and can finally
embrace my story
and all the pain
and the glory.
So, no, I do not need you to affirm
my story
but please
acknowledge my vulnerability.

When your lips leak silence my heart bleeds tears.

You have seen my soul naked and bare,
the wrappings and trappings
ripped off as
I stood there alone
in my corner while
your silence held me there.
I felt the aloneness
more than you intended,
I am sure,
but I am not here to judge
your intent.
I am here so that you can hear a story
that is deeper than myself and
wider than all of humanity.

When your lips leak silence my heart bleeds tears.

Your silence renders me invisible
in the circle of all
who are like you.
I wonder why you hold so tight
to a circle of those
who are like you?
In a universe of unique
and breathtaking diversity where
not one snowflake is alike – so
why oh why
do you clutch your molds
and cookie cutters
and push them into the hearts
of the vulnerable?

I won’t let you mold
my heart into
the perfectly shaped thing
you want it to be
because I will be me.
Even when your silence feels like judgment
I know my heart and my story
and the journey it has taken me
to get to this place.
I know my value and hold it close while
I close my eyes and sway to the tune
of an ancient melody
you may not hear.
I hold my worth with one hand to my heart
while with the other I hold back
the flow of silence and
I listen to what is worth hearing
instead.
I turn my face towards the
sound of love
for a vulnerable heart
is keenly tuned
to this sound that those speaking judgement
will never hear.

There is a space
in a new place
for me
where love and kindness
bump into each other.
Where scars are tenderly kissed and
honor is given
to the story long held back.
Here the tears can flow and its okay to show
all that I once held secret behind those closed doors.
Authenticity is the new beautiful here
in this gorgeous space where
masks and molds are left at the door
and my soul is finally seen for what it is.

When your lips leak silence my heart bleeds tears.

Yet your silence no longer
holds me in place.
The breeze has whispered
and blows soft
on wings that are ready.
We rise and we fly
the vulnerable and I.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

A Necessary Shattering

That which seems to have twisted your life or personality for the worst is the very thing that will heal you and give you meaning.

Thomas Moore ~ Dark Night of the Soul

I wrote this quote in my journal during the early days. When Austin first came out to me, everything was so raw and full of pain. I struggled to reconcile what this meant for my marriage, my faith and my own self esteem. While these words gave me a bit of hope, I felt more despair and disappointment than anything in those early days.

Nearly a decade later, I can look back and see the truth in Thomas Moore’s words. The things that twisted my life and nearly broke me have become agents of healing and truly have given my life meaning.

But in the moment, when the world has shattered, nothing is as it seems. It’s incredibly hard to believe that anything good can come from this necessary shattering.

A mere puppet

Sometimes the pain resurfaces and catches me off guard. Then I feel as if the tears of a thousand or more drops are there, waiting. That if I were to start the flow, it would never stop. Other times the pain is so sharp and big that it feels I’ve been split down the middle of my soul. It’s all the losses, rolled up in a ball of barbs and nails and glass…Sometimes my soul can only weep in stunned agony as I realize again what these losses have cost me.

A young girl cannot tell when she is consenting to the murder of her soul, when the essence of who she is has been destroyed and a horrible horrible imitation set up instead – one that meets the needs of those around her, with no thoughts to her own because she has no ‘own.’ Given no voice, no space, no privacy in the big scheme of things, no individuality, she has become a mere puppet.

How does one go about reclaiming the original soul – that feminine soulfulness? Is it possible to be emotionally born again?”

Journal entry from the early days

In the blur of those early days after the shattering, I felt like a mere puppet. I knew that I was hungry for something more, desperate for ME to be alive and real. I knew that I was a mere imitation of something deeper and true, even when I did not have the words to sort it out.

My husband had invited me to join him on his journey towards authenticity but I discover that there was no free ride. I had to do my own work. As tired and confused as my soul was, it was also desperately hungry.

The last few weeks I have been writing about the names Queer people choose to help frame their identity. Naming is so important for the LGBTQ+ community as they embrace authenticity. It is equally important for the rest of us to embrace authenticity in our lives.

embracing authenticity

Before I could embrace my own authenticity, I had to figure out who I was. Waking up in a mixed orientation marriage shattered the illusion of life as I thought it was. As utterly painful as this was, it was a necessary shattering. I could then sift through the broken bits and find who I really was. It started with giving myself permission to have thoughts, feelings, dreams and a voice of my own.

It was a shocking revelation that my worth was not in what I did, but in who I was.

The problem was, destructive patterns had long been in motion. As a child, I was noticed and praised when I worked hard, and sacrificed my own wants and needs for someone else. In fact, living a life of sacrifice was held up as a noble cause. When the heart is young, one tends to repeat that which works. This method of getting affirmation soon became a habit.

It was a shocking revelation that my worth was not rooted in what I did, but in who I was. By the time of the shattering, I had spent well over a decade officially volunteering for various organizations. Unofficially, I had served others my whole life. I could fill a book with the acts of services performed and the money given away or never earned. While many of these things I did truly came from my heart and were acts of love, much of it was also born out of “shoulds” and expectations.

Moving back to the US and giving up the noble title of volunteer was shattering in its own way. I felt I had nothing to offer the mainstream market, no job skills or college degree to back me up. The identity of a decade+ was gone and my perceived value along with it.

The gift of the shattering

The first winter after we moved back to the US, I was fortunate enough to be able to stay home. For the first time since high school, I didn’t have a job description or position to fill. I had time and space to be, getting to know myself like never before as I pondered, read, wrote and dreamed. I gave myself permission to rest. Hope began to fill the raw edges as I learned how to be my own best friend. This necessary shattering gave me the gift of being able to see myself – in all of my glory and all of my shadows- so that I could then love that self that had been tucked away beneath a facade of what everyone else thought my life should look like.

Like a worm in a chrysalis, slowly metamorphosing into what it was meant to be all along, I was changing from the inside out.

Becoming your own best friend

While I wish I had a magic formula to share with you, one that guarantees a quick and smooth journey to authenticity, I have discovered it is much too mystical and unique to be bound to a series of steps. Your journey will be as unique as you are. My only piece of advice is to start listening to yourself. Our bodies are incredibly wise and can tell us more than our brain at times. Pay attention to how you feel. If you are doing something your brain tells you is good and right but you consistently feel drained by it, maybe it is not the best thing for you. Give yourself permission to say “no” to things. Take time to step back and work out the things that give you life and energy. Do what it takes to become your own best friend.

My necessary shattering was the catalyst that force start me onto this journey. On the other side of the deepest pain, I found a life that was better than I could have ever imagined.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.