Posted on by palmtreemomma

Better Than Healing

Sometimes I think our culture is a bit obsessed with healing. We go to doctors, physical therapists, occupational therapists, speech therapists. There is no end to nutritional supplements and treatments. We try this and that. Exercise and diets. We seek out surgeons who specialize in all kinds of amazing stuff. There are scientists working round the clock for cures. We have drugs for all kinds of ailments. The list goes on and on.

Healing is returning to a place where we were before. Wholeness is moving towards a new place

This healing is all really, really good stuff. Lives are saved every day. People have hope of getting better. Of getting back on their feet. This is good! But what if we took it a step further? What if we could reach past healing to a place of wholeness?

Healing implies returning to a state of health that we experienced before; before the accident, before the trauma, before the illness. Wholeness is moving towards a new place, a place we have never been. It is a promise and hope of something new and different. It is as if the DNA of our soul remembers something it has not experienced and yet is still connected to and drawn towards. This longing for wholeness lies within each of us and yet we settle for healing when we could experience so much more.

A Longing to Return to “Before”

When Austin and I returned to the US, we were given a budget for 4 counseling sessions apiece by the agency we volunteered for. We decided to combine them so that we could do 8 joint sessions, knowing we had no space in our budget to continue counseling once those sessions were up. We chose a Christian counselor who specialized in both marriage and sexual wholeness. At this point, I still wasn’t sure if I even wanted to stick with our marriage. We both dove in and made ourselves vulnerable. We did good work but we didn’t get very far. I walked away from our 8 sessions feeling frustrated because it felt like we were frantically grasping for healing, yet neither of us were feeling closer to being healthy, much less whole. I had yet to grasp that wholeness is moving towards a new place.

To be fair to our counselor, she agreed that eight sessions were not enough. She wrote a letter of appeal to our organization, asking them to reconsider and allow us more sessions, but they denied her request. She then told us about an upcoming program at a local church that focused on sexual and relational healing. We were told about various people who had gone through this program and had found sexual healing, some of them having been gay. She encouraged us to give it a shot.

I desparately wanted things to go back to the way they were before and Austin really wanted to be rid of his attraction to men. It was the only somewhat affordable option for us at the time. It sounded hopeful but we couldn’t both afford to go, so Austin went by himself.

Reparative Therapy

Austin willing chose to go to this training and saw it as a way to give God another chance to heal him of his unwanted same-sex attraction. Ironically he did experience deep healing during these months and made very close friends. Yet when it came to his sexual orientation, the very reason he had shown up, the healing was elusive. He felt pressured to pretend to be healed because that would have fit “the narrative” and yet he felt that to be dishonest about that would defeat the whole purpose. One of the things Austin hates the most is pretense.

There is no easy way for me to talk about his experience. Any program that either implies or outright teaches that queer people can find “healing” from being queer, is really telling them there is something innately wrong with them. Instead of freeing them from shame, it deepens the shame. Any type of reparative or conversion therapy, especially when combined with religion, alienates the created from the Creator and does horrific soul damage.

Instead of finding much sought after healing, I watched as my husband went to a very dark place.

Instead of finding much sought after healing, I watched as my husband went to a very dark place. Stories of other queer people who were “healed” were like nails in his coffin, pushing him deeper into a spiral of shame as his experience was not bringing him to a place that he imagined his healing would look like.

Being Gay is Not a Mental Illness

Reparative Therapy is based on the idea that being gay is a mental illness that can and should be cured. In 1973 (the year my husband was born), the American Psychiatric Association ruled that it is not a mental illness. More than 700,000 individuals have already been subjected to reparative therapy and tens of thousands of youth will continue to be pressured into it, despite the fact that 18 states now ban conversion therapy for minors. These bans, however, only apply to licensed mental health practitioners and do not apply to religious providers.

Reparative therapy is based on prejudice and homophobia. It is deeply devastating, shaming and one of the worst types of rejection a human can put onto another human being.

Research has shown that youth who are forced into reparative therapy are at a much higher risk of experiencing depression and attempting suicide.

Reparative therapy is based on prejudice and homophobia. It is deeply devastating, shaming and one of the worst types of rejection a human can put onto another human being. It does not bring healing and it most certainly does not bring wholeness.

But Does It Work?

I can’t tell you how many people, held up as “success stories” for the movement, have since confided in my husband that it did not work for them. It certainly did not work for him. The internet is also full of stories like this. Who knows how many success stories of formerly gay men or women in heteronormative marriages are actually bi and choose to remain closeted out of cultural convenience.

Last winter, we went to see Boy Erased, the movie, based on a true story, about the son of a Baptist minister who was forced to go through conversion therapy. We could barely make it through. Hands clutched, we heaved silent sobs that ripped us both to shreds. All I could do afterwards was say, “I’m sorry.”

My husband was never forced to go through the extreme therapy portrayed in the movie, but the same premise was there behind each class, seminar, prayer group and therapy session that sought to heal him and change his sexual orientation.

It quietly yet persistently gave him the message that something was innately wrong with him that needed to be healed. It took him to a place of shame and self-loathing where it was next to impossible to grasp the concept of a God who loved. In reparative therapy, God can only be experienced as a God of cruelty. Take it from one who has been able to glimpse this from the inside of the closet door.

Wholeness Is Moving Towards a New Place

This is not the God we have come to know. God created my husband uniquely and made no mistakes in the process. Accepting this has been a part of moving into wholeness for both of us. We had to reject beliefs that promised healing but brought further shame. We have had to distance ourselves from those who suggest healing is possible and necessary. That belief has proven toxic and harmful.

In reparative therapy, God can only be experienced as a God of cruelty.

If someone you love is in the closet, please be human enough to fight for their wholeness, not healing. As straight people, we have no idea what we are communicating when we suggest that changing orientations is possible. We are not called to change, or judge, or teach. We are called to love and love is the most wholesome thing in the universe.

True healing is good but wholeness is something else. Wholeness is moving towards a new place. It is glorious, freeing and unpredictable. Have we arrived? No, but we are arriving every day. It is not past tense, it is always present, always expanding, always unfolding.


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

Baggage Claims

Home. No longer a sprawling tiled-floor apartment in a concrete building, buzzing with the noise and heat of a tropical city. Home was now carpet and wood, stacked quietly on top of itself.

Instead of 3rd floor windows overlooking a bustling street, I could look out onto grass and trees. The yard was just outside of the back door where I could sink my toes into long green grass. It had been years since I’d walked barefoot in the grass. I could meander down the street to the quiet neighborhood park and breath in the lush green of an Ohio summer while walking beside the creek.

Being near nature was soothing and I breathed it in every day. I feasted my eyes on the green of the earth and the blue of the sky and felt my soul expanding again.

Finding Myself in the Baggage

While the boys were occupied climbing trees and playing with toys they had not seen in years, I began to unpack our baggage and all the boxes we had stored during our time away. It wasn’t long until I made a discovery I was not too happy about. I was finding myself in the baggage.

While the physical act of unpacking and setting up house all over again was a welcome distraction from the grief and pain, I was still me. The same things still triggered me. I found myself constantly reacting instead of being proactive and creating the space for what I needed.

Constant Companion

I discovered, for better or worse, I was my own constant companion. While changing continents was necessary, it was not magical. Our baggage accompanies us through change.

The codependency I talked about in the previous post dominated just as much as before. I obsessed over creating a calm and happy space for my family. If they were happy, I thought maybe I could be happy too. I couldn’t dream of doing something for me until they were all happily occupied and the house was cleaned up for the day. I believed my needs only mattered when their needs were taken care of. Which, when you are caring for little humans, is expecting the impossible.

Our baggage accompanies us through change.

I didn’t know how to do anything else. It still felt selfish to take time for me when there was so much to do and so many hungry mouths to feed.

Spiraling Down

My emotions were enmeshed with my husband’s and I tried to ride the roller coaster bravely but mostly fell off in terrible ways. If he was sad or depressed, I felt it was my fault. When he was tired, I felt I should do more so he could do less. If he withdrew emotionally, I feared he was loosing interest in me.

It was a vicious cycle and I was dying inside. I had initiated a transcontinental move for my family so that I could begin to heal in a familiar place. But now that I was here, I couldn’t let myself take the needed steps to heal because it felt selfish.

I went through some dark dark days. I wasn’t suicidal, but I wanted to die. I begged God just to take me. Hope had vanished. The weight of the world was on my shoulders and I could barely take another step.

The Value of Supportive Friends

There were a couple of people who kept me from going over the edge during this dark time. One friend cancelled her anniversary plans with her husband and met me at an ice cream shop. In the safety of her soulful presence, I let it all out. She listened and then she pushed back just enough to help me see I needed to start taking care of “me”.

Another friend had just separated from her husband, who was gay. She decided her kids were better off with a mother who was moving towards wholeness, even if it meant breaking up the traditional family image they had projected for years. A parent who was whole and healthy, was better than one who broken inside.

Her wisdom had a jolting effect on me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. It wasn’t selfish of me to do what I needed to do to take care of me. Moving towards wholeness may be temporarily disconcerting to those around us, but, in the long run, makes us into someone who can love and live better.

I must add, though, that if you are in a codependent relationship, the other person will be more than temporarily disconcerted. If you are no longer the crutch or the enabler, you may feel the full force of their wrath and it will be doubly hard for you to pursue wholeness. If you are in this situation, it is of utmost importance that you surround yourself with wise people. Find true friends to keep you on track and help you sort through what is true and what is distorted.

Finding Myself in the Baggage

Nearly a decade later, I can look back and realize that I truly did find myself in the baggage. It was a long process but I dug deep and sorted through. I let go and tossed out. Now I treasure what is left behind. Today, I truly like the self that I found in my baggage. It was the baggage that had to go, not me.

Once you figure out who your true self is, and care for it, something beautiful happens. You no longer realize with dread that your self is your constant companion. Your soul savors it with joy because it’s like coming home. You can knock about in that soul of yours and look out at the ocean of life and smile.

So for all those who are not yet at that place, who have forgotten what hope feels like, I see you. I hope that you can find a little bit of hope in these words.

Like Patel says in one of my favorite movies, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel –

Everything will be all right in the end so if it is not all right, it is not yet the end.

Patel in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

Keep holding on. Bravely face yourself and all your baggage. Have the courage to keep digging. There is a treasure for you to find. And I, for one, am cheering you on!


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

Ocean Crossings

An ocean later, we were home. The long arduous journey of flying halfway around the world with 3 wild boys, their dad, ten suitcases and five carry-ons was nothing compared to the emotional and psychological oceans I was having to cross. The guilt and anxiety I felt for pulling my guys from their happy place left me feeling as if I were drowning in an ocean I could never begin to swim.

Oceans of Guilt

When I gave Austin the option of staying behind and getting a divorce, he would have none of it. He continued to choose me, even thought it meant walking away from his dream job. In some ways I felt relief, but mostly I just felt guilt, and lots of it.

When we broke the news to our boys, they were very disappointed. Our oldest had been looking forward to moving to the upper classes at the international school they attended and all of them were thriving and hanging out with kids from all over the world. I tearfully sat through their good-bye ceremony at school and felt like the most horrible mom in the history of moms. Looking at the beautiful faces of their classmates, from Sri Lanka, India, Pakistan, Germany, Holland, England, Ireland, Australia, Ethiopia, I couldn’t believe I was making them leave all this.

I knew deep down, that I had to do this or a part of me would forever die.

The guilt I felt was haunting. The me, before my husband came out, would have sucked it up and made myself stay in the situation, even if it was harmful for me.

Somewhere in the middle of all this muck, I had come across a book about Codependency. I realized with startling clarity, that this pattern of relating had become normal for me. While it was a necessary tool of survival in childhood, I now saw how damaging it was for me as an adult.

Codependency made it impossible for me to set healthy boundaries or practice any kind of self love . It kept me jumping to meet the needs of others at my own expense. Codependency made it difficult for me to say no to people. I was always aware of the feelings of others in the room and worked so so so hard to keep things smooth and calm so that others might be happy. I couldn’t relax and be happy myself unless everyone else was taken care of and happy. This, of course, was impossible and filled my life with stress and anxiety.

The decision to move home, even though it was extremely disappointing for my husband and kids, was the biggest thing I had ever done for me. I knew deep down, that I had to do this or a part of me would forever die. So kept moving forward, through the oceans of guilt that dogged my every step and breathed down my back as I filled suitcases and said good byes to people I loved deeply.

Oceans of Anxiety

Anxiety chimed in and joined the overwhelming guilt. Even though I was finally pushing for something I needed, I had a hundred million questions and fears.

How would we pay the bills once we moved home? It was the scarcity of jobs in our area that had prompted us to move overseas in the first place. Would Austin have to settle for a job he hated just to keep food on the table? What would that do for his emotional health? How would the boys transition to going from a small loving international school community to the huge public school system? How was I going to be able to act like all was normal when I was still dying inside? Would we be able to find a counselor who could help us? Could we afford one if we did find one? What would we drive? How would we afford health insurance? And the biggest question of all – were the two of us going to make it through this together?

All the habits of safety I had clung to had actually never brought me to a safe place

I was scared, so scared. Every day I was tempted to take back my decision and just do what felt good for everyone else, to take the road that felt safer and more sure. Yet I knew that all the habits of safety I had clung to had actually never brought me to a safe place. Perhaps when the letting go is terrifying, it is also utterly necessary.

Oceans of Grief

Grief is our body’s natural response to loss. I was feeling waves of it wash over me daily. There were so many losses at our door. The husband I thought I had married. My self esteem. His dream job. The perfect school for the kids. The lushness of the tropics and the warmth of the people that inhabited them. Beautiful community. Identity.

We had spent much of the last decade as volunteers and didn’t know how to be normal people who worked from 9-5. We had the incredible privilege of not having to worry about money, focusing our concerns on marginalized people. It sounds beautiful and noble but, the truth was, I had no idea who we were apart from that.

And I was still wrestling with the loss of my identity as the wife of a straight guy. It was something I was never going to get back.

Additionally, I was starting to recognize that many of the ways I found identity and purpose were actually harmful. It was devastating to realize a life of serving and self sacrifice had wounded my own soul deeply because it came from an unhealthy place.

Like the butterfly my son showed me in my dream, I was going through the fight of my life. Pulling myself out of the muck that threatened to smother me until my torn wings finally pulled free and I began to fly across the ocean. Ravaged, torn wings beating still, carrying me towards home.


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

The Conundrum – to Stay or Leave

If I am going to be honest, there is no way to gloss over the pain that stalked me constantly after my husband came out to me. My soul was shredded into unrecognizable ribbons. It seemed my soulmate was ripped away from me and replaced with a stranger who said he loved me but was drawn to men at the same time. I wrote in my journal that it felt like finding out there is another person in his life. It felt as if half of my own soul had been cut out with a rusty knife and the resulting Tetanus was paralyzing. As the noise of the city daily swelled around me, I shut myself into my house. I cancelled any activities that would bring me into contact with others. The conundrum that faced me was haunting – to leave or stay?

What I loved about him

He was everything important and all my missing pieces.

I loved him. He was the yang for my yin. His love was warm and comfortable like the thick soft comforters my Grandma was always stitching together. My husband had helped me heal from so much childhood pain. He had fathered my babies and was a great father to them. He made me laugh and was fun to be around. Austin was good at things I wasn’t, like talking to strangers, creating art, being calm in crisis, and being okay with ambiguity. He cared about things that mattered deeply to me – social justice, gender equality, caring for the earth. He was everything important and all my missing pieces.

We had traveled the world together. Pared down our belongings to fit into suitcases multiple times. We had created home in our souls so anywhere on the planet felt safe so long as we were together.

But what about the kids?

Not only did I still love him, there were the kids to think about. Our three boys adored him and I could not imagine raising them without him. And lets be honest here – three boys produce enough testosterone to fuel a rocket ship. Never mind the fact that I grew up taking care of three brothers. It wasn’t that I couldn’t do it. But I really didn’t want to. And I didn’t have the energy to do this on my own. They needed him. I needed him. Who else would help take them to the 50 million soccer games we had in our future? What about ER visits for broken bones? Who would help them with homework when I was worn out? Who would teach them to drive?

But I just can’t…

But, if I stayed, how would I deal with the constant fear that he would eventually leave me? The feelings of betrayal? That deep churning inside of me that convinced me that I was not enough, never had been. That constant feeling that I was lacking and that something was wrong with me. It ate through me like a caterpillar in a juicy apple and I crumbled from the inside out.

In a moment, all the years of building up my confidence, of going from a shy, insecure girl to a woman of dignity and worth, all was shattered. Because, from where I had fallen flat on my face, the biggest force that had built me up and helped me find healing and confidence was now looking like a lie. My reality flipped and landed upside down and took me down with it. I was utterly miserable and at my lowest point.

I soon knew that I would not be able to navigate these waters safely by shutting myself in my house in a foreign country. And as comforting as it was to finally have one friend to talk with about it, I knew I needed to be in a familiar place to heal. At the same time, I knew that Austin had his dream job and that the kids were thriving at the International School they attended. My guys all loved Bangladesh and were so happy there. The conundrum deepened because the last thing I wanted was to be the reason they all had to leave their happy place. Yet I was dying inside.

Moving towards emotional health

Finally I told Austin that after the school year finished in June, I would take the boys and go home. He was free to stay and finish his job contract. I let him know we could get a divorce. I only had energy to utter these last words, but no energy to pursue them. Yet I wanted him to be free to truly embrace who he was and pursue his wholeness and healing, even if it meant I was not in his life.

Love is a hard thing because to truly love, we must be constantly moving towards our own wholeness.

Isn’t that the conundrum of love? Setting another person free to pursue their wholeness and healing, even though it feels like it is killing us? Love is a hard thing because to truly love, we must be constantly moving towards our own wholeness. Yet if we only focus on our own wholeness, love dies because it can never be just about us. True love must hold space for each individual to be whole and true to who they are.

It’s true that I promised to stay with Austin until we are parted by death and I took that seriously. There are many kinds of death, though, and I was walking through one of them. So I refuse to be the poster girl for the one who stays in a mixed orientation marriage. Neither will I be the poster girl for the one who leaves. Our story, as is each MOM, is unique.

In the midst of the pain, of the death of who I had always believed he was, the betrayal that I felt, I knew we each had to move towards wholeness. The big question was whether or not we could do it together.

And so began a time of sorting. There was a parallel journey as I sifted through, gave away, threw out, unpacked, packed up. Emotionally and physically. One type of sorting took much longer than the other but there was no rushing it. It had to be done one moment at a time, breathing in and breathing out. Being present in the muck. Staying with the journey was more important than rushing to the end of it.


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

The Loneliness of the Closet

A week after my husband came out to me, I was sitting alone in the Chang Mai airport. The pink glow slowly turned to sunrise over the mountains as I sipped a cup of black Thai coffee. My brain barely registered the beauty around me as I waited in the quiet terminal for my flight home. I had never felt so alone in my life. Not only was I physically alone, I was getting my first glimpse into the loneliness of the closet.

Austin decided to stay on for an extra week of counseling but I needed to get back to the boys. The week had done nothing to bring healing to my weary soul. Instead, I was returning home alone, lost in the deepest darkest grief I had ever experienced. The worst part was needing to keep it a secret. The pain was staggering and the effort to wear a mask was like wrestling a wolf into a lambs costume. Somehow I managed to hold it together while I picked up the boys. I squeezed them tight and explained to them that their dad was coming home a week later.

Keeping it together for the kids


Each morning I put on my brave face and made breakfast for them and got them out the door and onto the school van. The minute they were gone, however, I crumpled and cried my weight in tears. The shock turned to a mix of anger and overwhelming sadness. It felt as if all the years of building a life together, of traveling the world and raising our babies was all for nothing. I was angry that I had not had a chance to know any of this before I said “yes” to spending my life with him. It felt like I had given him everything but he had held something back from me.

I sat in my quiet empty apartment and I cried. I wrote in my journal, Islept, I prayed, I researched online and I cried some more.


Afternoon would come and I would wipe away the tears. After I put on my “mommy’s okay” face, I would set out a snack and hug my boys. It took all I had to keep it together until they were out the door again the next morning. I wanted desperately to keep their lives as normal and happy as possible.

Life continued like this after Austin returned. We would talk and cry together after the boys were in bed, trying to figure out how to take the next step forward. There was one counselor in the city that we knew of at the time but I struggled to connect with him, so Austin went by himself. While it was good for him, it only deepened my feeling of being alone.

Unexpected Safety

One day a friend and I were talking at the American Club, while the boys splashed and played in the pool. It was a hot spring day and the breeze that pushed through the palm trees was warm enough to melt butter in the shade. My friend suddenly blurted out that she had been married at one time but her husband turned out to be gay. She said she didn’t know why she was telling me this. Something just unplugged inside of me and I was an instant hot mess. It was a sacred moment, the holy surprise of finding a place where I could be real and vulnerable. She pulled me in her arms as the sun glittered and bounced off the water filled with laughing children. She just held me, let me cry and told me I was not alone.

Self-care in the grief

If you are carrying the weight of grief alone in order to protect another, treat yourself with utmost kindness and gentleness.


We were not meant to bear the weight of grief on our own. When grief comes because of a story that is not ours to tell, the grief is twice as heavy. Honoring yourself and your pain can seem impossible when you feel you must protect another person. It’s like using your body as a shield to keep someone you love from being shredded by a giant fan. Yet you feel your own grip loosening and wonder if you are the one that will be shredded first.

If you are carrying the weight of grief alone in order to protect another, treat yourself with utmost kindness and gentleness. Take time daily to care for yourself. Find at least one person you can trust or an online group where you can be anonymous yet can speak. Find a therapist to make sure you are not in over your head and to keep you on a healthy track emotionally. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of this. The idea that you have to do this completely on your own is bullshit. I understand if you can’t tell your story to the world just yet, but neither do you have to do it alone.

The loneliness of the closet

I just can’t end here. As hard as this time and place was, it wasn’t I who had spent my life in the closet. Just thinking about it makes the air feel heavy and hard to push through my lungs. People are in the closet because that small, dark, suffocating, lonely place is their safest place. Think about that for a minute.

People are in the closet because that small, dark, suffocating, lonely place is their safest place.

Right now I don’t care what your background is or what your beliefs are. All of that is arbitrary in the face of another human being. We have forgotten to see each other as human first. To my straight friends I ask, what kind of humans are we if other humans feel safer in a closet than sitting beside us, telling us their story? It’s as if the story books and childish nightmares had it wrong all along. The monsters were not the ones in the closet, hiding to scare us. Perhaps the monsters have been the ones outside, forcing others to remain where they are.

Being safe instead of right

I grew up in an extremely conservative home where things like being gay were seen as nonnegotiable, black and white wrong. So I had a heck of a lot of questions. Yet there was one thing I was certain of. Being a safe person was more important than being “right.” My husband’s honesty put a very real face to something I always thought was “out there”. It was now up close, in my life, every day. As the two of us walked through the daily nitty gritty and became more honest with each other regarding all the emotions we were feeling, the need for safety became nonnegotiable.

So please, as one who has had an inside view, forget about trying to figure out what is right or wrong for another person. Being safe is more important than being right.


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.