Posted on by palmtreemomma

Codependency and Religion

I had to have a little talk with myself recently. I was doing fine. Felt good about things. But everyone around me seemed to be in a crisis. Melting down. Dealing with some pretty big stuff. It wasn’t long before I wasn’t doing so well. Because I let myself get pulled in. I began to carry their heaviness with me.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s important to be able to feel with others. To be a support person that is compassionate. But having lived so many years in an unhealthy codependent relationship, it doesn’t take much for me to get pulled into unhealthy old habits.

I had to pull myself aside and verbalize to the little girl that is always and forever a part of who I am, that she doesn’t need to carry their heavy things. She doesn’t need to fix anything for them. It’s okay for her to live her own life right now. To find things that make her happy even if those around her are not. She does not need them to be okay in order to be okay herself.

what codependency can look like

In a codependent relationship, one person looks to the other to provide care or support that should come from within, or from a therapist, doctor, or someone else. Or it could be something so unrealistic that no human could ever provide. Whatever the case, the other person may need to be needed. Or simply need them to be okay. So he does whatever it takes, to help them be okay. In this way, they both need each other to be needy. They feed off each other’s neediness. It may “work” but it’s dysfunctional and damaging.

Far too often, these unhealthy relationships are fashioned and sustained in tight-knit religious communities. People praise the caregiver for their sacrifice, uphold them as a model of love and service. To the point where they completely forget that their life matters too. That their hopes and dreams have meaning and are worth pursuing.

When religion encourages the starving of the human soul in order to “serve” another, religious trauma merges with emotional trauma and something beautiful in the human psyche is chopped into bits and thrown out as garbage. Divine brushstrokes meant to invoke smiles and joy are equated with selfishness.

Children as caregivers

I’ve been a caregiver for as long as I can remember. I needed to be needed and I needed those around me to be okay. So I did everything I could to help them be okay. Others praised and admired me for it. In fact, I don’t think I was noticed much unless I was serving others.

In an article on Children as Caregivers, LeAne Austin says

Children generally tend to be self-focused. With the addition of the illness or disability, that focus necessarily and abruptly changes to one of helping others. Rather than indulging in their usual enjoyable activities, they may decline invitations for age-appropriate activities because they need to “go home and help mom” or whoever they are assisting at home. This increased sense of responsibility, though somewhat overdeveloped due to the unique situation in which they have been placed, overtakes the drive to seek personal enjoyment.

LeAne Austin

Learning to be a child

I didn’t know how to be a child. And, quite honestly, my faith community praised me for it. So I sacrificed more. I gave up things I wanted so everyone else in my life could be happy. Eventually, I equated god’s love with needing to sacrifice. Divine love meant pain.

It’s taken years of therapy and healing, to fully realize that my life truly matters. That my longings, hopes, and dreams have divine sparks in them instead of selfishness. My worth has absolutely nothing to do with my service and sacrifices. I no longer equate god’s love with needing to sacrifice. It’s more like needing to bake or laugh. Walk in the leaves or climb a mountain.

So, somewhere in the middle of everyone else having a crisis, I stepped back. I asked everyone leave for a while. Built a fire and sat outside with a cup of coffee and a stack of books. I reclined in my lawn chair and watched the leaves tango under an indigo sky. I called someone I loved who understood my feelings completely. And the wind whispered my name as it scampered by. It danced with the smoke as what was old and useless burned up. It blew the mosquitos away and whistled ever so softly round the corners of the house. God was in the wind and in the fire, in the clay of my coffee cup and pages of my book. In all that was lovely and breathtaking, even in me.

Maybe I still equate god’s love with needing to sacrifice – the bullshit and the codependency. The belief system that led me to slaughter things that were lovely inside of me. Burn it all down till there are no acts of service to admire me for. No sacrifices to bring me praise. Just a curly-haired barefoot girl with a heart that is kind and a dream to explore this beautiful world.

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Posted on by palmtreemomma

Daughter of the Earth

Daughter of the earth
Child of the soil
If she fades in the growing darkness
drops her leaves as the days grow short
Why wouldn’t I?

All summer long
I push through the cobwebs
of her morning eyelids
to see what she sees when
she first opens her eyes
The stained glass windows of
her emerald sanctuary
sparkle in the dazzling glory of
summer sunshine
I sat in the moss that covers her backbone
and watch the wind
gently rustle her hair
I feel life oozing from her every pore
All summer long
I lose myself
in the glory of
Mother Earth

Her eyelids stay shut longer and longer
The signs of her life
her vibrancy
fades
drops
falls
from trees and bushes
Bright green fades to brown.
As I walk in her forests
the trees whisper
“We’re tired,” they say
and the leaves nod their agreement
“All summer long we’ve worked,
making food to nourish and grow ourselves
and give shade to humankind
But now it is time to rest”


I know it is true
Feel it in my bones
Weariness and the need for rest
I pass a dying corn field and long
to lay in the center and return
to the mother who birthed me long ago
Autumn rains drip down her cheeks
and mingle with my tears
as I grieve the lessening of the light
the coming days of clouds
The descending darkness
We bury the green to make room for the cold
An unfair trade and every part of me resents it
I feel as old and tired as the tree
with the hollowed insides
Decades of creating nourishment
for the hungry around me
but never finding my own autumn of rest
have left me depleted
Scooped out
Empty

Now color fades on me
Strength a fragment of what it once was
but where does a daughter of earth go
to find her own autumn?
To fall into a pile of her sisters
and do nothing but rest
Close her kitchen and feed no one
But the little girl inside of her

Daughter of the earth
Child of the soil
If she fades in the growing darkness
drops her leaves as the days grow short
Why wouldn’t I?

daughter of the earth

I struggle to enjoy fall the way many seem to. I love the vibrant colors of fall and the cooler days, but there’s something about knowing the dark days of winter are almost here, that leaves me a little numb and I’m unable to completely absorb the sheer beauty of fall.

This year I even decided that I am going to fully embrace the season. Soak up every bit of color and crunch. Revel in sweatshirts and bonfires, apple dumplings and candlelight. But even on the most gorgeous of days, when so many things were going good and it felt like I had no reason to feel sad, I still felt this weight pressing in. Things that normally had me up and raring to go, felt like too much. Logically, it made no sense.

I kept pushing through it because, well, we were slammed at work and there was so much to do. When I let myself slow down and really pay attention, is when it dawned on me.

It’s my SAD kicking in. According to the Cleveland Clinic, Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is depression that gets triggered by a change in seasons, usually when fall starts. It usually starts and ends at the same time every year. I don’t remember dealing with it when we lived in the tropics. But as I look back over the recent years back in Ohio, I see a pattern. This year, while it caught me off guard, it didn’t surprise me.

child of the soil

I feel my body is actively grieving the loss of light, warmth, and green. There’s nothing to do but let the grief come and roll with it. Even on the days when the sun is still shining and the leaves are glorious.

Grief does not make logical sense. It has a life and cycle of it’s own. As an ISFJ on the Myers Briggs personality type, I experience life through my senses. Feeling warmth, seeing green, smelling the earth are all so life-giving to me. I dislike wearing shoes and love nothing more than feeling the earth beneath my bare toes. I utterly hate being cold. And cloudy, dull days with no green on the horizon make me not want to live.. I’m not being dramatic. It’s just how it is.

I’m deeply connected to the earth. Feel her changes in my bones. While I know that this will pass, as all seasons do, I am giving space for all that I feel right now.

Daughter of the earth. That’s who I am.

I realize the mention of “not wanting to live” may have been triggering…if so, there’s help.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline – Call 800-273-TALK (8255)
If you or someone you know is in crisis—whether they are considering suicide or not—please call the toll-free Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) to speak with a trained crisis counselor 24/7.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline connects you with a crisis center in the Lifeline network closest to your location. Your call will be answered by a trained crisis worker who will listen empathetically and without judgment. The crisis worker will work to ensure that you feel safe and help identify options and information about mental health services in your area. Your call is confidential and free.

Want to hear more?


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.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.



Posted on by palmtreemomma

Speaking Your Truth

One of the bravest things I’ve ever done was to sit down with my abusers and confront them with the truth. Of what it was like for me. What it made me feel like. What it had done to me.

Confrontation does not come easily to me. Speaking what is on my mind can take a lot of effort. I’m too nice. Too kind. Nice to the point of taking abuse and misuse and somehow believing it an act of service. A sacrifice god was calling me to make. As if my life, needs, wants, and dreams didn’t matter and were selfish to dwell on.

It wasn’t until I was in my 20s, and had physically left the situation, that I realized just how toxic it was. How harmful to my being. That what had gone down was wrong. So very, very wrong.

how the church normalizes abuse

The church taught me that being nice and serving others was more important than allowing myself to be safe. It left me alone to deal with responsibilities that no child should have to deal with. It created a community of belonging that was, in fact, isolating. While it painted the picture of a loving and safe place, it created zero space for victims to be aware that what was happening was not normal. That they could and should speak up.

It was a silent community, where belonging was purchased with silence. Always be nice. Keep serving. Don’t make waves. As long as the church coddles abusers and hushes the victims, it will remain a toxic place. One that isn’t safe for victims and, for those who do speak up, that confrontation can be re-traumatizing.

When I began to wake up to the truth that my life matters. That the things my soul had always longed for were, indeed, good things. That it wasn’t my job to take care of those who had wronged me. It was like straining against the cocoon, working with all my might to tear open a tiny hole and begin to slip out. Unsure of what was outside that cocoon, yet knowing I could no longer stay inside. Hope began to fill my tiny bruised wings. I had never flown before. Been told all my life it was dangerous. Yet there I was. Tiny little broken thing, that knew it would die if it did not fly. Slowly but surely I began to find the words to wrap around the pain and slowly pull it to the surface. Let the light fall on it fully.

Abuse and trauma

Oh, to grasp the breadth of your pain and suffering! To even start to acknowledge the truth of abuse and trauma is a frightening thing. If this is where you are at, dear one, stay strong and carry on. Stay with the process. The only way out is through. You cannot bypass grief. Steady on. You will find the path through.

One thing about abuse and trauma is that it muddles the brain. We get stuck in toxic places. Not because we want to be there, but because we don’t know how to move on. This is not our fault. The younger we are when we experience any form of trauma, the more likely it is that we will come to believe that toxic places are normal and must be survived. If we have had no one to tell or show us otherwise, we believe that it’s our fault and maybe it will stop if we try harder. To be kind. To be perfect. Or whatever else is required. Our response to pretty much everything in life becomes skewed. And we have no real idea how to make it stop.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the night I sat down and spoke my truth. I was still a tiny broken thing, that knew it would die if it did not fly. A bundle of nerves. I had thought long and hard about what I would say. Talked and wept for hours with my husband, who gave me a solid shoulder to lean on and the strength I did not have alone. What I did not realize, is that confrontation can be re-traumatizing.

when confrontation is re-traumatizing

I honestly don’t remember too many details of that night. The confrontation was re-traumatizing in many ways and I know I have blocked much of it out. Some of the details are fuzzy but I know I gathered my courage and spoke my truth. I didn’t back down. Didn’t change my story to make them feel good. Didn’t take my words back and replace them with a nicer narrative. I stuck with the truth for the first time in my life.

It. Was. Not. Well. Received.

Don’t ever change the truth of your narrative to make someone else feel better.

In fact, it wasn’t received at all. It hit a wall and was re-formed into nasty little darts that were thrown back at me. But I stuck with the truth.

Don’t ever change the truth of your narrative to make someone else feel better. Looking back I’m pretty darn proud of that younger version of myself. I may not have had the perfect words to use. And I definitely blocked some of it from my memory. But, dang! I told the truth!

Never should on yourself

To be honest, I’m wrestling with several current-day issues. Wondering when confrontation is a good thing and when it’s just someone else’s hope for reconciliation. I spoke my truth once, and it wasn’t magical. It hurt. The response sucked. I spoke the truth about abuse and a lot of people were angry with me. And while it feels good to have been so brave and daring, so truth-telling, the only thing it did was make my wings a little stronger. It did absolutely nothing for the relationship.

So I am letting myself off the hook when it comes to confrontation. I’m giving myself permission to not have to explain everything. While I am committed to truth-telling, I am also committed to caring for myself. And that can be a delicate thing to balance. If and when I need to speak up, for me, I will do that. But I will not should on myself. I will not sit down and speak my brave and beautiful truth just because someone else thinks I should. If I want it for me, I will. But I am wise enough now to know that sometimes confrontation can be re-traumatizing.

It’s taken me decades to learn to trust my judgment. To honor the divine wisdom that was there all along but had just been smothered by the toxic system I found myself in. That ancient wisdom is slowly filling in the gaps where toxic structures once stood. Her voice can be trusted. And she will never should on me. When I follow her voice, I know it is towards freedom.

Want to hear more?


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.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

On Becoming a Healthy Black Sheep

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a Black Sheep, and how we might embrace it and become healthy black sheep. Historically this idiom, used to describe a member of a group or family that is different from everyone else, has had negative connotations. The wool from black sheep could not be dyed, so black sheep had little financial value to the owners. Additionally, in 18th and 19th century England, a black sheep was believed to have the mark of the Devil. In the Evangelical circles I grew up in, a black sheep was typically one who was not only different, but had strayed far from God and the one true path.


After my Grandpa died, and I began to process my grief, the idiom felt like a good description of me and my place in the family. I embraced the term in the memoir post I wrote after his death.


Historically, being a Black sheep has been a negative thing. Today I’m redeeming the term and embracing it. I am seeking out ways to be a whole and healthy black sheep. Let me explain.

grandpa’s house


I’ve been missing my grandpa a lot lately. Perhaps it was brought on by the pack of old notes and letters my aunt sent me, that she found in his desk after he passed. Seems he saved any and everything I ever sent him over the years. From my first clumsy attempts to master writing, to a card I sent him a few years back. He saw and savored my attempts at communication. And he cherished them.


Now he is gone. His last place of abode was just auctioned off. He lived in many homes during his one-hundred years on this earth. I grew up hearing stories of his life on this or that farm. But before I was born, he and Grandma settled into a sprawling brick house on Cherry Ridge Road. It was the only home that was ever Grandpa’s House to me.


Oh, the nooks and crannies of that place! I remember his old study before they remodeled and modernized parts of the house. It was a small room, sandwiched between the bathroom and the kitchen. There wasn’t much more than a sofa, desk, and books. So many books! I remember the room felt small and dark but there was always a lamp to shed its glow on the shelves of books and the stacks of pen and paper on his desk.

so many memories


Just down the hall was a spare bedroom where we slept when we visited. I remember waking up one crisp morning in October when I was 5 years old. Walking down the hall to find Grandpa coming out of his study, glowing with happiness, to tell my brothers and me that we had a new baby brother. I had been hoping and praying daily for a sister and part of my heart dropped in the pain of disappointment. But grandpa’s love of life was contagious and my disappointment did not last long.


The basement was my favorite place. Rooms inside of rooms. Old treasures from years gone by. A stuffed owl from one of the farms. A painting my dad made during high school. The fruit cellar with jars of canned fruit. My cousins would make a game out of seeing who could find the oldest jar.


There was always a garden in the back yard and a grape arbor where we would pick sour juice grapes and suck on the sweet center. Grandpa had an old shed built into the side of the hill and it was easy to climb onto the roof. More than one summer evening was spent on that roof with my cousins, under a star-studded sky.


Years later, they knocked down some walls and built an addition. Grandpa’s study was expanded, with a large window overlooking the hills and lush countryside. The walls were still lined with shelves of books but the place had become much brighter. Filled with light.

becoming the black sheep


The change in their house coincided with a change in me. I grew up, moved away, traveled the world. Started a family of my own. Had thoughts and questions of my own. Gathered the courage to start thinking outside of the box I had been raised in. As the house changed, I found myself changing. My own walls were being knocked down and expanded to let in more light. The old didn’t fit anymore. When I returned, I felt like a stranger.


It’s strange to write about my grandpa, who represented The Patriarchy in every way possible, as one who never made me feel like a stranger. I can’t quite explain how in all of my deconstruction, he has been somewhat separate from the ideals he represented to me. He gifted me a space of belonging, even when I chose a path he would not have approved of.


He gave me his presence and his open arms. Always. He kept telling me stories. Inviting my babies to sit in his lap even when they were almost as big as he was.

Longings of a black sheep


I wish I could walk through that house one more time. By myself. To see the light catch the dust floating in the air, hovering over his desk and shelves of books. Walk down that hallway, hear the echo of his footsteps. Pull a green plastic cup from the cupboard for a drink of water, and remember how he always teased me about having to put my nose in the glass whenever I drank. I’d sink into his hickory rocker and know he was holding me still. Even if he didn’t understand the path I was on, he recognized the essence of who I was and offered me a place of belonging.


Families are made stronger by processing grief and joy together. But I’ve felt like I’ve been on the outside for so long now. I’ll be honest. Grandpa’s death was my biggest COVID loss. He didn’t die from the virus, but because of it, I couldn’t grieve with the family. I couldn’t show up for all the things a family does when one it loves passes on. The blessing of remembering together. Eating together. Crying together. Apart from the graveside service, which was outdoors on a chilly January day, I stayed away.


And that hurt. A lot. As a family, we had all been taught to choose life. To honor and protect it. To me, that meant wearing a mask, distancing and avoiding crowds. But to the family who gathered to celebrate and grieve, it meant the opposite. So, this black sheep just felt even more shut out. The way they chose to live life, made me feel as if mine didn’t matter.

black sheep and trauma


Yet another aspect of not being able to show up has to do with past trauma. For years, even after becoming aware that what happened to me was trauma, that it was wrong and was not my fault, I still showed up. I put myself in situations where I was constantly reminded of that trauma. I was the nice person. The good little girl. I acted as if nothing had happened.


The thing about trauma, however, is that it doesn’t heal and go away on its own. It will make itself known, come out in ways that are ugly and messy. For me, it made itself known in my physical body. Aches and pains that grew in intensity, especially when I was in certain situations.


When the time is right, the body has a way of letting you know it’s time. Enough is enough.

Pain is often a sign that something has to change.

Mark Nepo

I am quick to grab pain relievers instead of listening to the message behind the pain. Tylenol. Wine. TV. Food. Friends. Not that these are bad things in and of themselves but they can distract from our pain so we can keep going on with our lives. Yet pain does not distract us from living; it shows us what needs to change so we can live better. Pain is there to give us a clue of what needs to be done. What needs to heal. What we need to change.

boundaries


So I set some boundaries and began to protect myself. It’s ugly and messy and beautiful all at once. It’s powerful and freeing, but it is also lonely.

And it’s complicated. It means I can’t yet show up in some places I would like to. My need to self-protect means that I control my narrative for the first time and yet, I lose my ability to control the narrative at all in certain situations. It means that some people I love, who had nothing to do with my trauma, are being told a narrative that makes me look ugly and vindictive. And I’m struggling to let that go. Being a healthy black sheep means learning what narratives to let go of so you can shape the only one that really matters.


Becoming a healthy black sheep is imperative when there has been mental illness, personality disorders, or addiction woven into the trauma. Others looking on may not understand the drastic measures you are taking, further reinforcing your identity as a black sheep and shaping their narrative of you.

the fear of the storytellers

A healthy black sheep knows there are stories being told about her that are based not on truth, but on the fear of those telling the stories. She lets them go so she can hold on to her truth. That different can be beautiful. That true value comes from the heart, not the color of the wool.

The beautiful thing about being a black sheep is that you cannot be owned in the way that white sheep are owned. Your body cannot be a machine for profit. Selling your wool has no value because it cannot be dyed.

This is where I am slowly learning to embrace my identity as a black sheep. One that is different from the larger group it came from. Whose value does not come from wool that can be dyed. One who is un-dyable. Marked, not by the devil, but by all the colors of life and light. Who picks up all the colors of the rainbow in a dance towards wholeness.


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.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Creating Your New Normal

One of the greatest gifts of the pandemic has been clarity. Clarity of who and what gives life meaning and joy…who values my life and makes me feel safe…what gives me true rest and fills me up again. While I hope to never go through anything like this again, I am grateful for the gift of clarity it has brought me.

As things open up again and mask mandates are being lifted, it gives me pause. I know that many are ready to get back to the life that was normal before the pandemic. But I find myself in a different place.

Life before the pandemic was exhausting. For real. There were way too many things I was doing because I thought I should. Not because I found them life-giving. The pressure, the expectations. A calendar packed full of activities.

I find myself in a place of needing to create a new normal.

Create a new normal

Clearly, we are being given a new chapter of life. Never, in my lifetime, has there been such a clear pause between stories. A full stop. Period. A place to take in a breath and slowly, mindfully let it out again.

I imagine us all on the edge of a precipice. We’ve been waiting a long time for the signal that we can move forward. Everyone is given the option to cross on the drawbridge that is being let down. The one that has been used for generations and that feels normal.

Or we can build our own bridge across.

The first is easy. Mindless. Falling in place with the moving stream of folks headed in the same general direction. To the American Dream. Whatever that is.

The other is going to take a lot longer. You may have to scavenge for supplies. It may get lonely. The unknown of it all may feel unsettling.

But you are not lost and you have more tools than you realize. If the old way was not your dream life, than pause with me and dare to dream of building a new and better way. One that is sustainable because it sustains you. One that is lasting because it fits who you are. Let it become the stage for the best season of your life.

choosing life

You get to decide. How to move forward. Who to move forward with. If the gift of clarity has revealed people in your sphere who are not safe, who did not seem to value your life during the pandemic, pay attention to that experience. You are under no obligation to show up for them now.

Family is not flesh and blood. It is those who see you. Those who show up for you as much as they expect you to show up for them. A family is a melding of safe people and a safe place. It is not a place where you have to bargain for your place of belonging. Or explain yourself or prove anything at all.

Some of us were privileged to be born into safe and kind families. Families where thriving happens naturally. Many of us were not. While that brings up its own set of issues to process, there is something beautiful about choosing to show up in places of belonging.

I think of the butterfly from my dream years ago, that had just emerged from the cocoon. Who had struggled to pump life-giving blood into her new wings. This butterfly realizes with startling clarity that she no longer fits in the family of caterpillars. While she may not know where her story ends, she knows where the next chapter begins. So, with the beating of new wings and the following of her heart, she rises and flies, drawn by life itself. From the nectar of one flower to the next.

Follow the nectar of life, not the crowds. Dare to veer off the beaten path and create a new normal. Your new normal.

Want to hear more?


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.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Happiness in a Mixed Orientation Marriage

When Austin first came out to me 11 years ago, I was desperate to find a support group. A safe place to process what I was feeling with others who understood. Because he wasn’t out publicly, I felt I needed to find an anonymous group. So I began to look online for a group that could give me the support I needed, while hiding both my identity and his.

But my search found nothing at all to give me hope of *happiness in a mixed orientation marriage. The only thing I could find at the time was a group for spouses of persons who struggled with unwanted same sex attraction. While the wording and ideology is so problematic, it was the way we both framed it in the early days. We didn’t have the language, knowledge or tools to see it any other way. While I know now how toxic and shame-inducing it was, it was our starting point.

So I dove in. At first, it was a relief. To be able to give words to my story. To break the silence that I had to wrap myself in while in any other space of life. Realizing there were many others with stories like mine was such a relief.

can there be happiness in a mixed orientation marriage?

But after a few months I began to feel despair instead of hope, when logging into the group. Everyone seemed so sad. Even those who were veterans to the group. There was this pervading feeling of heaviness. Like we had all been burdened with something awful that we would have to carry for the rest of our lives. At best, there were some who were making peace with it. But no one was inspiring us to see it as a gift. There were no voices telling us they had weathered the initial storm of pain and confusion and found something beautiful.

It was like no one believed there could be happiness in a mixed orientation marriage. Or beautiful equality. Breathtaking joy.

I began to log on less and less. Until one day I just stopped. By then I had a small handful of people, a few trusted friends, who walked the journey with me. And they were such light and hope. Unspeakable gifts of grace and love. Though most couldn’t personally identify with my pain, they understood emotional health and self-worth. Their love and support enabled me to navigate my way through some of the darkest days of my life.

Sometimes we long for an outer voice to affirm and guide us when it’s already speaking inside of us.

I suppose, though, that I never stopped longing for a more mature voice, soaked in the wisdom of a crone and wrapped in the wrinkles of one who has loved and been loved, to tell me there can be much happiness in a mixed-orientation marriage. And maybe that voice is out there, though I haven’t found it. Instead, I kept digging into my own inner soul work. Finding healing for my own emotional trauma. Fighting for my own mental health. And in that digging, I heard an echo of that voice I longed to hear. Bouncing softly off the walls in the basement of my soul.

Sometimes we long for an outer voice to affirm and guide us when it’s already speaking inside of us. If only we take the time to quiet the external noise long enough to be still and hear it.

hearing the inner voice

One reason Austin and I decided to be public with our journey, is so those who find themselves in a similar situation will know they are not alone. In fact, according to Two Bi Guys Podcast, 84% of bisexuals who are in a committed relationship are with someone of the opposite sex. Only 9% are with someone of the same gender. We also know there are gay guys with straight wives and lesbian women with straight husbands. There are a lot of us out there.

Finding hope and support from stories like ours or support groups you have found is a good thing. But it will do little until you have learned to quiet the external voices and listen to your inner voice.

And while I am happy to be an external voice of the wise crone, telling you that it is possible to be happy in a mixed orientation marriage, here is an important bit of wisdom I’m giving out for free today. Finding hope and support from stories like ours or support groups you have found is a good thing. But it will do little until you have learned to quiet the external voices and listen to your inner voice. Outer validation does little until you have experienced inner validation.

I know that sometimes life gets too dark and muddled to be able to hear or trust anything inside. There are times when nothing makes sense anymore and you are desperate for a voice to break through the fog and give you reassurance.

If you’re in that place, keep holding on. It will get better.

Whether you are in a mixed orientation relationship or not, getting the support you need is important and it starts with you. Your mental health is important. There are safe spaces and wise people out there and finding them is crucial. But it’s also crucial to remember and uncover your own inner voice that is so full of wisdom.

In the meantime, Austin and I are more than willing to let you know that finding happiness in a mixed-orientation marriage is very possible.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

*Happiness can be arbitrary but is used here to convey a general feeling of contentment and wholeness.


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

Growing Old Together

I love to spend late afternoons in my kitchen. When the sun begins to dip just low enough to shine through the kitchen window and the stove shimmers in dancing waves. It’s the perfect place to let the irritations and heaviness of the day slide off my shoulders. As the oil splutters its welcome to the garlic and onions in the cooking pot, my soul does its own little dance and in that golden light, lightness becomes a little more possible.

The other day I grabbed my kitchen shears and made my way to my front garden plot to snip the first of the chives. Sometimes, when we least expect it, we bump into the sacred. This time it was in the form of a young woman, walking past on the street at the precise moment when I needed to cut chives. And while her story is not mine to tell, I will tell you that being present to my own grief and trauma was my only hope for being present to this woman as she struggled to navigate her own grief and trauma.

At one point in our conversation, our talk moved to marriage. She was surprised to learn we were celebrating 23 years of marriage. I told her it wasn’t always easy. But somewhere along the way, we had decided that we wanted to grow old together.

growing old together

I recall that once in the days immediately following his coming out to me, that Austin turned to me and said, “Marita, I want to grow old with you.” At the time, I was too hurt and confused to know whether or not I wanted the same thing. In fact, it took me a long time.

I can’t point to a particular moment and say, “That’s when I knew”. I do know that I did not try to convince myself or believe that I needed to grow old with him. That I had to stay, no matter what. Given my religious upbringing, this was a little shocking, and yet looking back, that freedom to figure it out was an invaluable gift.

It’s hard to believe we have been married for 23 years. Our gray hairs and wrinkles are only a small part of the map that tells the story of us. We have a castle full of memories, stories born of crazy adventures. A past that binds us together because we want a future filled with the same.

From discovering watermelon shakes on the beach in Thailand to climbing a volcano in Bali with our boys. Sleeping under the stars in Nepal to balancing the 5 of us on one rickshaw in Dhaka. From remodeling a little house in Ohio to birthing a business together. We have traveled the world, literally and metaphorically.

And we’ve come home, in the best way possible, to each other. It’s been a long walk from that spot 23 years ago where I stood with tears rolling down my cheeks, promising to love him forever. To the place where I can’t not love him forever. Because when I look ahead and imagine the future, there is only one pillow I can see myself laying my head on when my hair is completely white and my steps have lost their spring. It’s on the one beside his.

help with the sifting

While I think this question can be helpful for anyone in a relationship, I think it can be especially helpful for those who find themselves in a mixed-orientation marriage and are wondering if they should stay together or not.

Do I want to grow old with this person?

Wherever you find yourself today, whether a mixed-orientation relationship or heteronormative one, the question begs an answer. It can be helpful to sift through the highs and lows that are normal to any relationship.

Can we grow old together? Do I want to grow old together?

If you don’t know the answer right away, it’s okay. Give yourself time to figure it out. Keep being honest with your feelings, even when they are in conflict with each other. Eventually, the answer will make itself known to you.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Want to hear more?


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

No Label Says it All

Last week, Two Bi Guys aired their latest podcast called Three Bi Guys, (with wives)! in which Austin was interviewed. I am so grateful for the work Two Bi Guys are doing, calling attention to the largest but most unseen portion of the queer community. Not only are bisexuals often unseen, but they are also likely the most misunderstood.

Since Austin came out, I have been astounded by the assumptions, gossip, and slander towards him, and the bi community as a whole. Often coming from people within the faith community. This is wrong and needs to stop.

What I appreciate about this podcast, is the honest glimpse into the lives of three different bi guys. Bisexuality is a mystery and there is no box to easily put bi people into. No label says it all. While hearing from three different bi guys will not give you a complete picture of what it means to be bi, it will certainly give you a much better understanding of the complexity and fluidity of what it can mean to be bisexual.

levels of coming out

The night before the episode was due to drop, I was a mess. I don’t sleep well at the best of times, so I certainly did not sleep well that night. I was worried that I might discover something new, some new level of coming out.

In the episode, Austin mentions how he came out to me before we were married. Suffice it to say that whatever he said was so subtle that I did not pick up on it. At all.

If you have read my blog from the beginning, you will know there have been various levels of coming out. To the point that sometimes I worry that there may be more. Sometimes I’m afraid that if I make peace with the way things are, something new will come up.

learning to verbalize

Part of being a survivor of childhood trauma means having learned to survive by always expecting something terrible to happen. It’s what gave some of us the skills to scan the room and read body language. The only way we could survive was by always being ready, always having an exit strategy or a hiding mechanism.

But you and I, we are not children anymore. For me, a very important step in healing and moving on, has been to verbalize instead of exiting or hiding.

So I verbalized. It seems simple but it took excruciating effort on my part. To tell him I had trouble sleeping because I was scared. Because I felt vulnerable. We talked about it. He saw me and his words comforted me.

It’s so easy to sabotage some of the simple steps to healing and wholeness. It may be a completely different set of circumstances for you. Whatever it is, keep showing up for yourself. You matter and you are worth it.

no label says it all

It was a couple of days later that I listened to the podcast. I loved it. I also loved him more for being so honest and real and funny. And I was grateful that I had faced my fears and been vulnerable with him about them. It freed something up inside so I could really sit back and soak up the podcast.

I hope you will take the time to listen to this episode. The fine folks in this interview will show you how beautiful, unique, and mysterious a thing it is to be bisexual. No label says it all so please, stop making assumptions, keep your heart open and take this opportunity to educate yourself.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Want to hear more?


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

100% Absolute Surety

Growing up in an uber-conservative subculture of evangelical Americanism gave me the experience of needing to be 100% right. 100% sure. 100% of the time.

Sure…

…of God.

…of salvation.

… the afterlife.

…of what to do and not to do in this life.

There was no hint of mystery because 100% surety leaves no place for mystery. If something held mystery or did not make sense, it was whisked away or given answers that made even less sense. Instead of bringing relief, this way of living delivered a strange mix of anxiety. When you must know everything 100%, you must not stop. Never rest. Never be okay with anything less than 100% surety.

Instead of being filled with peace, I was filled with anxiety. I can’t tell you how many nights I laid awake as a young child, so worried that I may have forgotten to confess one of my many sins. The fear that I would perchance miss the sound of The Trumpet and be left behind to suffer through the Tribulation and eventually hell itself. I lay there terrified that the house would burn down in the night and I would burn with it.

Eventually, I came to a more solid place in my belief where I was sure I had been forgiven and my soul would not be sent to hellfire. Yet, I still had much anxiety. Even in the knowing. Even in the so-called peace.

room for mystery

If there is only one formula for eternal salvation, and missing one aspect, even slightly, could negate that eternal salvation, then how could one ever really be sure? Especially when so many voices proclaimed their formula the correct one.

100% surety leaves no place for mystery. Yet the reality of life, as I live and breathe and look around me is that that there is so much mystery. There is so very, very much that cannot be explained.

I suppose that is why eventually I dropped the priestly robes I had acquired and found myself stepping into the mystical, mysterious role of prophet. Questioner. A believer who is also a doubter.

I found I could no longer put the Divine into a box, wrapped in neat and tidy answers. Nor could I follow a god that would kill me if I made the slightest misstep. I suppose, without even fully knowing what I was doing, I went on a quest to find the god of love. To see if he/she/they existed.

I like what I have found, even though I cannot fully explain what I have found. I do know that I have more peace and less anxiety now that I have embraced mystery.

holding holes up to the light

It takes bravery to admit the holes in one’s faith. Pull out the questions that have been shoved into darkness and hold them up to the light. Knowing the whole thing could crumble. I mean, really, who likes to sit in the rubble, surrounded by dust, ashes, and little tangible substance? But it was only in the empty spaces, held up to the light, where I could experience light. Only in the mystery that I began to see beauty in the questions and unknowns. 100% surety leaves no place for mystery. But once I made mystery my friend instead of my enemy, everything changed.

A couple of years ago I had the honor of traveling to Bangladesh with some friends. I no longer moved as one who had the answers that everyone else needed. And in one profound moment, that I will never forget, this question came to live in me.


What if we all have a piece of the puzzle of who god is?

I had spent 2 weeks moving nonstop. Heart open, taking in as much as I could. From reconnecting with the gentle Hindu woman who used to clean my house, to the conservative Muslim driver who cared for me and shared his water when I became horribly ill. From the refugee camp of the most unwanted people on earth to the home of a dear friend who shared her recent journey of going on the Haj. We heard the songs of women who used to work in the red light district, saw the smiles of their babies. I shared endless cups of tea and plates of curry. Hindus, Christians, Buddhists, Muslims. All of us rubbing shoulders. Laughing. Crying. Living. Loving. Each person I met unveiled a piece of the Divine I had not seen before. Unseen because I had not been looking. Because I thought I had the entire piece already.

But what if we all have a tiny piece of the puzzle of who god is? What if we never get a glimpse of the beauty of the whole because we are all so sure that our piece is the only piece that gives peace. The only piece that is right.

Can’t say that I know for sure, but I have a hunch that embracing mystery and setting aside our need to be right is where the journey to the Divine begins.


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 Journey from Grief to Glory

Last week I began to hear friends reference what they were doing a year ago, as the Pandemic began to spread throughout the US. The impact didn’t fully hit me until a new episode dropped in a TV show I had been anticipating. I watched as characters I’ve come to love received the news of an upcoming two-week lock-down in their city and I felt heaviness and grief rise up in my body.


This tangible fear and a sensation of anxiety resurfaced simply by watching these fictional characters and I thought to myself, ” they have no idea what is coming.” Just like that, I found myself face to face with the alarm and the frightening unknown that pursued me a year ago. When I had no idea what was in store.


Listening to the language of my body, I began to process what it means to near the end of a time of trauma. As I sat with the heaviness that had taken over my body, I felt gratitude for the physical sensations that would not let me just rush to the finish line in celebration. Without fully processing and bearing witness to the losses I had faced.

Grieving the losses.


We each have our own list of losses. Mine looks something like this.


The loss of solitude as an introvert in a house full of extroverts. All stuck at home together. One of them is diagnosed with ADHD but all four of them display multiple symptoms. So things can get kind of wild.


The loss of meaningful work and income. Bringing so much anxiety. While I am back at work and our business is thriving, there was a very scary time when I didn’t know if we would make it. It seemed as if the grants and loans were going to the big guys who didn’t really need it while small businesses like our own were barely hanging on. Not getting the promised relief. When we were denied benefits, though I could show proof we had not made a profit for 3 months.


The loss of relationships. People I thought were friends but showed me that my life was not as important as their comfort. But my life matters. I finally believe that now and it affects who I will spend my time with when this is all over. But the pain of losing relationships will last a long time.


The loss of places of belonging. Toxic places of belonging are still places of belonging and the human spirit yearns to belong. Pulling away from places that do not honor my life or the lives of those who matter to me has not been easy. It hurts.

Parenting 24/7. Juggling home schooling on top of everything else. My senior threw his graduation cap in the air in front of an empty auditorium last May and I wanted to ball my eyes out. My youngest, a junior this year, thrives with people and lots of activities. Doing school work at home on his iPad has nearly been the end to all of us.


The loss of travel. Gatherings of friends. Work conferences with like-minded people. The loss of rhythms and routines that bring sanity. Quiet. Order. Stability.

religious trauma


There’s more. I struggle to know how to write these words. Before the pandemic, I had stepped away from the church. Not from faith, but from the organization struggling to represent it. Please know that I am not speaking about a particular church. But the representation as a whole.


The pandemic, George Floyd’s death, and the resulting conversations on race and privilege, followed by Christian’s response to the election, have brought painful clarity. I lost the church. Or the church lost me. Either way, I don’t think I will completely recover from this. Nor do I want to. I will keep following my faith and the prophet who thought nothing of breaking religious laws so he could be kind to all. Blurring the lines between those who were “in” and those on the “outside.” For me, any remote desire to be back on the inside, died during the pandemic. Too many “Christians” gave out the message that my life (and the lives of certain others) does not matter.

listening to the language of my body


These losses are heavy. And the only way out is through. Listening to the language of my body, the heaviness, the aches and pains. To hear what they are saying to me.

“We cannot figure our way out of grief… we must turn toward our experience and touch it with the softest hands possible. Only then, in the inner terrain of silence and solitude, will our grief yield to us and offer up its most tender shoots… So much is carried in our bodies. The wisdom that is held within our tissues is something that we have almost completely forgotten. And yet there is no awareness more situated in the present moment than what is found in our bodies.”

Francis Weller in The Wild Edge of Sorrow


Listening to the language of my body has become crucial to my well-being. That particular ache in one of my shoulders that flares up. I have long known it is brought on by stress and anxiety, my body’s way of getting my attention. Telling me I have taken on too much. Reminding me that I’m longing for comforting touch and a place of belonging. Or for rest, deep deep rest. I close my eyes and find the little girl who first felt the weight of the world on her tiny shoulders and I ask her how she is doing. If I listen long enough, this little girl tells me what I need. It could be a listening ear, paper and pen to pour out my soul, or a boundary she needs me to set. She is wise beyond her years and is always within my reach.

closure


Two more things come to mind as I think about moving into the light at the end of the tunnel.


I need a grief ritual. A sacred space shared with a few close friends, to grieve the losses and metaphorically put this pandemic into the ground so we can rise and move on. Francis Weller says,

“Unlike most traditional cultures, where grief is a regular guest in the community, we have somehow been able to cloister grief and sanitize it, denying its expression as the gut-wrenching and heart-breaking event that it truly is… ritual is the means whereby we can work the ground of grief, allowing it to move, shift, and, ultimately, take a new shape in the soul.”


The terror of this past year has brought me face to face with previous traumas. I’ve jumped bravely into the deep end and discovered new ways of being in the world. One thing I’ve come to understand is that victims who are rescued from trauma, have a much harder time healing from that trauma than victims who were able to use their own resources to escape. Naturally, sometimes being rescued by another is the only possible way out but the invaluable truth from my therapy this past year is that I am my own way out.

choosing life


In reflecting on the Pandemic, I am convinced that I did what I could to stay safe and keep others safe. There were things beyond my control, but now, as we near the end, there is something I can do, for myself. I can get the vaccine as soon as I am able. I can be my own way out. It is one way of taking this trauma and putting it into the ground.


I know that this is a controversial topic for some. And yet for me, it is about choosing life. For myself and those around me. It has hurt a lot to feel as if my life hasn’t mattered to some people this past year. And I can’t change that. I can make certain however, that those around me know beyond a doubt that their health, well-being, and yes, even their lives, matter to me.


The journey from grief to glory starts by sitting with death and loss. Listening to the language of the body. Letting grief be an honest conversation of soul with the outer world . Letting flow what must flow. In the end, we must find a way to choose life.


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.