Posted on by palmtreemomma

Longing for Light

Sunrise from Mt. Batur, Indonesia

Lets talk about self care and mental health for a minute. We are in the heart of winter and many of us live in places which are cold and have long periods of darkness. We are earthlings, all of us, designed to be nourished by the earth, to quench our thirst from its waters. Nature calms and refreshes us. Sunshine gives light, feeds plants and even our own skin by infusing us with needed vitamins. When we don’t receive these life-giving elements, our bodies, like plants placed in a cold basement corner, begin to droop and wither. This is why is is so important to pay attention and listen to your body.

I’ve struggled with depression on and off for a number of years. I know I am not alone. An estimated 15% of the adult population will probably experience depression at some point. 5% of the U. S. population experiences Seasonal Depression, also known as SAD. If this time of year typically finds you feeling sad, lethargic and irritable, you are not alone.

Listen to your body

About a year ago, I hit bottom fast and hard. One minute I was fine and the next I was flat on the floor, wanting nothing more than to die. The ferocity of my depression scared me and I immediately made an appointment with my doctor. I went on medication for the first time in my life and increased my visits with my therapist. I spilled it all to my closest circle of women so that I wouldn’t be doing it alone.

Our bodies are incredibly wise and have much to tell us if we learn to listen to them. The trouble is, we have to learn the language of the body first because it is easy to misunderstand. A craving for a donut does not mean your body needs a donut to be happy again. A longing to sleep all day does not mean your body needs to sleep all day and then it will feel better. Learn to listen to your body, to the cry beneath the craving. It might just be saying, “pay attention to me and show me value.”

It’s taken me a long time to sort out what my body was telling me on that day. I’m sure I still don’t have it all figured out but it’s easier to see the big picture when we back up a few steps and sit still.

SAD was certainly a part of things. It was right around winter solstice, when we experience the shortest days and the longest nights. My mood changes with the sunlight. The sun gives the warmth and food needed to cloak the outdoors in green. Flowers and trees, green leaves and grass, all bring so much life to my senses. My body and the world outside my window was very light deprived that day. But it was more than that. Death was beautiful to me that day because I had lost hope.

Losing Hope

We were in that particularly rough period before Austin came out of the closet. There were several times that year I was convinced our marriage was not going to make it intact. Our business had taken some huge blows and our livelihood was threatened. One of our boys had just been diagnosed with ADHD and it took pretty much all of our energy to navigate things. While the diagnosis helped us understand him, it did nothing to change the reality of what we had been experiencing for a long time.

My anxiety was through the roof. And like a house of cards, I collapsed without so much as a wind to knock me over. There was no one thing that happened that day to send me down. I just went down. Because it is hope that keeps us standing and my body knew before my brain registered it, that I had lost mine.

Year after year, after year, I had muddled through. Hoping for change in my marriage. I had worked tirelessly to build a small business with global impact. Raising sons to be lovers of peace and kindness. Everything I had poured my big, soft, endless heart into seemed only to break my heart instead of being transformed by it. Honestly, my life felt more than a little wasted and I was more than a little exhausted.

More than a year later, it’s very difficult for me to write about this. I feel a sadness creeping in the edges, dancing on the peripheral. But I’m trying to stay with the story and listen to what that sadness is telling me.

Listening to the sadness

I’m sad that a 45 year old woman felt like a life of love given was lived in vain. She is the one I need to listen to, care for and nurture. Here is what I think she was trying to tell me that day.

I’m so tired. My load is too heavy and I have to lay it down for a bit. I need you to give me as much value as you are giving away to everyone else. An endless supply of energy is not what I have to offer; I have limits. Please fill me back up again. Treat me gently because I am you.

When your partner is distant and you wonder what is going through his head, your value remains. The things your child yells in a fit of rage are not about you so it’s okay to move out of the way. I wish I could offer you financial stability but this way you identify with a larger portion of humanity. The top is not all it is cracked up to be.

Sit for a minute and let light fall into the cracks opened up by your sorrow. Hold still and see me. If you learn to love me well, it will never be in vain. I know your limitations. I hold your gifts and all the light and goodness you have to offer the world. Value me because I am holding you.

Tips for self care

I’ve always felt the weight of the world on my shoulders, needs that seemed bigger or more important than my own. It felt selfish to do something for me when the world was going to hell in a handbag around me. I had a wake up call this year when a friend died of a stress-induced heart attack. She was only 30 years old. It helped me realize that taking care of myself is actually a huge gift to the people around me.

So listen to your body and do what you need to do to take care of yourself. Ask for help. Be honest with your doctor and consider medication. Your kids will thank you later. Find a therapist. Reach out to a friend you can trust. We were not made to navigate this on our own.

Exercise daily for it boosts your serotonin levels. Find what works for you. My husband is a people person and takes classes at the local YMCA. I am an introvert and that doesn’t work for me. I find that doing yoga at home has been the only thing I want to keep coming back to. Something about the stretches speak to me about navigating the painful stretches of life.

Take Vitamin D in the winter. Our body produces it when exposed to sunshine and, in places like Ohio, we rarely get enough of it. While a deficiency is not likely to cause depression, many who take it notice a difference in their mood within a couple of weeks. I usually start taking it in the fall so it kicks in by the time the days are really dark. Read more here.

Be honest with yourself. Sometimes depression is because of the season. Sometimes it’s because of hormones. But sometimes it hits us because we have not been kind to ourselves. Maybe we have carried too much for too long. Perhaps self-hatred has caught up with us and does not want to be ignored any longer. Take a moment and listen to what your body is trying to tell 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

Surviving the Desert

New Year’s Eve usually finds me home alone while the husband and kids go to a party. I sit in comfy pajamas, soaking in the quiet of an empty house. Just me and my thoughts. I think about the year gone by and dream for the year to come. Small miracles of hope whispered by pen on lines of paper, as I make a list of things we need. I love to look back over the lists from previous years, marveling at all the check marks that are there. So many small miracles came to me during the year gone by. I sit and pray, a myriad of longings, hopes and desperation swirling like rainbows of color.

This year I found myself at home with the family. It was another night in a blur of time as the fabric of our family is stretched across the loom, new threads being woven in. Our oldest came down with a bad case of the flu right before Christmas and we all hunkered down at home.

Today he is moving all his stuff back into our house, and I feel the walls stretching and expanding outward with each load he brings from his apartment. Boxes line my dining room, ready for him to sift through and repack before catching a plane to take him across country for his final semester of college.

catching moments

So much craziness happening around me. The 5 of us on top of each other in a tiny space. Not much room for me to hear myself think. I’ve been trying to catch moments here and there. Sometimes that is all a mom can do. A moment to catch my breath at the list of miracles from last year. Moments to laugh with the kids as they remind me of escapades of the past year. A moment to get away with my man, to remember who we are together.

I feel a little out of sorts without being able to experience my full tradition, yet I am piecing it together bit by bit. Journal open beside me, I see the list of things I hoped for in 2019. A whole page full. 12 check marks to celebrate needs met. 9 blank spots, empty places still waiting for answers. Some of those spots have been blank for 5 years now.

Sometimes I get stuck on those blank spots, honing in on all that isn’t there instead of marveling in what is there. And, while the empty spaces and losses we feel are important to acknowledge, for they have much to teach us, they should not define us. I know I will always have empty spaces waiting to be filled. But I also always, even in the leanest of years, have much to marvel about.

surviving the desert

A few years ago, Austin and I had an encounter with a very wise person. Without knowing a thing about us or our story, he told us that we had been walking in a desert for a very long time. He went on to say that we were not doing it alone, because water was following us through the desert.

What if the biggest miracles are the ones right in front of us?

At the time, Austin was still mostly in the closet. The two of us were still muddling through what his bisexuality meant for him and for our marriage. I was tired, so tired. I wanted nothing more than for all the pain and struggle to just go away. What I really wanted, was to be rescued from the desert. But what I got instead was assurance that I could make it through the desert.

What if the biggest miracles are the ones right in front of us? All of us hit desert-like stretches of life and want nothing more than to find our way out. But which is the true miracle? Being rescued from the desert and returning to the life we think we should have? Or surviving the desert for year after year after year?

Surviving the desert has none of the glamour of being rescued. It is gritty and exhausting, confusing and utterly draining. It shows our humanity and changes us at our core, for better or worse. But, like any journey, it is an invitation to the beginning of something new. Waking up in the desert is the beginning of a miracle. How it ends is up to you.

Where the sun beats without mercy

She wakes, bewildered, in the unfamiliar
the terrain unlike anything she knows.
Terror replaces sleep and she stumbles
in this wild barren place
where the sun beats without mercy.
For days she sits and does nothing
but weep in abandonment
until the night moon hovers above
and she howls with a despair
that emanates from her bones.


She waits for rescue but none comes.


So she rises and walks in circles at first
round and round this place where
the sun beats without mercy.
As the unfamiliar becomes familiar
and the circles become wider
she sets her gaze on the horizon
and pulls herself towards the mountain.
Though the sand shifts daily
and it takes all she has to take the next step
she moves on while the sun beats without mercy.

She waits for rescue but none comes.

Days turn to years as she walks while
certainty and grace begin to fill the cracks
in her soles and her heart and
each day she finds just enough to sustain.
In the place where the mountain embraces the earth
she finds a spot as soft as her heart.
Tenderly scooping she moves the earth
until there is a space enough for her whole self.
She carves out a home and decorates it
with splashes of dignity and colors it with grace.

She no longer waits for rescue.

She is fully alive in this place where
the sun beats without mercy.
No longer wandering in circles
she has crafted her home and created her shade
where she rests when she is weary
drinks when she is thirsty
dances when she is restless.
She leans into the music of this place
once thought to be wild and barren.
She is surviving the desert.


Contact me here if you would like to be put on an email list for future posts. Or drop me a line if you feel you are in an unending desert and just need someone to listen.

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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

Embracing Authenticity

Image depicting at a Pride event, holding the lgbtq+ rainbow flag and the trans flag.

We were in God’s womb before we were in our mother’s.

Crafted by unique design, out of a universe of possibilities, we were first birthed in a magical place. Our DNA, physical features, orientation, likes and dislikes, the things that make us fierce and the things that tender us, were all brought together in the kiss of the Divine. Not a mistake nor an accident. While flaming stars danced across the night sky, our pronouns were whispered over us and our authentic self was called into being.

And then we born, and the world gave us its definition of who we are and how to live. Family customs, religious traditions, cultural norms, and expectations showed us the proper way to be. Most of us were taught to be normal instead of authentic and most of us have, sadly, been okay with this. We have forgotten our authentic self.

Naming is sacred

In my last post, I talked about naming and how helpful it was when my husband finally had the language to identify as bisexual. After decades of feeling like a misfit who did not belong anywhere, this gave him a sense of solidity and belongingness. His naming helped me to understand him better as well. We both benefited immensely when he began to embrace and live out of his authentic self.

While I have spent hours unpacking what bisexual means, I think it is important to note that this naming is so important for all queer people. Not only is naming personal, it is sacred.

Each person in the LGBTQ+ community has a name that describes their authentic self in terms of orientation or gender. Lesbian. Gay. Bisexual. Transgender. Queer. Asexual. Gender fluid. Pansexual, The list goes on. For a comprehensive list of names and definitions, click here. Those who are out of the closet have chosen a name that serves to give meaning and shape to the mystery of who they are. These terms are far from being restrictive, rather they give us the language to begin to understand our queer brothers and sisters.

Name Changing

Some have changed their given name as well. Those who identify as gender fluid, for instance, may have changed their name to something that is gender neutral. Transgender people often change their name as well. This is a sacred journey because they have heard whispers of authenticity and are now speaking aloud their authentic self. Rather than hiding behind a curtain of anonymity or pretending to be like everyone else, they are bravely remembering and revealing their authentic self.

I have friends who are parents of transgender children. I’ll be honest – I still sometimes catch myself calling them by their birth name and often the wrong pronoun slips off my tongue. I practice their new names in my head sometimes and there is something sacred about it. It’s bold and beautiful and such a lovely window into their soul, this new called-name that they have chosen. It shows me their strength and uniqueness and something of the fire in their soul.

When the soul remembers its authentic self and bravely shares that with the world, time pauses and the Divine holds its breath before breaking into applause.

My favorite TED Talk of all time was delivered by a transgender woman named Paula. Having spent time as both a man and a woman, she has a unique perspective on what it is like to be a woman. It is brilliant and moving and so good that I made my 3 boys sit down and watch it with me. I think every male in the country needs to watch it. When she gets to the part about her father calling her by her new name for the first time, I cry. Every time.

Paula.

Naming is sacred. When the soul remembers its authentic self and bravely shares that with the world, time pauses and the Divine holds its breath before breaking into applause.

Changing the narrative

Who are we to try and hush the voices bravely telling us who they are? As straight cisgender people, we have no idea what we are talking about when we downplay this need they have for naming their identity.

Whenever the majority decides the narrative for the minority, discrimination and injustice ensue.

The truth of the matter is – as cisgender heterosexuals, the world revolves around our identity so firmly that we never need to call it forth. It’s just there, built into the founding walls and documents of our country. Be it tax forms or restroom doors, we don’t have to even think about it. Straight cisgender is such a normal identity that we forget it’s there.

Whenever the majority decides the narrative for the minority, discrimination and injustice ensue.

It’s time to listen. We could learn so much from those whose voices we have shushed. Those who have heard and honored the call to authenticity are extraordinarily brave. In a world where too many of us are faking some kind of normal, the queer are blazing a trail.

Authenticity is the new beautiful.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Naming

The human experience is full of mystery. We all have things about us that we don’t fully understand. Language and naming helps us to understand some of the mystery that surrounds us. We go to school and study things we want to understand. We take personality tests or discuss enneagram numbers with friends because we want to understand ourselves better. When we are ill and seek out a doctor, it is often a relief when a diagnosis is given. The simple act of naming the unknown helps to make it less scary and easier to understand.

Naming is personal

In a culture that is obsessed with labels, it is important to realize there is a difference between labeling and naming. Labels have their place. We wouldn’t shop the grocery stores without them. Applied to people, however, labels can be dismissive, harmful, distancing and hurtful. Naming on the other hand, is personal. It allows another to be seen and known for who they are. Naming gives definition with fluidity. It allows for mystery, giving space for the ever-expanding soul and the creative potential for re-naming.

When we see people who are different, our minds automatically want to label them. We tell ourselves it is because we want to understand them better. Yet if we dig deeper, we may find we are looking for a way to box them up and set them aside. Naming is personal; it calls out to us to see another as they are and not avert our gaze or push aside. It gives parameters for understanding and so much more.

Identity & Naming

For years Austin struggled to identify and name a core part of his identity. He knew he was different from other boys yet did not have the language to articulate it. Even when he came out to me, decades later in life, he did not have the words to name it. When he was finally able to name the things that made him who he was, the relief was palpable. When Austin identified as bisexual, it finally gave us the language to begin to unpack the mystery and the questions.

Bisexual – one whose attractions are not limited to one gender. Pansexual, Queer, and Fluid are used interchangeably by some but not all. I won’t take the time here to dig into each of these terms, but this article does a good job if you want to know more.

Identifying as bisexual has given him a sense of belonging somewhere, after decades of feeling like a misfit who does not belong anywhere. Naming is personal and this naming has helped me to understand him better as well. It helped me to accept that he is genuinely attracted to me, yet continues to have other attractions. Hearing the stories of others who identify as bi, has helped us both realize this is much more common than we imagined.

Bisexual Facts

Bisexuals are the largest group within the LGBTQ+ community, with about 50% of all the people in this community identifying as bi. Despite this fact, they are often the least accepted group in the rainbow community. Straight folks tend to label them as gay. Those who are gay sometimes tell bi folk that they are not gay enough, subjecting them to bi shaming, which I will talk more about another day.

This skepticism from both sides has left bi folks at higher risk of depression and suicide. In fact, 40% of bi high school students have seriously contemplated suicide. They are also at higher risk for sexual assault and violence.

Bisexuals are much more hidden than many others within the queer community. 26% of adult bisexuals are not out to anyone important in their lives compared to the 4% of gays and lesbians who would say the same thing. 88% are in a relationship with someone of the opposite sex and can pass for being straight. Many never come out because it’s easier to pass than to deal with the misunderstanding and hate.

A person can name themselves as bi simply on the basis of being attracted to more than one gender. This does not mean they have had sex with more than one gender, nor does it mean they need to be sexually policed and questioned about their sex life. Some people think that being bi means that there is a threesome going on. These folks most likely got their bi education from porn, not reality.

Bi people can be just as committed in a relationship as anyone from any other orientation. The naming is about what genders they are attracted to, not who they are having sex with.

Choosing Names

You may have noticed I use the word queer, along with the acronymn LGBTQ+. I choose these two names because they are meant to be inclusive of all who do not identify as straight or cis-gender. LGBTQ+ can be a bit bulky in sentences so sometimes I use queer. While there are some who find this word offensive (and I am sorry for that but hear me out), it would be offensive to my partner, who is bi, if I used the word gay because that is not a name that fits him.

Historically Queer was a derogatory word, but some within the LGBTQ+ community have chosen to reclaim the word and celebrate its inclusiveness. While LGB are all names for sexuality, queer can also encompass gender identification and more. It is important to give voice and recognition to all who are part of the rainbow community. When my husband names himself as bi and queer, he does it with pride and so will I.

Be an Ally

The bi community needs more allies. Here are some things you can do.

Believe that bi people exist. Don’t shame or erase them. There is a reason so many bi folks are still in the closet. Be a safe place. If someone shares their bi identity with you, honor it. Naming is personal; never respond in a way that seeks to erase who they are. They are not confused and this is not just a phase.

Don’t assume infidelity, assume a big beautiful heart that has a greater capacity to love all people. Do not pressure them into passing as straight; it invalidates the pain they have already endured, as well as the beauty that makes up the mystery of who they are. Don’t ask questions that attempt to police their sexuality.

Instead of spreading rumors that hurt and perpetuate biphobia, let bi people speak their truth and tell their stories. Do your own research and read up on the topic. GLADD has a great resource guide here that is very helpful. Most of all, remember that you can’t love with arms wide open if 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.

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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

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.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

In the Muck

After my husband’s revelation, I somehow picked myself off the riverbank. The rest of the week is a blur. Each morning we spent time at the counseling center before walking the city and and eating fiery Thai curry and gulping iced coffee. We took a Songtaew up the mountain and hiked deep into the woods. One day, as we entered the park near our hotel, we saw an elderly Thai couple enter the park ahead of us. Austin turned to me and told me that he wants to grow old with me. I couldn’t speak; it just hurt too much.


Emotionally I was a hot mess and could not stop crying. This had unsettled something deep inside of me and I felt a grief I had never known before.


Despite the fact that much of that week is a blur, it soon became crystal clear that Austin did not see this as the end of our marriage. In fact, he kept telling me that he still loved me. He was attracted to men, but he was also attracted to me. Austin wasn’t leaving me, he was right here, just speaking his truth.

What my shame told me


But here is thing, his deepest shame nudged up against my deepest shame and the result was a grenade blast to my inner being. It left me feeling like I was being shredded into tiny unrecognizable, worthless pieces.


Here was my deepest shame, which I believed was my truth –
I never had what it took to attract a normal, straight guy.

I carried this with me and wrapped it around me like a scarf until it became part of my identity.

My shame told me that I must be deeply flawed. I was never one of the cool, pretty girls when I was young; the guys I liked never liked me back. When I was in junior high, I was publicly humiliated and called disgusting. I carried this with me and wrapped it around me like a scarf until it became part of my identity. My experience told me I was disgusting and it was easy to believe because guys didn’t look at me twice. The first date I ever had was with Austin and I was 24 years old. I was sure something was wrong with me.


Austin’s love was so powerful and healing, and he had spoken so much truth into my soul. He helped me believe I was worthy and beautiful and he was a genuine agent of healing for me. But on that fateful day, it felt as if everything else was wiped away.

I had no bandwidth to process this and the questions kept forming inside of me. Was he gay? Could he be “healed” from this? Was this the beginning of the end of our marriage? How the heck was I supposed to go home and pretend that everything was normal?

Each day seemed to stir up more questions than answers. I longed to fly away from it all, like the butterfly in my dream. The reality was that I felt the mud and the muck seep into the deepening holes of my heart and wondered if I would ever fly again.

When clarity surprises you


Here is the thing – I lived smack dab in the middle of LGBTQness pretty much my whole life. It shaped me, even when I didn’t know about it. And when you know, you can’t un-know, so the shaping began in earnest nearly a decade ago. If you feel uncomfortable around LGBTQ+ humans, instead of justifying your discomfort, I challenge you to dig inside of yourself and find the source of your discomfort. Perhaps it has more to do with deeply buried personal shame than you care to admit.

For me, my husband’s shame quickly revealed my own deep shame. I figured out that the root of my pain had more to do with my own self loathing and insecurity than about my husband’s attraction to men.


For me, my husband’s shame quickly revealed my own deep shame. I figured out that the root of my pain had more to do with my own self loathing and insecurity than about my husband’s attraction to men.

So I sat in the muck for a while, with my questions and my tears. Once again I felt disgusting, sure that something was wrong with me and that I never was, and never would be, enough.

Hope in the grief

Guttural grief is like a grenade and when your soul is decimated by shrapnel seemingly beyond repair, just sit and breath in that space. It is not the end. The ribbons of your former self can be remade into something stronger and even more beautiful than before, if you surrender yourself to the process and unflinchingly face the shredding. You have an incredible journey ahead if you look for your truest self and 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.