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.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Finding My Own Two Feet

” Marriage and other intimate partnerships are the crucible in which your soul matures and allows you to be a creative, ethical, and thoughtful person in other areas. With this understanding of love, you don’t try to resolve love’s dark night by engineering a better relationship. Your focus is on the soul and its deepening and strengthening.

Thomas Moore in Dark Night of the Soul

All too often, we try to fix relationships by focusing on the “problem.” We then pour our energy into fixing it. Time and experience have confirmed to me that Moore is on to something. He advises us to focus on deepening and strengthening the individual soul, rather then perfecting the relationship. Relationships can only be as healthy as the people in them.

Letting Go of Trying to Change the Other Person

Maybe it was easier to do this because, by this time, I realized this is who Austin is. I was reconciling to the idea that these things were never going to go away. There was nothing I could do. As a woman, there was nothing I could do to compete with attractions to men. I couldn’t change his attractions, couldn’t fix his depression, could not make him happy. It caused me no small amount of pain. At the same time, it helped me to slowly let go and focus instead on the health of my own soul.

Finding the Gift in the Pain

Instead of being the greatest pain of my life, this became the greatest gift. My deepest fears, that he would leave me for a man, had more to do with my own emotional unhealthiness than the reality of what he was thinking and feeling. The codependency I had struggled with my whole life, finally showed up as being an absolute impossibility. There was nothing I could do to fix “us”. So I stopped trying.

I wish I could tell you that I immediately felt lighter. That it was like breathing clean air for the first time. It actually still sucked, quite a lot. The process wasn’t immediate or overnight, rather it was a slow process. I wasn’t always successful at letting go either. Yet, I had switched paths. Every time I found myself on the old path, it became easier to recognize and get back onto the right path again.

Needing Boundaries

One thing my soul needed was boundaries. I was not good at setting or keeping them. Journal in hand, I wrote down exactly what I could and could not live with in our marriage. I was aware that I did not want to leave him. Still, there were lines that could not be crossed if it was going to work.

Boundaries had to be set with other people too. For the first several years after we moved home, I said no to pretty much everything people asked me to do. It became easier with practice and I even learned to enter spaces where I received but did not give.

Relationships can only be as healthy as the people in them.

As a 2 on the Enneagram, who tends to be a giver, this went against everything in me. At first I was too burned out to care, but the practice became easier every time I said no. The guilt lessened, as well, once I could see that my drive to take care of people and fix things came from unhealthy beliefs and practices.

Becoming My Own Person

Instead of finding my identity in acts of service and caring for others, I began to find my identity in the things that gave me life. I carved out time and space to be alone and really think. Doing the things that filled me up became more and more important.

I also had to learn to see myself as my own person, rather than Austin’s wife or my sons’ mom. Growing up in a patriarchal subculture had preconditioned me to see women, including myself, as belonging to or an extension of their father or husband.

Only feet that dance well on their own, can dance beautifully with another.

It was as if I looked down and saw my own feet for the first time. I slowly began to realize I had two of them and I could stand perfectly fine on those two feet. Even if they were tired and the path unfamiliar, my two feet could hold me up.

The crazy thing was, as I leaned into my own identity and did my own soul work, our relationship slowly became stronger and better. Relationships can only be as healthy as the people in them. Only feet that dance well on their own, can dance beautifully with another.


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.

Photography courtesy of Adrienne Gerber Photography.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Better Than Healing

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

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

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

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

A Longing to Return to “Before”

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

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

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

Reparative Therapy

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

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

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

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

Being Gay is Not a Mental Illness

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

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

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

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

But Does It Work?

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

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

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

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

Wholeness Is Moving Towards a New Place

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

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

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

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


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

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Baggage Claims

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

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

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

Finding Myself in the Baggage

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

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

Constant Companion

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

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

Our baggage accompanies us through change.

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

Spiraling Down

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

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

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

The Value of Supportive Friends

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

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

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

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

Finding Myself in the Baggage

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

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

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

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

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

Patel in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

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


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

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Ocean Crossings

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

Oceans of Guilt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oceans of Anxiety

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

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

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

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

Oceans of Grief

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

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

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

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

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


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

Photo courtesy of Adrienne Gerber Photography.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

The Conundrum – to Stay or Leave

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

What I loved about him

He was everything important and all my missing pieces.

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

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

But what about the kids?

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

But I just can’t…

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

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

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

Moving towards emotional health

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


Posted on by palmtreemomma

The Loneliness of the Closet

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

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

Keeping it together for the kids


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

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


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

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

Unexpected Safety

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

Self-care in the grief

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


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

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

The loneliness of the closet

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

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

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

Being safe instead of right

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

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


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

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.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Torn Wings

The Dream

“Sister, teach us something,” they said. But I was worn out and had nothing to give but exhausted love.

Beautiful women, wrapped in brightly colored cotton saris, reached out their hands to me in my dream and I began to walk with them. As we walked the glittery sand that hugs the land, the waves ebbed and flowed constantly around us. Giant stingrays of the brightest blue began to swim in the water beside us.

These huge creatures, which had frightened me as a child, were moving enchantingly in sync with the waves and the women. We danced the ebb and flow of life in a tangible way that loosened my fear and pulled me closer.

As the waves and the rays would pull close to kiss the shore, we would lean towards the land to give space. It was all a dance of dignity and grace and I only had to follow.

These tender but strong women, I learned, had recently escaped a life of pain in the red light district. Once victims of unspeakable violence, they were finding healing and hope. Every time I saw them, their faces were more relaxed and their eyes shone with dignity restored.

We walked together for some time, ankles dipping in and out of the water, in gentle harmony with the waves and the rays. Suddenly the voice of one of my sons called to me from further up the shore and I hurried to see what he had found. There, further inland where the tide had pooled and turned to mud, a butterfly, as dark as the mud itself, was struggling to rise.

The ground here was dark and murky, a sharp contrast to the bright, glittering sand at the shore. In utter astonishment, I watched as the largest butterfly I had ever seen struggled to pull herself out of the mud. Her wingspan was large enough to lay in, but those wings were ravaged with holes so large the sun and the sky showed through. I could feel her struggle as she fought to pull herself out of the muck. Finally pushing, pulling and tugging with all she had, her torn and wounded wings carried her out across the waters.

The image of the butterfly pulling herself out of the muck resonated deeply with me. I longed to walk with purpose and confidence, like the women in my dream but felt more like the wounded butterfly, struggling in a muck that threatened to suffocate me.

Waking Up

I woke from my dream with the powerful thrum of beating wings in my ears and looked around the dark room, trying to separate my dream from reality. My husband of 11 years was snoring peacefully beside me . Our three sons slept in the next room. Outside, the streets of Dhaka which swelled with constant noise during the day, lay still. While the city and its creatures slept, I lay awake, held tightly in the clutches of my dream.

The image of the butterfly pulling herself out of the muck resonated deeply with me. I longed to walk with purpose and confidence, like the women in my dream but felt more like the wounded butterfly, struggling in a muck that threatened to suffocate me.

My artistic husband had his dream job, working for an international development agency, as part of a job creation program. Our three sons spent their days at an international school and loved every minute of it. My guys were all thriving and happy, but I was not.

This introverted girl, who refuels by barefoot walks in the grass, digging in the dirt, picking flowers, reading a book under the trees or simply sitting alone and in silence, was struggling to survive the concrete jungle of Dhaka city and its extremely extroverted populous.

By the time the dream found me, I had spent about seven years in Bangladesh. And, while I love the country and its warm and friendly people, I struggled to find my own niche and ways to recharge. Anytime I ventured out to one of the city’s green spaces, I would immediately be surrounded by a crowd of friendly and very curious people. Most days I would shut myself in my apartment and turn on the air conditioner to block out the constant noise of horns, beggars and hawkers from the street.

It wasn’t that I hated my life there, for there was so much I loved. Cooking is my thing and I would throw down a home cooked meal and game night every Friday night. Our apartment would fill up with so much laughter that our neighbors below would call up and ask us to quiet down so their son could study.

I busied myself making things like burritos, quesadillas and mini pizzas, chocolate chip cookies and sweet gooey cinnamon rolls, all from scratch. Then I would stock the freezer of the team guest house so that the expatriate staff could have a break from rice and curry when they came into town.

I also started a blog and discovered how much I loved weaving words together. Despite all of this, I felt like a fish out of water and struggled to find my niche. Depression pulled me into its toxic embrace and I felt more and more alone. Austin, my husband, was moving away emotionally and I knew something wasn’t right but couldn’t put my finger on it.

The Beginning of a Dark Night

Determined not to blow through the country’s entire supply of tissues by myself, I reached out for help. The agency we worked for was very supportive and had us fly to Thailand for a week of counseling at a lovely retreat center. We dropped our boys at my in-laws and gladly left the noise and chaos of Dhaka behind.

The next morning, we caught a Songtaew, the local transport, from our hotel to the counseling center. My nerves were immediately calmed by the gentle water fountain in the middle of the entry and the quiet green that surrounded the place. I was ready to face my shit and work through it. We soon settled ourselves into a big yellow sofa, ready to get started. But before we delved into my stuff, my husband had something he wanted to say to me.

I looked into the Austin’s eyes and saw an earth-shattering pain that clattered silently in the space between us. We hung in that space for a moment before he told me that he was attracted to men, and had been for as long as he could remember.

I looked into the Austin’s eyes and saw an earth-shattering pain that clattered silently in the space between us. We hung in that space for a moment before he told me that he was attracted to men, and had been for as long as he could remember.

In an instant, my tiny world crumbled at my feet. We had an hour session and this had taken about a minute. That’s all it takes, just a short minute, to sweep away everything you thought you knew and had built your life upon. Just one minute to take a woman who is struggling to survive to being sure that she never will. I have no idea what we did for the next 59 minutes, if we talked or just sat in silence. I have no idea. The next thing I remember is sitting beside a river, bare feet by the water, gentle city noises around us but no other human in sight. We were just a liquid ribbon of water and a broken couple on the grass, trying to make sense out of this.

I was crushed. Broken. Wounded. Sobbing bits of my soul until I felt like a giant piece of snot. Austin, who had just braved his heart and told me his most vulnerable truth, sat with me and tried to understand the depth of my despair.

Nothing had prepared me for this. We had been happily married, or so I thought, and my brain struggled to register the fact that my husband had just come out to me.

In that place of deepest loss, where there are no words, I sat. There was just a guttural grief that washes over everything and takes even the strongest spark of life and snuffs it out. I felt like the butterfly in my dream, curled up on the river bank, wings torn, muddied, the ocean not big enough to contain my tears.

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.

Photo courtesy of Adrienne Gerber Photography.