Posted on by palmtreemomma

Two Things

I was talking with a friend recently about her husband’s betrayal and realized again how two things can be true at the same time. I don’t know if you have ever experienced this type of betrayal or not. But if you have, perhaps you felt like I did. That you must not have truly been loved. Or valued.

For me, the betrayal made me question everything good that I had ever believed we had in the relationship. Made me doubt that I had ever been loved. Made all the good memories nearly unbelievable. Undermined every single aspect of our relationship.

But somewhere along the way, I had the realization that two things can be true at the same time. You can be truly loved by someone and betrayed by them. Your partner can be genuinely attracted to you and attracted to someone else at the same time.

two things can be true at the same time

We are not all wired the same way. For some of us, this concept just does not make sense. And we would rather cheat on our own self then cheat on our partner. We find it more palatable to sacrifice pieces of our own self and our happiness, rather than disappoint or hurt the other person.

Which leads to another hard truth that I have had to admit to myself.

I cheated on my self before I was ever cheated on.

cheating on myself

Let me say that again for all those in the back who didn’t catch it the first time.

I cheated on my self before I was ever cheated on.

What I mean by this is that I was not true to my own self long before my partner was not true to me. Looking back from this vantage point, it’s so easy to see. How many times I sacrificed good and necessary parts of myself because I wanted to make my partner happy. Wanted him to have a life where he could thrive. Because I believed that love and sacrifice were synonymous. That love cost everything and was, in many ways, painful.

Which leads down a rabbit hole of religious trauma and a god who brings pain and asks so much of me that I loose my will to live. But we are not going down that rabbit hole today.

My point is, I betrayed myself before I was betrayed. Because I thought that is what love it about. Completely abandoning myself for the sake of another. And in reconciling all of these painful truths, I realized that two things can be true at once.

duality

He cheated on me and broke my heart. And I cheated on myself.

He betrayed me. And he loved me.

He wanted to be with me. And he wanted to be with someone else.

He was with someone else. And it had nothing to do with any lack within me.

The list could go on and on. But I hope you get the point. And, if you are struggling with a betrayal of some kind, I hope it is helpful to you to realize that two things can be true at the same time.

It has helped me to let go. Relax the corners of my mind that like to hold on to certainty and logic. That fixate on one aspect and cannot see anything else. I’m learning to relax into the flow of life instead. Without having to understand everything. Or control outcomes. Because my new vantage point has given me the beautiful perspective of a new start. One that has given me the opportunity to build a life that is true to who I am. One where I am committed to never betraying my self again. A life that is true to the core of who I am. So I can be all I am meant to be

So I acknowledge the strange duality that has made itself known to me. While relaxing into the ancient wisdom of my body and learning new ways of being in the world. Handcrafting a life that honors all the things this body craves and needs to flourish.

Want to hear more? You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon. Drop me a line if you want to be added to my email list.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Tomb or Womb

There’s a heaping pile of pressure on women in patriarchal cultures. Many of us learn from early childhood, to clean up messes we did not make. As quickly and quietly as possible. Trauma has caused some of us to even anticipate those messes. Metaphorically speaking, we walk about on our tiptoes, broom and dustpan in hand. Waiting and ready for the next mess. We never allow ourselves to live our own lives. Instead we focus on keeping things neat and tidy for everyone else.


This pressure is magnified in subcultures, such as the Conservative Mennonite culture I was raised in. It’s been some time since I left that culture. Yet, like a tattoo on my shoulder, it’s never completely left me. And that’s not all bad. There has been much good to come out of my upbringing. But in times like the present, I feel a hundred pairs of eyes looking at me. Expecting me to do what I was taught. To swallow my feelings and forgive my husband and throw all my efforts into saving this marriage.


There’s no space for the necessary in-between. The dark, ugly, messy, UN-knowing space. Where one can’t see the end. Where it’s so dark you can’t see a thing at all. Not even your own hands waving in front of your face. You can only feel what you feel. Where you give yourself permission to forget about the end result. And you breathe in the air of the darkness around you until you realize you’re in a womb, not a tomb.

The Womb

I feel like I'm being born again
This awful infidelity
giving me
a fresh start.
A chance to create
the life I want. 
Set my own terms.
Burrow into all the
cracks and crevices
of my tired
worn out life. 
Find all the things
that no longer serve.
Give them a boot
kick them out the door. 
Yes it's painful to see
these ashes.
But they speak to me
of new beginnings.
And I get to choose
my path forward. 
Carve a place
that has room for 
all of me.


This obsession with rushing to get things back to picture-perfect normal is killing us. It’s not life-giving or loving in the least bit. Cleaning up messes we did not make, serves no one but those in power. Rushing to forgiveness so that the other person can come home to you, means you may never get to truly come home to yourself. Quickly fixing things to make the other person comfortable means you may never truly be comfortable again.

Learning to be okay with a period of uncertainty and ambiguity is proving to be life saving for me. It’s giving me a much needed pause from the way my life has been. Allowing me to rest and be. Simply be.

And as I rest, realizations come to me. Rising slowly to the surface where I can sift and sort through. See with clear eyes the things that no longer serve me. Knowing deep in my core that as I learn to fully come home to myself, the rest will eventually fall into place.

Want to hear more? You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon. Drop me a line if you want to be added to my email list.

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My Mother’s Daughter

Have you met my mother's daughter? 
hair pulled tight to keep 
ears from sticking 
out too far
slicked back with
dippitydoo
long skirts over banged up knees
that preferred to kneel
in the dirt
by the creek
run away
by herself
find the meadow of flowers
tucked behind the woods
where her voice could roar and 
bounce across the hills
sing songs that were silly
and dance in the dirt

The one who was a little 
too much
so they hushed her with rules
and set her up to fail if
she opened her mouth
but gave her a place of 
belonging
just for her
IF
she was quiet and
submissive
go to church but
not speak in it
bring casseroles and 
jello cakes
in colorful dishes
leave them on the table
for others to consume.
give her body
scrub the toilets
hold the babies
wash the mud and dirt 
off the floor and
the shoes
and the clothes
pull that wild curly hair 
 tighter
pin it into a bun
hide it!
all the wild glory
behind a piece of pleated cloth
cover those once-skinned knees 
with pantyhose please
don't let your skin be seen
give up
the things you want
sacrifice with joy
give your life away
but hold on
to purity and
keep those curves covered
work harder, don't stop
wipe the tears of those around you
but hide yours
it's not okay to need  or want
when others are suffering
sit here for family photo
hide the disaster that lurks
beneath the picture
perfect smiles pasted
over mental health that is rotting
turn the lights brighter to 
cover the darkness that holds us
clenches us in a grip so tight
hold the one who
wants to die
fix her
all by yourself
because you have god
and that is all you need
besides there is no one
who sees you 
all alone
carrying a load too big
staggering
stumbling
all for crumbs of praise
recognition that comes
for good girls who
are too much 
so they must
give too much

Have you met my mother's daughter? 
with the load so big it would crush her
if she tried to lay it down
her only way out then
to just keep going
keep saving others since
she cannot save herself
from a load of being
too much
so she crosses continents
and gives her life away
because there was too much
 grief to stay 
in the place where
my mother's daughter
had to grow herself up alone
be her father and her mother
knead the bread and 
be the bread
until one day
she was all used up
and the sun no longer shown
on her inner landscape
and she had nothing left 
with which to pretend
that it was light 
and she was all right
so she fell
down
down
down
under the load she had
carried for far too long
and it crushed her
split her
into
a thousand pieces

And then
Glory!
she found her banged up knees 
in the beautiful dirt 
by the creek
she found her hands
in the meadow of flowers
tucked behind the woods
and there was her voice!
roaring and bouncing across the hills
singing songs that were silly
and there were her feet
dancing in the dirt
and when she looked into the stream
it stilled as a mirror
and she saw
finally saw
my mother's daughter
as she was always meant to be
and there the wind caressed her
tumbled her curls round her shoulders
and under the light 
of a sumptuous moon
she found what they were always afraid of
she found her whole self
her too-much not-enough self
that was actually just right
so she stepped fully into her skin
all of it
and the sky dripped 
giant tears of joy 
while the hills laughed
with relief at
the sheer beauty
of a woman
who finally 
stepped into
her whole skin.

When I was 5 years old, we rented a little house next to a pig farm. Beyond the yard and the pig pen was a lovely little creek. Behind it, the woods. I would venture off, exploring, every chance I had. One day I discovered a meadow of wild spring flowers, tucked into a corner of the woods. Some of my earliest moments of happiness were there in those woods.

Time passed and we moved. From house to house. State to state. I was born a granddaughter of a preacher. Later I became the daughter of one. I grew up in a tight community. But I also grew up alone. Learned how to hide the un-health of others. Carried burdens that were too heavy for a child. Some things are not yet speak-able because, contrary to the stories some tell about me, I really do love and care for my family.

But this poem has bubbled to the surface and wants to be given wings. So I release it to the winds that watched me step fully into my own skin. All of it. And know it will be taken to my sisters who still believe they are too-much, not-enough.

And the next time the wind roars past your ears, don’t be fooled. It’s never just the wind. It’s another one of us stepping fully into our own skin.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

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The Truth Wrapped in Dreams

If you’ve been following me for any length of time, you’ll know that dreams are important to me. I find they alert me to the things I need to pay attention to. They bring clarity and understanding. Fresh ways of seeing things that help me to navigate difficult situations during my wakeful hours. Opportunities to bring healing to painful events in the past. They help me to find my voice and bring me the courage to refuse to be erased.

I’m a bit jealous of people who can just go to bed and sleep for hours and hours when they feel depressed or overwhelmed. I am not a great sleeper at the best of times, and when I am feeling depressed or anxious, it’s harder than ever to get deep sleep.

One thing I do have going for me, however, is that I dream a lot. And when I start to pay attention to my dreams, it seems as if I dream more often. There have been a number of compelling dreams that have ended up in my dream journal this year, but the one I’m about to share is one of the most vivid and entertaining of them all. And it is so very telling.

The amusement park

In my dream, I returned to a faith community whose leader was responsible for some of my religious trauma. When I arrived, a friend welcomed me, yet, when we tried to find a place to sit, there was no space for me. Even though my friend easily found a place for herself. The daughter of the leader refused to look at me, rendering me invisible. Various creatures filled my dream, both human and animal. But what struck me was the feeling of shame I bore, even though I had done nothing wrong. I found it difficult to look the humans in the eye. Yet, later in the day, I saw some of them either stoned or drunk on the floor. I marveled to myself that hours earlier, they had been the ones who were deemed “holy” and acceptable.

There was a growing sense of danger. Buildings broke apart and were swept away by an unseen force, yet I didn’t leave until I was attacked and bitten by an animal. When I dialed 911, they thought I was at an amusement park. I made it clear that, no, I am at “the church” and I need to be picked up. Now! When he arrived, the first responder thought I was a reporter and wanted to drop me in the special section outside the hospital set up to treat reporters. Clearly, the catastrophe was a big one and was gathering attention.

the reporter

Let’s face it. The church has become something akin to an amusement park where the cost of entry is high and just might be costing more than we think.

Perhaps I am a reporter. One who was almost erased. One who was used and then cast aside.

There is not enough space here to list all the ways this leader and those who worshiped him both wounded and silenced me. Discouraging me from seeking mental health help when I was on the verge of breaking down. Suggesting we may have sinned when my husband and I lost a baby. Denied days of rest that were desperately needed. Shutting down our voices when we suggested that certain policies would be harmful to people we cared deeply about.

During a large gathering of an organization he presided over, this leader brought to the stage a young man who he celebrated as the first volunteer of this particular organization. My husband and I looked at each other in shock, since we had just completed years of volunteering for this very organization. I felt both humiliated and erased in one fell swoop.

the body’s wisdom

When I reflect back on those years, what strikes me most is that I was not allowed to listen to the wisdom of my body. Instead, the body was seen as evil. Not to be trusted. Even basic human needs for rest were controlled and limited. I became so exhausted and burned out that I developed compassion fatigue. But I was expected to keep going.

The ironic thing is, I can remember the leader quoting the verse about the heart being desperately wicked and who can know it. Using it to prove that we can’t trust ourselves. Our gut. Yet we were supposed to trust the things he said. And people did. They responded to his words like eager puppies, desperate for drops of affection from their master.

Refuse to be erased

This has been a difficult post for me to write and I realize this dream has stirred up things that I probably did not have the energy to fully process until now. I found myself starting and stopping more often than usual. It’s one of the hottest days of the year so far, yet I have been drawn outdoors again and again. To plant my bare feet in the grass, walk the backbone of Mother Earth and take in sweet breaths of her warm air. Bare toes curling over blades of grass as I remember the pain and disappointment I felt. First of being so controlled. And then erased. My body is showing me the way to process this old grief.

And the beautiful thing about the human body is that it knows when it is being mistreated or erased, sometimes before our minds comprehend it. There is great danger in any religion or organization that teaches this knowledge as a dangerous thing, rather than the ancient wisdom that it is.

but i refuse to be erased

In my dream, my body took much abuse and betrayal before I was ready to get myself out of the situation. And while this parallels my real life in so many ways, and I wish I had “dialed 911” sooner, I am grateful to be where I am. The tent of wounded reporters is far safer and more restful than the amusement park that the church has become.

I know there are many others like me, who have been controlled and then erased by the church. If this strikes a cord, know that you are not alone. Like the butterfly from an earlier dream, who pulled herself out of the mud and flew across the ocean with giant holes in her wings, the muck cannot hold you down. Keep beating your wings. We will not be erased. We will display the holes that have ravished our wings – and we will fly anyway.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

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Almost Erased

In my introductory post, Torn Wings, I wrote about my dream of a butterfly. A graceful creature I saw who pulled herself out of the mud and muck, and flew across the ocean. The light shown through massive holes in her wings, and yet, she flew. I knew she was both me as an individual, as well as all of us who give voice to the feminine. That beautiful part of the divine that those in power have tried to erase.

In my dream, I watched in amazement as she flew bravely out over the water. With each beat of her wings she put distance between herself and those who had riddled her wings with holes. She carried a power that shattered the belief that the feminine is more fragile. Weaker. Less than. Something controllable.

Today I carry her on my shoulder. Nestled close to my heart. Her wings have healed and she has found her name. Mukti.

Becoming Free

Mukti is heard in many languages across Southeast Asia and carries with it the idea of setting or becoming free. What began as a dream on a hot summer night in Bangladesh, a few months before my husband came out, has become my Mukti, a symbol of hope and healing. Of both setting and becoming free.

Her journey is far from finished. I have her on my shoulder to remind me of where we have been and where we are going. As the artist knit threads of ink together beneath my skin, I did what she taught me. Breathe through the pain. Slowly. In and out. Again and again.

Finding our Mukti

Many us feel exhausted and brokenhearted today. As if our wings have just been riddled with fresh holes. What the Supreme Court did today shows me that the Patriarchy is afraid. This isn’t about life; it’s all about control. If it weren’t so heartbreaking, it would almost be laughable. This grasp at control. But the way of the feminine is not about control. It is about love and equality.

We refuse to be erased by showing the holes that have been put into our wings – and flying anyway.

This movement of beating wings has grown massive over the past few decades. And the Patriarchy is terrified. They are trying desperately to control us. And if they can’t control us, to erase us.

The butterfly I saw pulling herself out of the muck and flying out across the ocean, was for me that day. But today it is for all of us. We can’t be controlled and we will not be erased.

We will grieve for today. Hold each other and weep. But this is not the end. The muck cannot hold us down. We’ve pulled ourselves out before and we will do it again. Keep beating our wings until we find our Mukti once again. We refuse to be erased by showing the holes that have been put into our wings – and flying anyway.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

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The Feminine Within

I am finding that the greatest challenge of being the straight spouse in a mixed-orientation marriage has little to do with my husband’s sexuality. Rather, it is rooted in my own insecurities and feelings of self-worth.

Feelings nurtured in a childhood lived under the demands of the patriarchy. A childhood where the little girl in me ceased to exist at a very young age. Instead of being nurtured, she quickly learned to nurture.

One could argue that this little girl was naturally gifted to nurture and was only stepping into her god-given role. Yet little girls, regardless of their gifts, need to be mothered. Nurtured. Protected. Given space to dream and try on…
clothes
styles
attitudes
beliefs.

when the feminine is flattened


Little girls are not designed to be poured into a replicable mold. To fill the same role as that of their mother before them. And their grandmother before that. When little girls are required to pick up maternal roles while their chest is still flat, something in their internal landscape is in danger of forever remaining flat and undeveloped.


Little girls are made to dream and dance. But when they are taught to serve from sunrise to sunset, to keep those around them happy and fed, their dreams quickly die and the only dance they perform is learning to anticipate the needs of others and to meet those needs before they are spoken.

silenced


I have struggled for a very long time with the words I want to say. Need to say. I fear I will bring shame and pain to my mother if I voice them. In her book Discovering the Inner Mother, Bethany Webster says,


“Many daughters equate silence about their pain as a form of loyalty to their mothers…. Our compassion for our mothers should never eclipse compassion for ourselves.”


So I am breaking a bond of silence because I must be loyal to myself. If I am to be fully whole, and find my dance again, I must do all I need to do to show compassion for myself.


I love my mother deeply and wish the same for her. I look back over the generations and see how the women in our family carry this wound deep within our DNA.

daughters who are mothers


As a young girl, my grandmother thrived in school. It was her safe, happy place. She loved words more than anything and was a finalist at more than one spelling bee. But tragedy struck when she was barely a teenager and her mother died. Her father, an Amish farmer, had no choice but to take her out of school and have her care for her baby sister. She found herself cleaning, doing laundry, and cooking for her father and a table full of brothers. As a young girl, my grandmother raised herself and her baby sister while figuring out how to keep a family of farmers happy and fed.


My grandmother was an incredibly resilient woman. Yet she had a deep mother wound herself and did not know how to fully embody being a mother to her daughters.


And my mother, having not been fully mothered and nurtured herself, looked to her young daughter to give her the nurturing she craved. I learned, at a very young age, how to be a safe space for the adults in my life. How to listen and hold, and how to be both surrogate spouse and therapist. Like my grandmother before me, by the time I was 14, I was cooking up to 3 meals a day, doing the laundry, cleaning, and caring for my brothers. Unlike her, I stayed in school and also took on a part-time job, sharing 80% of my earnings with my parents.

The Perfect daughter

To anyone in the Patriarchal community, I was the perfect daughter. Groomed to care for those around me and denied my own dreams and longings. Inside, however, I was dying a slow and painful death.

I quickly learned that even my basic, developmental needs were too much. All that mattered were the needs of those around me. In fact, the more I squashed my own inner longings and needs for affirmation and nurturing, the more I was noticed and praised. I share my grandmother’s love for words, so it makes sense that words convey feelings of love to me more than actions. I would do anything to hear words of affirmation spoken to me.

And I did. I worked my fingers to the bone for tiny scraps of affirmation. Because I was only noticed and praised when I sacrificed what I wanted and worked hard to meet the physical and emotional needs of those around me. So I worked harder. And harder still.


I could write a complete volume on the journey from that “good little girl” to the fierce and feisty woman I have become. And perhaps I will do that someday.


But I can’t wait that long to say what burns inside of me. Words that must be spilled onto the page today or I will go up in flames for the heat of it.

the feminine within you


No matter your gender, if you were raised under the Patriarchy, there is a feminine part of you that needs you to sit down and have a good listen. We are all a blend of the masculine and the feminine and yet we have been brought up in a culture that praises and empowers the masculine while silencing, controlling, and shrinking the feminine. This has not only hurt women; men suffer deeply as well.


I would go as far as to say that many of the problems we face are either a result of, or amplified by, the hatred of the feminine. From the war in Ukraine to the war on feminine bodies, the masculine need to control and dominate is making itself known.

hungry for life


But the little girl inside of us is not concerned about power and control. She is hungry for life. Full of love. Concerned for safety. This is why she cuddles babies. Speaks tenderly to tiny kittens. Picks wildflowers for the window sill. She is creator, not taker. And the earth itself heals when we listen to her.


She does not allow us to live in hatred. For ourselves or for our enemies. She is the embodiment of love and inclusion. Equality is the dance floor and she moves with grace.


If you are still long enough, you may hear her. If you can clear the clutter of your mind, and pause your race to the elusive top, you may get a glimpse of her.


We can stop looking for her in other women, in projects, in more work. She’s not in movies or books or famous people we admire and chase after. She’s in us. If we are alive, there is still time to find her. She held us before our mother’s arms found us, and she will hold us long after our mothers are gone. She carries the salve to heal our wounds. But this healing balm cannot be taken by force. We must be still and lean in before that healing balm is given.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Codependency and Religion

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

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

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

what codependency can look like

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

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

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

Children as caregivers

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

In an article on Children as Caregivers, LeAne Austin says

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

LeAne Austin

Learning to be a child

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

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

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

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

Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Speaking Your Truth

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

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

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

how the church normalizes abuse

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

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

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

Abuse and trauma

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

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

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

when confrontation is re-traumatizing

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

It. Was. Not. Well. Received.

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

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

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

Never should on yourself

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

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

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

Want to hear more?


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

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

Posted on by palmtreemomma

100% Absolute Surety

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

Sure…

…of God.

…of salvation.

… the afterlife.

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

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

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

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

room for mystery

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

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

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

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

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

holding holes up to the light

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

Photo courtesy of Adrienne Gerber Photography.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

The Journey from Grief to Glory

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


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


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

Grieving the losses.


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


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


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


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


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

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


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

religious trauma


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


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

listening to the language of my body


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

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

Francis Weller in The Wild Edge of Sorrow


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

closure


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


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

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


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

choosing life


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


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


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


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

Photo courtesy of Adrienne Gerber Photography.