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On forgiving yourself

“Brady, … I also find it hard to forgive myself for missed opportunities, fear, mistakes, etc. That’s hard to live with at times.

…

As a response to my previous post, I want to thank you for sharing this sentiment, and I’d like to spend some time with it. Forgiving others and being forgiven by others has a different shape and texture than forgiving yourself. It feels different too, because you must acknowledge what you have done and also how it has impacted others, as well as yourself.

I like to think that most of us want to be seen as loving, kind, and simply good persons. In that want, it can be painful, if paralyzing, to face evidence to the contrary. Shame may come up as we acknowledge that we aren’t as loving as we thought we were, as kind as we would like to be, or as good as we believed. Fear, too, can dig in the idea that we are somehow unforgiveable and not worthy of being loved because of what we have done, and therefore what we are.

As with others, we oftentimes hurt ourselves unintentionally, rather than going out of our way to intentionally damage our sense of self, our reputation, or our identity. We can do this by giving an answer to someone else about what they want to hear and not what we truly want to say. We can take the emotional easy route, because we do not want to be more tired. We can pass up a chance to try something new while hating the more dependable choices we tend to make. We can stay in a relationship for someone else, and not for our own wants. We can swallow our feelings, and secretly hate the shapeless quality of our emotions, because reason somehow dictates that we shouldn’t feel this way. We may have hurt others, yes, and yet, a persistent part of us knows that in fact we have also hurt ourselves.

Others might forgive us for what we have done, yet we are the only ones that can forgive ourselves for the choices we made, and the actions we took.

Other’s forgiveness might acknowledge your pain in not forgiving yourself, and yet it oftentimes feeds the hurt. Comforting words, that may seek to help others find a way to forgive themselves for mistakes, or missed opportunities, usually don’t comfort. These cold words sound like, “it wasn’t meant to be,” or “perhaps it’s for the best,” or even a twisty, “when one door closes another door opens.” These seemingly comforting words belay very little, and overlook the difficulty and pain of missed opportunities. Mistakes have the same hue. Others might offer a packaged response to console you, as if to say, “I know you didn’t mean that.” You might even say it to yourself, as way of trying to take back words that were spit out from your own lips; words you meant, even if briefly. With these expressions, forgiveness doesn’t really land, and we can be left unhealed and remain internally divided.

Living with what you have done, living with your actions, and wholly, if kindly, accepting the consequences is the challenge then with forgiving one’s self. To me, forgiving oneself can be a lifelong process of striving for redemption, and yet it can arrive unexpectedly in the space of your own heartbeat. To be kind to yourself, and to acknowledge what you have done, is at the same time the starting point, the long journey, and the soft end point in forgiving yourself.

…

We all do the best we can, as much as we are able to. That includes you. You did the best you could.

(Originally written December 11, 2012)

About the Author

Brady

I'm a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist in private practice down in the greater Long Beach, CA, area. I've been in the mental health field, formally, since 2005, and I consider it a deep and rewarding honor to see other people grow and live the lives that they want. If I'm not sitting on a couch with a cup of tea in hand, I'm probably on my bicycle, or lost in my own thoughts on the beach; meditating, tweeting, blogging, and talking into a video camera are also known to happen.

On being forgiven

“Brady, … Forgiveness: its meaning, its application. What we can gleam from it? How to distinguish within ourselves when it is genuine? What happens next? What does it mean to forgive? How does it relate to the idea of moving on? Can there truly be forgiveness without forgetting?

…

This is a great topic, and such a necessary one to spend time on. As I tend to do, I like to sit a little longer with thoughts and feelings and find a way to describe what it is to sit with those thoughts, feelings, ideas, and questions. That stylistic preface aside, to me, forgiveness can narrowly be viewed as a two-fold transactional process: on one end we can ask for it, and receive it, and on the other end we can give it or not give it. However, I think it is vastly larger than that, and within that vastness, it is hard to find and harder still to move beyond.

I say that because for two people forgiveness can be in entirely different places and look like entirely different unspoken concepts. For some, forgiveness involves forgetting what was wronged, for others it involves a surrender to another person and a recognition that it is their choice to allow you back into their life, and for a few, forgiveness is not a healthy option because to forgive and let someone back in is to invite more hurt. In this way, forgiveness is about the opportunity for two people to come back together, both moving towards one another, and a willingness to travel the distance between the gulf of that hurt.

To be forgiven, that divide must be acknowledged. In acknowledging that divide, forgiveness can be asked for, apologies can be made, and amends can be offered to heal that rupture of trust and to close the distance. That might be enough.

For some, it isn’t enough, and forgiveness isn’t given because apologies weren’t believed to be sincere enough, amends weren’t done the right way, or any other hollow rationale wherein we simply do not want to believe another person. We don’t have to believe an apology is genuine, but to not accept an apology is more about our choice to not accept it than it is about distinguishing the genuineness of the apology that was offered. If you choose to not forgive another person, own it fully as your choice, because whether or not the other person deserves an honest reply, you deserve to be honest with yourself about the choices you are making.

To sit a little deeper, what if we want forgiveness and it isn’t given? Is it then our duty to continually offer apologies in the hopes of getting closer, because as the wounding party we should be eternally apologetic? Is that what asking for forgiveness truly means: an ongoing act of continual apologizing and wanting to be close to another person, and a continual asking of forgiveness? If I could offer you any comfort, or any kind answer about what to do, or what guidance to give, when it seems like you can’t do enough to gain someone’s forgiveness, it would simply be this: you’ve done enough. At some point we must accept another person’s decision to not offer forgiveness, and that is their decision to make. We can be left alone, still wanting to be close to another person, and with no where to go but away from them.

If we are forgiven, it means we are close again, and that is significant. Its application, or how we are forgiven or not forgiven, is also significant because where we go in our relationships and how we relate to one another is a choice. Ideally, in relationships we make those choices together, with clarity and understanding. When it comes to forgiveness, having clarity and understanding means facing that wounding place of rupture, that place of distance, and that place of forgiveness, and knowing that it exists.

Forgiveness, if it is true, is an honest acknowledgement of what happened, and that it isn’t forgotten, but that it is willingly moved away from, by both parties. With this, forgiveness is truer when the act isn’t forgotten, but is remembered, albeit kindly. Whether forgiveness is given, or if it is not, there is only moving on from a place that exists, and from a place that cannot be unknown.
…

Thank you again for those questions. They are a great reminder for me to look at those subtle movements in forgiveness and how it shows us where we stand in relation to another. I think exploring forgiveness and discovering what you want to do when you are hurt or have hurt another, and the choices you can make, is a great place to be, on either side of that divide.

(Originally written December 5, 2012)

About the Author

Brady

In dismissing gratitude

Offering thanks and appreciation to a person, either for what they have done for us or simply for being in our lives, is an act of gratitude. Underneath that act is the feeling itself: an earnest acknowledgement of the importance of another and a desired response to reach back to them, with kindness, with warmth, with love. However, there are many ways that we can dismiss gratitude and many reasons that we make for not wanting others to reach back to us.

We might have been the recipient of having our gratitude dismissed, and the messages that we have received probably hit a similar note: “You should be more grateful,” “You are selfish,” “Of all that I have done for you, you aren’t even thankful,” or “This is the thanks I get?” The receiving end of these messages can burn unspoken messages, possibly deeper, into us: “You don’t really care enough about me,” “You shouldn’t bother,” “You don’t really love me.” These deeper messages can hurt both our relationships and our sense of identity, for if our true expression of thanks and gratitude isn’t enough, then we aren’t enough.

That is on the giving side of gratitude, yet it is in the act of dismissing that I find a fascinating psychological mirror for a person to see their own character. In dismissing gratitude, we may have our own personal reasons. Those reasons may be entirely valid for us, and we may feel more deserving of gratitude, wanting more thanks, more appreciation, and are better than others. Our reasons may also be cultural and bound up with familial hierarchies and power dynamics, wherein the gratitude of others can only be one-directional and is never enough. Familial and cultural teachings may galvanize those reasons and can make accepting gratitude seem immodest, yet there is a relational stance to be examined when gratitude is dismissed. Age, culture, and religious differences can all flavor the dismissal of another’s gratitude in different ways, yet the taste remains.

However, that is the bind in dismissing gratitude: to dismiss gratitude and call another person selfish and ungrateful for not being more appreciative is in its own way an act of selfishness, and an act of putting oneself above another. In dismissing gratitude, we are demonstrating a lack of gratitude for another person and a looking down on another person, simply from looking at one’s own self-worth and not looking at another person’s emotions. Therapeutically speaking, it is neither good nor bad to dismiss someone’s gratitude, for it is simply a relational stance and a choice.

Have I dismissed the gratitude of others and thought that they weren’t truly thankful or appreciative? Yes. Have I felt less than and inadequate when my gratitude has been dismissed? Yes. Have I tried to express gratitude, not from a place of feeling less than deserving, but from a place of mutual appreciation and understanding? I’m still working on that.

Is having a more even sense of gratitude, that neither degrades nor elevates others, then the ideal? Is being able to offer and accept gratitude without dismissing it or hierarchically looking above or below oneself then the better way to be? Very simply; that’s not the point for me. Whether we think ourselves better than others and dismiss their feelings, think of ourselves as equals and empathize with the feelings of others, or think of ourselves as less than others and strive to improve, we have a greater capacity to see ourselves and see how we hold ourselves in relation to others when we examine our response to gratitude. That is the point for me. In exploring gratitude and how it tastes when it is offered, and how it is accepted or dismissed, we have an opportunity to examine how we are with others, change our interactions, and mindfully shape our character.

…

Whether we dismiss a thank you, a kind act, a gentle word, or not, we have a choice in how to respond to others when they reach out to us.

(Originally written November 28, 2012)

About the Author

Brady

On anger: swallowed

When angry feelings come up, they can seem overwhelming, cataclysmic, and downright petrifying. It isn’t only the angered, saddened, or painful emotions that are swallowed, because the happier ones can be swallowed as easily: “try not to get your hopes up,” “don’t just sit around smiling,” “don’t get too excited.” However, what I would like to spend some time expressing, is that when anger isn’t acknowledged and allowed to breathe, fearful consequences are compounded.

As a preface to this article, I’m not advocating that we all should go around and intentionally be angry all the time, or that we should live our lives fueled by rage. I am advocating that if we feel anger, we allow ourselves to feel it and we acknowledge that it is there rather than denying that it exists.

When we swallow our anger, not allow ourselves to feel angry with our partners, not get angry with our kids, not express our anger towards others, we hold our tongues, avoid discussions, hide our reactions, drown them with alcohol, numb them with pills, or find some escape from those feelings. In these actions our anger doesn’t disappear, it simply goes further inward. We can be angry with ourselves for being angry. We can push others away to not hurt them with our anger. We can beat ourselves up for not being nicer. We can hate ourselves for having these feelings while we hate others for the feelings they evoke, and the cyclical descent continues.

The more that anger is swallowed, the more that it is buried under a deep fear of being released for the damage it might cause; damage arises from the swallowing of anger and not from the anger itself. Swallowing anger and burying it under a fear of release is a reaction that for many people becomes a habit, which in turn seemingly becomes the only way to endure life and to survive. With that, pressure builds and unwanted feelings are driven out any way they can, which can be damaging to one’s self and others.

If anger goes unreleased and continues to build, then in the smallest way, words go unspoken, and in the largest way, persons can be killed. I write that, not to sensationalize anger, or to stoke a fear of anger, but to point out something I have seen very clearly in my life and in my work. To put it another way, we don’t die from feeling our feelings, no matter how scary they may seem. What can happen, which many people would like to conveniently forget, is that as fragile beings, we can restrict our lives and die from not feeling our feelings.

(Originally written September 20, 2012)

About the Author

Brady

On anger: justified

How I see it is anger isn’t an emotion in the same way that happiness or sadness are emotions. Happiness and sadness arise from deep inner experiences of trust, while anger, at least from my perspective, is attached to the belief of rightness; trust and belief are distinctive, and their exploration is something that we will explore at another time.

What I mean by, the belief of rightness, is that anger is more of a reaction anchored in the thought “(blank) is wrong!” That “blank” can be another person, a group of people, a country, a politician, or even one’s self. Anger arises from some thought that is connected to a belief that someone holds as right. However, thoughts do not arise singularly, for the second half of that belief of rightness looks a little like this: if, “(blank) is wrong!” then something other than (blank), “is right!” In this way, anger can easily be attached to the idea of fairness, rightness, righteousness, justice, but more often than not, anger is simply regarded as justified.

It is those two sides, that for something to be wrong another thing must be right, that has led to what I think is part of the problem with anger: it is inherently justified by the person that is angry. When a person is in the right, and they believe themselves to be, the anger that is there can seem unending, ever growing, and unquestioned.

Yes, there is a utility to anger and understanding the wrongness of an act. However, and this to me is the key, justifying anger, only seeing one’s rightness and only seeing the wrongness of others, denies the emotions and experiences of other parties for one’s own way.

When anger is justified, it bears a hint of entitlement as well. As an example, “I am angry! Why? Because you’re wrong! I am right and you know better! You can’t see how wrong you are! I’m overreacting? I know better than you to not be that stupid! My reaction is completely normal! You should feel the same way as me! You don’t? You’re a bigger idiot! I’m angrier!” That’s an abridged version of many arguments and disagreements I have experienced over the years, and in each, the same sense of justification cyclically furthers the disagreement and the divide between parties.

This cycle of anger continues, and the justification of anger furthers the divide between two people or parties, and for some, anger is a long road that does not end, with no signs saying stop. It cannot end, so long as someone is right.

(Originally written September 6, 2012)

About the Author

Brady

On sexual assault: one’s being

No. I do not believe that the worst thing that we do defines who we are, nor do I believe that the worst thing that is done to us also defines who we are. From this place, and in discussing sexual assault, I realize that for many people their identity, and their being, becomes inseparable from the sexual assault that they have endured.

This becoming inseparable, of an act and one’s being, is noticeable in the words that people use to talk about themselves.

In the language of sexual assault, the word, “victim,” is used sparingly. Using a word that reminds a person of their being victimized, of their powerlessness, of that moment of painful reality, can be too much. For that reason, many people use the word, “survivor,” to add a sense of reclaiming power and identity, which isn’t evoked with the word, “victim.” However, in this way, “survivor,” is as limiting as the word, “victim,” because it keeps a person defined by that moment.

Yes, I believe that sexual assault needs to be discussed, publicly. I believe that those that have endured sexual assault have a right to reclaim their voices and to reclaim their bodies. I also believe, truly, that a person can be trapped in their hurt and see their whole lives as colored by one, or a pattern, of unwanted events. Addressing sexual assault is a long process that requires acknowledging what happened, and, to be truly healed from that pain, defining one’s life not by that hurt.

Being healed and being safe starts with saying, “no,” to the act itself. It continues by saying, “no,” to being defined by that act.

(originally written on August 12, 2012)

About the Author

Brady

On sexual assault: one’s body

When a person is sexually assaulted, the body, and through it, the world that can be experienced, is irreparably changed. What once might have been a safe and secure world is no longer as safe, as secure, or as gentle and whole. Those traumatic feelings, these frozen experiences, are not solely in the mind, for they arise in and through one’s body.

The effect of sexual assault on the body is long lasting. For some people who are sexually assaulted, the ability to trust one’s own body, and one’s own experience is also damaged. A warm gesture from a friend, the simple sound of footsteps, first date stomach butterflies, a kiss on the lips, even sex with an old and trusted partner, can in their own way bring up physical memories that are unexpected and unwelcomed. In its own way, the body hold’s onto experiences, because that is the language of the body.

Am I saying that a person who survived sexual assault will forever endure the experience of being assaulted? No. I do not believe that sexual assault is the defining moment of a person’s sexual or physical self understanding, but it is a defining moment: a moment that sometimes gets reawakened; a moment that casts a very long, if diffuse, shadow; a moment of hurt that must be healed; a moment that can be remembered tightly or held loosely. It is also not a moment that time will erase, for time doesn’t heal all wounds.

With sexual assault, the body is forced into an experience, so the very physicality of an act of assault becomes seared in the body and also into the person.

Getting to the personal and emotional place, where one’s body feels safe and secure, and whole, may not happen to a person that has endured sexual assault. I do not say that to be downcast, but to be honest that reclaiming one’s sense of safety and security is more of a process than a fixed point. The process, as I like to think of it, is a physical process of learning to hold onto the experience loosely, rather than being stuck, and physically trapped in that frozen, helpless moment. It is a difficult and challenging process to heal, and to come back into one’s body after such a wounding.

As much as we hold onto our trauma and pain, it is possible to hold onto those experiences not as tightly. With being gentle with one’s self, with being tender with one’s self, without hiding from one’s self, the body can heal.

(originally written August 4, 2012)

About the Author

Brady

On sexual assault: one’s voice

When a person is sexually assaulted, their ability to say, “no,” is taken away. Their words, and the weight of their words, are emptied out and left hollow, and all to frequently, unheard. One aspect of sexual assault, this aspect of taking away the, “no,” of silencing, is an insidious part of assault because it doesn’t happen once.

In the act of assault itself, a person receives the unwanted actions of another, and the assault roots itself throughout their body and being. The body, the mind, the heart, the spirit, and the voice, are all assaulted and each needs healing in its own way. The voice is assaulted by its very words being taken away by another person. For some, the word, “no,” never came out because of shock. For some, the word, “no” came out softly, if fearfully swallowed. For some, the word, “no” was shouted; the words were rightfully expressed. For all, and for each person that has been assaulted, a “no” was there in some form, and in whichever form it was there, it wasn’t heard.

The voice is silenced, and it isn’t simply silenced in the act of assault. Speaking out about one’s sexual assault can be silenced by one’s own self. Some women may not talk about sexual assault and bring up those painful mental and physical memories. Some men may not talk about sexual assault, for fear of being seen as weak if they talk about being hurt by anyone. Some women may not want to talk about sexual assault, because they choose to share, or not share, their story with whomever they choose. Some persons may not speak out, because they don’t know where or how to start speaking, or if anyone is listening.

Others, too, can silence a person from talking about sexual assault. Friendly jokes about rape, between friends, can silence a friend from sharing about their assault. Partners can avoid conversations about assault, because they do not want to bring up painful subjects. Parents can avoid discussing a child’s assault because the parent’s may feel somehow responsible, and not want their child to go through talking about a scary experience. Friends can encourage a friend to go talk to a therapist, and end a conversation before it happens.

Others, anyone really, can speak about another person’s sexual assault and use those words, that experience, and the pain, of the person for any convenient reason: to keep a conversation going, as proof that one is a trusted friend, to better inform others about sexual assault. Whether another person silences a conversation about assault out of politeness, or out of unintended blindness, whatever the intentions, the voice that needs to be heard is the one that was silenced.

If you have been assaulted, your story is yours to share. If someone you know has been assaulted, their story is theirs to share. This may seem trite, oversimplified, or a canned piece of advice, which in some ways it is. It is also the only way to hear a voice; for a voice to be reclaimed, one must speak, and for the voice to be heard, and healed, someone must listen.

(originally written July 22, 2012)

About the Author

Brady

On the idea of being better than

An old friend, Andrew Schwartz, whose intellectual historian work focuses on rational conservatism, tossed a question my way a while ago that I would like the opportunity to unpack here. He asked me about motivation and superiority, explicitly, “do the superior somehow strive for inferiority, or at the very least, strive for the acceptance of the inferior?” As a psychologist, I’ll spend a bit of time with the two layers of this question, namely the idea of being better than others, and also what constitutes not becoming better.

To begin to answer this question, I’ll offer a tentative, “no.” I believe that many people strive to be superior to others, and in doing so relate to others in a hierarchical, dominating, and overpowering way, and not in an accepting, allowing or affirming way. Superiority hinges upon thinking of others as competition, assessing the competition, and not being associated with inferiority in any dimension. However, it is a delicate thing to feel superior, because one must constantly outdo others, be outdone only to become better, must always be right, and must never accept inferiority, in one’s self or in others. The cost of superiority, it seems, is maintaining a distance to others, and maintaining a distance from accepting one’s self as is.

Thinking about the superior, not as a way of relating to another person, but as a thing unto itself, as a category of persons, leads to the more explicit question: is there, then, an actual better, an actual superior person? Is there a tangible endpoint in personal development that is best, above all, unequaled, which champions the highest emotional, intellectual, philosophical, and spiritual values? That is a question that many people would look towards psychology, as a field, for the answer. Our psychological theories of superiority, maturation, development, cognitive capacities, altruism, and relational skills certainly have their “better” categories: Bowlby’s securely attached, Skinner’s adaptive behavior, Maslow’s self-actualizing experiences,Rogerian congruence, and the notable Adlerian superiority. These are some psychological categories of better, but they are not, as philosophers would note, ontologically better, or a real better. The difference is that psychology seeks to understand the human condition, not to identify what is real or not.

Sure, a psychologist can smell a superiority complex (a defensive stance wherein a person seeks to be better than others to overcome feeling less than others) a mile away. However, sensing that another person feels superior, and does not want to feel inferior, is the starting place of understanding another person and not the endpoint. With wanting to feel superior, oftentimes persons have idealized conceptions of what it means to be superior. The endpoint of development and superiority, one could fixate on, could be a noble Superman, strong Wonder woman, wise Yoda, humane Buffy Summers, or some other heroic, ethical, idealized person. Sure; having idealized images of persons that are maturing, growing, evolving, or better, can instill a sense of aspiration and guidance, but those dynamic images of persons do not exist without stagnant images of people that are somehow inferior, worthless, and less than.

Like Narcissus, we can spend our life not looking at ourselves, and avoiding introspection, only to become frozen when we do. Like Queen Niobe, we can define ourselves in a role, and weep for the rest of our life when that role is taken away, only to be turned into stone and continue weeping. Like Dorian Gray, we can forever try to capture and maintain our beauty, while avoiding any thought of who we have become. Like Lady Macbeth, we can pursue power for the sake of power, and hope to lose any lingering sensitivities. Like Peter Pan, we can vow to never grow up and to be happy, always. Like Tiana, we can dream of being happy but remain stuck, not even a person, until another person deigns us with what we cannot achieve on our own. These images, these characters, these archetypes, warn of how we can remain frozen, immobile, afraid, and shuttered off from what may help us evolve and grow. These are the images of striving to be better than, and also of not becoming better.

These images, of striving for superiority, help us along our own personal path, but not as a simple guide or simple warning sign. These and other stagnant images, wherein the person strives to be superior, does not grow, does not mature, nor become a full human being, are to be embraced and understood for those exact reasons: because it is painfully difficult to grow, in any direction; because we all, in our own way, want to be happy; because we all do the best that we can. We can learn from what we deem superior, as much as we can learn from what we deem inferior, but the point of there being a definitive superior or there being an inferior is misleading. If we can accept the idea that people do the best that they can, then notions of a fixed superior, being outdone only to become better, become less fixed. There is the possibility, then, that we can be close to others as they are, when we are as we are, without striving to be better.

About the Author

Brady

On feeling our feelings

In my practice, I see many people that have a difficult time understanding their feelings. Those persons often know their feelings as only “good” or “bad” and it is painfully difficult undergoing emotional exploration, or discovering particular shadings of each emotion. In most cases, those persons that have a hard time understanding their feelings also come from a personal history in which they were not allowed to feel their feelings.

What do I mean when I say that a person, “isn’t allowed to feel his or her feelings?” Feelings can be silenced, strangled, or disallowed in many interactions. As children, we don’t want to give our parents a headache if we cry, or disagree and lose their love, so we don’t cry or speak up. As siblings, we might naturally hate each other, but rather than allowing that feeling to be, and then to pass, we deny it exists at all and hold onto it deep down. As friends, we might feel alone and helpless, but we don’t want to be a burden or seem weak, so we don’t ask for help or admit our feelings. As lovers, we don’t want to share our fears because they might push our partner away, so we talk about things that don’t matter and create distance. In these interactions, the injunction to not feel one’s feelings comes up as pointed declarative statements about one’s feelings:

“Get over it.”
“Don’t talk back.”
“Stop crying and put yourself together.”
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“It’s not about you.”
“You don’t hate him/her.”
“Think about someone else for once.”
“You should be thankful.”
“You should be respectful.”
“You’re selfish.”
“You’re too sensitive.”

These aren’t declarative facts. These are expressions whose impact, and aim, is to silence the feelings of others. These statements are rarely expressed singularly, as an exception, but as a history, and an ongoing lived reality. Silencing statements compound one another, adding up, and further the pressing down of whatever rightful feelings may be there.

Is it a conscious choice to silence the feelings of others? I don’t think so. I think it is hard, very hard, for a person to feel their feelings, express their feelings, and for another person to acknowledge those feelings without running away from them, shaming those feelings, or hiding from those feelings. For this reason, I think that silencing happens on both ends; one person doesn’t really want to hear the feelings of another, and the other person doesn’t want to express their feelings to another person. Throughout these mutual interactions, feelings aren’t expressed, feelings aren’t allowed to be, and in this way, feelings aren’t felt; they are pushed away first by another person and then by one’s self.

How do we then come to a point where we can feel our feelings? I think the answer is simple, yet fully challenging for the person and their relationships; the silence must end somewhere. In their relationships, a person’s feelings need to be allowed, rather than dismissed, so that they can be felt. They need to be witnessed, not silenced, so that they can be felt. They need to be respected, as opposed to being preemptively critiqued, so that they can be felt. We need to break the silence, and we need other people to help us feel our feelings, so that we can know our feelings, and know that we are okay to feel them.

About the Author

Brady

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