Starting April 1, I’m running a 30-day journaling challenge that I’m calling The Resilience Journals. I am doing this because I am used to being in isolation. I had to separate myself after major surgery, and after chemo and radiation. 

What sustained me then and now is keeping a journal. Any act of creativity works, but journaling is simple, and doesn’t require a lot of space or time.

Journaling untangles my knots. It wakes me up to beauty. 

I don’t know how it works; it just does. 

I know a lot of you journal already. Some of you began your first journal in my English class when you were sixteen. I say we rediscover the practice. I want to invite you ALL to join me for the month of April. 

Let’s do something creative together, while apart.

It’s an antidote to fear. And a ladder to clarity. 

Turns out that this idea of a 30-day journal challenge is not mine alone. In a case of simultaneous discovery, one of my heroes (and a cancer survivor), Suleika Jaoud is also doing a 30-day journaling challenge. The reason I’m so late to launch this idea is that when I found out that she was doing it, I hesitated. I let my idea wilt. But today I realized that the brave over perfect move is to keep going. I can build a mini revolution WITH her by doing a challenge with you. It will be one steeped in creativity, and in resilience and resistance journaling!

Here’s how it works: 1-11 minutes of free-writing each morning. No rules. It starts today.

I’ll give you 7 prompts each week by email. Here’s the link to sign up to receive for FREE daily journal prompts!

I’ll also be posting prompts each day on Instagram (@susierinehart) and Facebook (Susie Rinehart Home of the Brave)

You do not need to share what you write. But send me pictures of your journal or anything you feel ready to share. I would also love it if you passed the idea forward and invited others to join. They’ll need to sign up for my newsletter at www.susierinehart.com to receive the prompts, or they can follow me on instagram (@susierinehart) or on Facebook: Susie Rinehart, Home of the Brave.

In creative solidarity, let’s write!

Love,

Susie

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Here’s the link to sign up to receive for FREE daily journal prompts!

WHEN WILL THIS END? This is the question everyone is asking in light of the new CDC guidelines on the coronavirus pandemic lasting at least eight weeks. 

“Remember a flattened curve is longer. So the longer this takes, oddly, is a sign of success,” writes Juliette Kayyem, Harvard professor of international security, safety and resiliency.

We have to imagine that this is going to take a long, long time. 

The sooner we can accept our reality as the new normal rather than try to get back to the way things were, the more likely we are to thrive. 

“When you are in the life raft, it doesn’t help to wonder when you’re going to get back on the ship,” says my husband Kurt. “What helps is to look around the raft, see what you have, and get to work paddling.” (He adds: “You don’t want to be the one not paddling. You want to say to the people who are pointing out the sharks in the water, “I know there are sharks. Nevertheless, we must keep paddling.”)

To put it another way, if we focus on our new reality and take stock of what we have instead of what we don’t, we adapt quicker, and thrive faster, too.

As a cancer survivor, I have had to learn how to adjust to a new reality the hard way. When I was diagnosed in 2016 with a rare, skull-base tumor, my world came to a grinding halt. I had to quit my job, stop competing in ultramarathons, talk to my children about terminal illness, and cancel all plans for the future.

At first, we talked about “beating” this aggressive cancer. I would need skull surgery and a neck fusion, plus chemotherapy and radiation. Kurt and I wanted to fight it until it was behind us. The goal was to overcome this major obstacle and get back to our normal lives again.

The goal was motivating at first, but not for long. Soon it was frustrating. Every day that I wasn’t at work because I had to do treatments was a setback. Every morning that I wasn’t out training for a race felt like I was falling behind. The problem was my focus was on the past. 

What cancer survivors know is that you can’t ever go back to the way things were before. The key to happiness in a new reality is to look forward, not back. 

So we shifted our objective to face forward. The new goal was to accept my diagnosis and create an even better life than before. It didn’t do me any good to wonder when I would return to my life as a competitive ultrarunner, for example.

What felt good was stepping out of the victim chair and onto the creator stage. What helped was to ask, What can I make in this new universe? How can I help others? 

I created tools and habits that make it easier for me to focus on my new reality instead of dwelling on the loss of my old reality. You can read about 5 of my favorite tools for facing the unknown here.

I’ve even changed how I wake up. In the past I used to mentally run through my “to-do” list. Now I run through my “grateful-for” list while still in bed. Sometimes I can only think of one thing. Next I ask, What good can I do today? I think of one small gesture like checking in on a neighbor after breakfast. Before getting out of bed, I give my husband a kiss. 

I’m learning how to make home in my new life. I can count on two hands what I cannot do, or I can write ten pages of what I still can do. I choose to focus on what I can do. I do my 11-minute Face Fear First meditation, then I move into action mode. Or as my husband Kurt says, “I get to work paddling.” 

In this new life, I am not the person I used to be. I am much happier. This is not what I expected when the doctors gave me that scary diagnosis. A big part of the joy I feel comes from accepting my current situation and focusing on the new reality. 

I hear stories every day of how people around the world are doing this. Friends are gathering online for Tea Time or Happy Hour. Companies are shifting how they show up for their customers. Others are making Art and music. The Berkeley Music Circus is inviting us to step outside our door Wednesdays at noon to collectively sing and play any old instrument. 

It is possible to pivot and find peace during this pandemic. If I wake up afraid in the middle of the night, I use my SAFE tool, and go back to sleep. The world needs us to be fierce enough to see challenges as opportunities and to choose joy over fear.

Maybe the question to help us through the coronavirus pandemic isn’t “When will this end, so I can get back to real life? But “We don’t know when this will end, so how can I make a real life in this?”

Love,

Susie

***

photo credit: W+K Portland

 

A few nights ago, I woke up at 3 a.m., convinced that the sciatic pain in my left leg meant I wouldn’t be able to walk the next day. It was not a real threat. But I couldn’t get back to sleep.

Why not get up and test my hypothesis? Well, it was freezing outside of my covers. And what if I tested it and found out I was right? That would be terrible. MUCH better to stay here, lose sleep, and spin in fear.

Wait! I have tools to deal with fear. I’ve been developing and improving them ever since my diagnosis in 2016. I gave one tool the acronym SAFE so I could remember it even when I’m half asleep. 

I want to share this tool SAFE with you in case you might be a wee bit afraid these days about your health or the safety of the planet or the safety of democracy or all three (like me).

This tool is different than other relaxation or distraction methods. It actually gets me beyond my fear by going through it. 

Our culture teaches us to avoid discomfort or distract ourselves from sadness, pain, and fear. But what if those aren’t “bad” feelings? What if we need them to connect to one another? What if understanding our own sorrow is a way to empathize with others and act with compassion? 

What if we walked toward fear with gentle skill, instead of pushing it away?

We cannot control pain and what happens to us. But we can control our suffering by using SAFE as a tool so that we can calmly go back to sleep and wake up with more energy to tackle our challenges. 

It begins with understanding the difference between pain and suffering. 

Pain is caused by circumstance. It’s the broken bone, broken home, or the broken heart. It’s the climate crisis or the political divisiveness. It’s an angry sciatic nerve. It’s also the human experience of feeling sick or lonely.

Suffering is caused by our fear-filled thoughts. It’s what we pile on top of pain with our stories about the end of the world, the end of life, or our unworthiness. It’s the voice of Fear that says, “This is bad. This will get worse. I am not doing enough to make it better. I am not enough.”

When we believe that our scared thoughts are real, we can get caught in fight, flight, or freeze mode. The danger response comes from the Amygdala, the oldest part of our brain. It cannot tell the difference between a perceived threat and a real one. It sounds the alarm anyway. And the thought that set off the alarm in the first place doesn’t respond to us wishing it away or shouting at it to leave. 

What helps is to name the voice of fear. I simply call my doomsday voice, “Fear” with a capital F. I picture her as a fancy woman in stiletto heels. She carries a red pen to cross out everything I write. Lately, I call the voice “Bo” as in “Bo-ring” because fear is universal. It is the most unoriginal thing about me. 

By naming our fear, we separate it from ourselves. “Got it, Bo. You think I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.” This simple step activates the more highly-evolved parts of our brain and we can shift into a calmer, more effective state of being.

What I’ve learned through my diagnosis and from listening to your stories of pain and resilience, is that we are not fragile. We can handle far more than we think. 

What makes us suffer is the thought that we are not safe. 

How can we let go of that thought? 

We don’t. We remember SAFE, and we practice the tool until the thought dissipates. It’s as if Fear gives up and lets go of us. 

There are four simple steps to this process I call SAFE. The first time, it takes 5-10 minutes. With practice, it takes less than 1 minute. The wisdom in SAFE comes from Kristen Neff’s work on Self-Compassion, Byron Katie’s “The Work”, the latest brain research, and one of the oldest Tibetan prayers. I am grateful for their guidance.

SAFE is:

Stop: Pause. Notice that you are suffering. And notice that right now, you are safe. Take a deep breath, hold it, count down from 5-4-3-2-1 then release it. Do this as many times as you need. Call your fear by name. Be gentle. Say, “Bo, I am safe. This sounds like fear, not truth.”

Ask: Question the thought. Challenge it. Is it really true? Is it guaranteed that I won’t walk tomorrow? Is it possible that I’m inflating this? What would a wise, rational friend say right now? Can I listen to that voice instead of Fear’s voice? Notice that the goal here is to engage with Fear by asking questions and coming up with alternative thoughts instead of just believing the one you’re stuck on.

Feel: Drop into your body and wiggle your toes. Find a part of your body that feels calm. Thank it. Then find another one. Thank it. Gratitude is a balm that soothes an overactive Amygdala. If your body is still in panic mode, go back to S for Stop and breathe. During the “Feel” step, the important thing is to drop out of your head and to focus on your body and the other 98% of you that is functioning beautifully and wants to sleep right now.

Empathize: Imagine someone you care about being awake at this hour, worried about leg pain, or ruining an important assignment, or their own lovability and worthiness. How would you treat them? Would you yell at them to get over it? Try treating yourself as gently as you would treat a person you care deeply about who is suffering. Then repeat this Tibetan Loving Kindness prayer for you and for as many others as you can imagine. Say: “May you be well. May you be happy. May you be at peace. May you be free from suffering.”

When you wake up, write down the scary thought or send it in a text to a friend. Something about writing it down loosens its grip on you even more. You’re not as likely to carry it around with you all day. I have a lot more to say about how writing can ease suffering. If you’re interested, let me know, and I’ll tell you more.

Look. There are plenty of reasons to feel scared right now. But the world doesn’t need us to spin in our thoughts and suffer. The world needs us to sleep and find some ease so we can tap into our powerful self and face challenges from that place. We are so much stronger than we know. 

Love,

Susie

P.S.) I am walking just fine. The sciatic nerve pain is even improving thanks to another mind-body tool I discovered. I’ll tell you more about it soon.

Photo credit: Piqsels/Storrelse

****

 

Here’s to the 10 brilliant, brave women who came to reset and refresh in my home this January. We found calm in the midst of chaos, uncovered what we desire, learned to say No, and wrote a letter to Fear so it can’t derail our clear vision in 2020.

My chair broke as I was explaining how to let go of things we cannot control!  #braveoverperfect

If you want to write your own letter to Fear, here’s one way to begin: Dear Fear, Thank you for trying to keep me safe. But in 2020, here is what I need to say to you…

When you’re done, put one line from that letter on a sticky note and keep it where you can see it.

Talk kindly back to Fear as often as possible and you will break through any obstacle in 2020!

Love, Susie

Our daughter Hazel is 14 today. It is also Día de Guadalupe. I am republishing this blog about Guadalupe, and the strength of women around the world in her honor!

Hazel’s birthday falls on the same day Mexicans celebrate the Virgin Mary, whom they lovingly call La Virgen de Guadalupe. It’s an important day in Mexico; Pilgrimages, parades, and dazzling fireworks are common and abundant. Hazel has adopted it as her own holiday. Every year, we join the large, hispanic congregation in the Catholic church to dance and sing at sunrise to celebrate this powerful woman.

I wake Hazel up at four thirty. She crawls out of bed and puts on her jacket and snow boots. We walk hand in hand, in the middle of the street, through the darkness, to the church a few blocks away. When she was younger, I wrapped her in a sleeping bag and carried her. One year, I pulled her in a sled through the heavy snow.

The legend goes that Guadalupe appeared to Juan Diego in rural Mexico in 1531, at sunrise. When the bishop didn’t believe the story that this powerful woman would appear to a poor native, Diego unfolded his cloak. Rose petals scattered on the floor, revealing a clear image of la Virgen, a young woman in a mantle made of stars, surrounded by light. Ever since then, Mexicans trust that they are under the Virgin Mary’s special protection.

Hazel and I walk in silence, watching the snow sparkle under the streetlights. Everything else is dark. I lead the way past the middle school and to the top of the hill. Then as soon as we crest the hill, we hear the drumbeat, a steady boom boom boom cutting through the icy darkness. Hazel takes the lead and runs toward the dancers and music.
At the church, it feels like Hazel and I have gone through the back of a wardrobe and into a different world; one full of bright colors, lights, and the music of drums and accordions. Parking attendants do their best to find places for the steady river of Chevy pick-up trucks. Grown men parade in through the doors and kneel to pray, wearing white jackets with sequined images of Guadalupe on the back. As soon as we sit down, children and teenagers in beaded costumes dance down the center aisle, shaking the leg rattles attached to their ankles. Hazel and I try to count the number of people awake before dawn, filling the church. Five hundred people? Four hundred, at least.

Long ago, when I am pregnant with Hazel, I go into a used furniture store looking for a bed and come home with a painting. It is a very large portrait of Guadalupe wearing a blue cape covered in stars and surrounded by golden light. I buy it. I don’t know why. I am drawn to her calm beauty and the fact that she is a young woman.

At home, I hang the painting over the hallway in our apartment. As I do laundry or try to reason with Cole, our toddler, I talk to Guadalupe, “Can you give me a hand through bedtime? Or I may start drinking heavily and that would be bad for the baby.” At the time, Kurt is living two hours away, on a job that involves tracking wildlife, while I am the assistant director at a residential school in Vermont. I am alone at home, responsible for our two year old boy and the twelve teenage boys who live directly above me, in one of the five dormitories on campus.

As my due date comes and goes without any sign of having this baby, I talk to Guadalupe nightly. It is as if she is on the other end of a phone line. I beg, “What is the baby waiting for? Can you make her come out, NOW?” When a week goes by and still no sign of labor, I say, “I’m scared. What if this baby isn’t healthy? I don’t know if I can handle that.” She just listens quietly. In my world of toddlers and teenagers, it feels good to talk to an adult, even if she is a painting. At a time when I am feeling alone and unsure, Guadalupe’s mature, female energy is welcome. To me, she represents deep love and faith in the unknown.

My water breaks during a dorm meeting. I stand up to say goodnight to the boys and water pours out of me onto the floor. The boys panic. Teenage boys panicking doesn’t look like much. There is a rare moment of silence, then everyone runs away. One boy, Jake, is sweet enough to walk me down the stairs to my apartment. But he keeps muttering, “I don’t know how to deliver a baby. I don’t know how to deliver a baby.” I call Kurt. He drives two hours home through a snowstorm and we make it to the hospital just in time.
Hazel is born early in the morning on December twelfth. She comes out screaming. Minutes after she is born, I discover that it is Guadalupe Day. I watch the sunrise pink through the window and sing to this tiny baby to soothe her. I picture the rays of light reaching out from Guadalupe and surrounding Hazel with protection.

Then my dear friend Teza calls from Collingwood, Ontario. We were pregnant at the same time, but my due date was two weeks before today and hers was a week after.
Teza says, “It’s a girl!”
“I know!” I say back, confused, thinking that she is calling to congratulate me.
But she is announcing the birth of her own daughter. What are the odds of best friends having their daughters on the same day, and not just any day, but the one devoted to Guadalupe?

I want to know more about the Virgin Mary, so I read up on her while I nurse. It surprises me to learn that Muslim men and women are as devoted to her as Catholics. She is the only woman mentioned by name in the Koran. In fact, her name appears more in the Koran than in the New Testament. It’s not unusual to see young Muslim women in hijab visiting the Virgin Mary at Christian shrines, for example. Muslim and Christian, men and women alike, speak of the Virgin’s resilience and her example of love. Hazel, and Teza’s daughter, Rozlyn, are in good hands. The Virgin Mary might be the most powerful woman in the world, a true force for unity and peace.

When I received the tumor diagnosis, I prayed awkwardly to Guadalupe for help. But this is not the story of how I prayed to Guadalupe before labor, and again before my surgeries and promised that I would go to church every week if I came out alive. No, this is the story of how I am living each day as though I may die tomorrow and therefore I am no longer afraid to say I believe in Guadalupe. Before, when I talked to the painting, I was too chicken to tell anyone that I prayed to Guadalupe. I assumed my friends would smile politely, but never speak to me again.

I am not afraid anymore. Why hide it? What I’ve learned throughout these challenging months is that it is silly to hold back love. I still don’t know where I belong spiritually; I have shopped for the right church/temple/sangha/mosque for years. But I do know that I can easily, without effort or artifice, kneel before the divine presence of the Virgin Mary. She is a woman who stands for love. She is for all people, no matter their background or religion. Her compassionate gaze doesn’t suggest that one way is the only way, but instead finds room for all of our beautiful brokenness.

This morning, Hazel and I stay in the church to watch the dancing, and the offering of candlelight and flowers. We also stay for the singing. We watch the mothers next to us bring their bundles of roses to the front. They lay them at the statue of Guadalupe’s feet and show their babies the candlelight. They return to the pew. We stand together, women and girls. One woman gives me a big smile because now even I am singing! Hazel laughs, but I keep singing. It feels easier, lighter than before. I let go of fear, and make room for joy.

Love,

Susie

***

I’m baaack coaching and speaking again! I’d love to help you thrive and let go of the fear standing in your way of being powerful. I’ve also crafted a 45-min keynote on how people and organizations can let go of perfectionism and thrive in turbulent times. Do you know an organization or conference that needs this message? Get in touch with me.