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I think projections are really blind spots. Because what I see when I’m projecting, are all my unresolved issues from past events, literally covering up what’s currently going on.

It’s like I’m having a conflict with my own reactions to people from the past, except I'm in the present moment, with someone who isn’t really the person I’m imagining he is.

He may be similar, because when people need to resolve the same conflict for so long, they often find similarly behaved people so that they might win the battle at last.

But he's not the source of my pain.

He might be adding to my pain. But most likely, he's over there, experiencing the same kind of situation as me—but too busy projecting his own unresolved issues to even notice what's going on.

Both of us, seemingly in the same room, yet arguing with ghosts from our respective pasts.

I think a lot of toxicity in relationships is the result of blind spots.

Two people reacting to their interpretations of what’s happening, breathlessly defending their own perspectives, without recognizing that the experience of being invalidated happened years ago. One person yelling, "Stop Yelling!" The other person interrupting, “You're not listening!”

The only way I know how to get rid of a blind spot, is to discover what I’m not seeing, by looking inside of myself. To shift from needing someone to understand me, to doing the work of understanding myself.

Instead of expecting my partner to validate me, and feeling like my life depends on this to happen, to journey inside of myself to understand where this need came from. And why it’s so concentrated.

Who did I need validation from? And when did I not receive it?

As I go deeper, I can locate the origins of my own feelings of rejection. And I can actually travel back in time to all those incidents when it happened.

It’s amazing to me how these memories are stored in my tissue, like bookmarks. Like chapters that weren’t finished and still need my attention:

Boys who didn’t show up when they said they would.

Stepmothers who said I turn people off.

A girl in fourth grade who made fun of me for asking if I could be her friend.

When no one wanted to be my partner in acting class.

When my mother wouldn’t let me hold her hand.

When my father suddenly wasn’t there.

Each of these memories of rejection fueled the need to be validated over time. And every time I felt rejected again, it felt even more invalidating.

But by going deeper and discovering where the pain originated, I learned I could validate myself by validating those hurt selves I once was.

And when I can soothe my own pain in the places where it exists inside of me, I find I’m not as triggered when interacting with someone who might be activating those old bookmarks.

Because instead of having a blind spot, I can see clearly now where that need for validation came from.

When we take the journey inward to heal our own pain, we won’t be dependent on others to do this work for us.

-JLK

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Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I swear I can hear her voice speaking to me.

Whether or not it’s real, it’s part of my healing process—to reframe the past with a new understanding of it through my present self.

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The Greatest Show

(From Feed It to the Worms, a collection of very short stories for small children.)

Have you ever seen a clown riding a unicycle into the woods? I never did. Until today. And I was curious. So I followed him, at a safe distance. And I watched him stop at a clearing and take out all his clown gear: his juggling balls, his rabbit in a hat, his cards.

His audience arrived moments later. About 12 or 13 forest animals who gathered around to watch. And just like that, his act began. Right in the sparkly snow. And this clown gave everything he had. What a show! The animals didn’t clap or laugh, but they didn’t run away either.

And when his show was over, he smiled and bowed and hopped back onto his unicycle and rode it back out to the street.

The End.

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The Contest

(From Feed It to the Worms, a collection of very short stories for small children.)

Once I was eating french fries with my best friend and I was jealous that she had more than me.

So I said, “Hey, let’s have a contest to see who can eat their french fries the fastest!”

And so she started gobbling them all up and guess what I did? I didn’t eat a single one. I just sat there and watched till she had none.

Then she looked at me and said, “I won, I won!”

And I said, “Yes you did. But now you have no french fries.”

I then started eating mine with this horrible smile on my face. And that’s when she started crying.

“You’re so mean!” she said.

And when I realized she was right, the french fries suddenly tasted terrible. And then I started to cry, too.

I knew there were only two things I could do: I could point off in the distance and shout, “Look! An eagle!” and run away when she wasn’t looking, or I could say I’m sorry.

I opted for saying sorry and I also gave her half my french fries.

And not only did they taste yummy again, I realized that life is a lot happier when everyone gets to have what they want together.

-JLK

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Sometimes I think cemeteries are so scary because of all the stories people carry to their graves—the ones they didn’t think mattered and the ones they were too ashamed to share.

Just about the worst thing I can think of is people keeping their stories a secret because they couldn’t see their value, or because they were too afraid of what others might think.

Just about my favorite thing in life is when people share their true stories—the ones that aren’t so neat and tidy, and the ones that make me gasp with disbelief.

To me, our stories are like scripture.

They’re the stuff we had to go through—the mistakes and the risks, the victories and the pain, the magic and the miracles.

They’re the battles we fought—over which voices we listened to, and which sides we took.

Our stories literally contain the ingredients that made us who we are, that helped us to discover all we could be, or that fooled us into thinking we weren’t enough.

Our stories aren’t only important because of their beauty and heartache and perspective. They’re also important because they contain the wisdom that others might need, to save them from having to learn the same lessons we already did.

I get the importance of waiting for the right time to share our truest stories, but I wish more people realized how much their stories are needed.

I wish my grandmother would have shared hers with me before she died.

Now all I can do is wonder—who was she really?

Was she once like me before her circumstances shut her down? And what were those circumstances really? Did she still get to be her most authentic self in some nook or cranny when no one was looking? Or in the privacy of her mind? Did she have any regrets that kept her up at night?

Maybe everyone should be required to write a memoir. And if they’re too uncomfortable to share it while they’re living, at least they could leave it behind. I bet it would be the first thing everyone rushed to see.

-JLK

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I think a good metaphor for understanding trauma might be to imagine you’ve got something stuck in your eye.

An eyelash, whatever.

You can’t do anything without the discomfort of this thing in your eye. It’s there every time you try to see out into the world.

You try so hard to get it out yourself. It really seems impossible. It’s painful. It’s annoying. It’s depressing. You can’t do the simplest things you want to do without it grabbing your attention.

Finally you go get support from a professional.

Thankfully, they are able to get the thing out. And they give you some tools to help heal the damage. And you begin to heal. And you feel so much better.

But... now you’re afraid — what if something else gets in your eye again?

It makes you worried, this possibility.

And you keep checking to see if your eye is still ok.

If you feel the slightest sensation in your eye, you panic—shit—something got in my fucking eye again.

It takes awhile of ‘nothing in your eye’ to feel calm again.

And eventually this happens more and more.

And you stop being as anxious about it.

And whenever someone happens to mention to you that they have something in their eye, you immediately feel so much compassion for them.

(Yes, I had something in my eye last night, lol. It was somewhat hellish.)

-JLK

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Some of the most useful tools I’ve learned, not only to parent my child but to reparent myself, come from Ross Greene’s Collaborative & Proactive Solutions, which in a nutshell, consists of three plans: Plan A, Plan B and Plan C.

In this piece, I’ve written about the three plans based on my own experience and languaging of them, in case it’s helpful for parents who might be feeling frustrated by their kid’s behavior.

Just to be clear, this version of the plans is not what the author intended. But I wanted to pay respect to the source of my inspiration for looking at and addressing conflict through these three lenses: authoritarian, empathetic and with flexibility.

For more precise info on Ross Greene’s Collaborative & Proactive Solutions, see the link at the end of this post. I highly recommend his work.

I like to imagine I have three sets of lenses in my pocket, each with a unique filter to see my child and his behavior.

My Authoritarian Lenses:

When I wear my authoritarian lenses, I’m in charge.

I look at my son’s ‘bad’ behavior and know without doubt that it needs to be fixed. And quick.

I observe my child with judgment and sometimes even contempt, because through my authoritarian lenses, I can’t differentiate my child from his behavior. They’re one and the same.

Sometimes while I’m wearing these lenses, I panic about my son’s behavior and privately catastrophize that there must be something wrong with him, and that if I don’t get whatever it is under control, it’ll probably destroy his future and likely mine as well.

And other times, if I’m in a good mood, I can even add some humor to my authoritarian lenses to make myself sound more loving, like, “Unless you’re planning on being a professional Minecraft player, you may want to do your math.”

Authoritarian lenses are very difficult to remove.

Many of us were raised by adults who wore authoritarian lenses. And life for us kids was all about muscling through expectations and receiving consequences: rewards for compliance and punishment for defiance.

Taking things away was a popular punishment, as was being shamed or called names insinuating something was wrong with us, in voices that spoke louder than our own.

Many of us learned not to tell the truth about our real wants and needs, because we knew in all likelihood that our wants and needs would be criticized.

Or we shared only a modified version of them, after we got caught trying to meet some version of them on the sly.

We knew our ideas and concerns didn’t seem to matter. And because no one ever seemed happy with who we were, we learned to pretend to be whoever we thought the other person needed us to be, to gain their approval which we mistook for love. And, the thought of asking for support never crossed anyone’s mind.

My Empathy Lenses:

When I wear my empathy lenses, as a parent, I am able to see my son through the lens of: ‘What’s going on underneath his behavior?‘

Through these lenses, I understand that it’s necessary to separate my child from his behavior, because I know that all behavior, even the most disruptive or difficult to be with, is actually communication.

With my empathy lenses on, I’m curious instead of critical. I want to understand what my child’s behavior is trying to tell me.

And at the same time, I am able to notice that he doesn’t quite have the skills to communicate-to-be-understood. And because of this, he relies on communicating-to-be-heard, which can be loud, disruptive and often difficult to be with.

But with my empathy lenses on, I can be curious instead of critical. I can begin to wonder why my child might be behaving in this particular way.

Maybe it’s because of some trauma that’s occurred that I’m not aware of.

Maybe he isn’t able to meet expectations because he’s lacking the skills to make meeting these expectations even possible.

Maybe his behavior is a coping mechanism to help him avoid situations or expectations that cause him stress and pain.

Maybe there are kids at school who are mean.

Maybe he’s afraid of being called on in school because he doesn’t know the answers and this embarrasses him.

So, let’s say my son comes home after a bunch of stress at school, and right after he’s settled down, I let him know it’s time to do such-and-such thing, and ‘out of nowhere’ he explodes—opens his mouth and shouts some really hurtful, unkind stuff right at me.

At this moment, I have a choice: If I put my authoritarian lenses on, there’s gonna be an immediate escalation, because with my authoritarian lenses on, I’m not going to be curious about the cause of this ‘awful’ behavior. No way. I’m going to go right into protection mode. Protection over connection mode.

And then I’m probably going to go into audacity mode, because my son is talking to me like that—the son I grew in my own belly?! How dare he! After all I’ve been through!

My other choice, to keep the situation from escalating further, is to put on my empathy lenses, first for myself. So that I can pause before I react and ask myself:

What am I making my son’s words and behavior mean about me?

And then shift to, “What might I make his words and behavior mean about HIS present state of mind?”

In empathy mode, I begin to get curious.

I can look at the stressors around the room, and discover ways to have some empathy.

My son is communicating-to-be-heard about something... But what?

One way to practice empathy is to put myself in his shoes:

Let’s see... if I turn this situation around, how would I feel?

Well, I know that when I’m interrupted by my son’s expectations when I’m in the middle of meeting my own, it STILL takes something for me to stay patient, to not nose-breath all annoyed and stomp up to do it. Especially if I’ve just gotten in an argument with my husband, or just found out something that I wanted to have happen fell through.

But because I’ve been working on understanding my reactions for some time now, I already have some skills to respond to my son in a way that reflects who I’m committed to being in my life, instead of as some scary unregulated grown-up.

But even so, I still have a hard time not reacting. And yet I expect my son, who has done zero work on himself, to have skills that I hardly have? That doesn’t seem like a realistic expectation, nor does it seem fair.

So when I interrupt my son, who’s in the middle of meeting his own expectation, something that soothes him after his own stressful day or moment, and I ask him to meet my expectation that isn’t even of interest to him, and also causes him more stress, how can I expect that he’s going to be compliant?

With my empathy lenses on, I can begin to wonder what my son’s concerns might be underneath his behavior, something like: ‘I’m f-ing frustrated that you’re taking me away from a moment I’m enjoying, to be in a moment I probably won’t enjoy.’

And then I can reflect this to him as a question: “Are you frustrated that I’m asking you to stop doing what you’re enjoying, to do something you’d rather not?” And I can get how that might be really unpleasant.

My Flexibility Lenses:

As I get used to feeling empathy for my child and for myself, I notice I definitely feel a lot better about our relationship.

But there’s still a problem: My kid still doesn’t want to problem solve with me. Even though I get that my expectations for him weren’t very realistic. I’m still not sure how to support him in developing new skills because I’m still not sure what specifically was difficult for him.

And he still isn’t ready to share with me what’s underneath his behavior. In fact, this kid isn’t saying anything.

But before I go and grab my authoritarian lenses and get frustrated, catastrophize, or give up, it’s now time to try on my flexibility lenses. Because through these, I will be able to see clearly that my son is not being defiant, he once again just doesn’t yet have the skills to communicate-to-be-understood.

And saying nothing is actually a good start. After all, he’s not communicating-to-be-heard. He’s not exploding. For all I know, he’s just checking out the new vibe of the space.

Wearing my flexibility lenses is my opportunity to role-model communicating-to-be-understood by saying something like: “I get you don’t have any answers yet. And I know I haven’t been the best listener when you have tried sharing your concerns in the past. I didn’t grow up with listeners, so listening is a skill I’m only now beginning to develop. But I just want you to know that if and when you’re ready to share what’s on your mind, I’ll be here. Because I care.”

If my son’s nervous system is super stressed from repeatedly having his concerns dismissed, I may need to try many times to communicate with my empathy lenses on.

But more importantly, I may also need to help him heal by reducing my expectations. By checking in with myself to see where my expectations even come from.

Do I really care that my son perform so many tasks, and perform them so well? Even at the expense of his mental health?

Didn't I used to complain as a kid that the adults were always waiting for me to do something impressive while I was just trying to be myself?

Don't I want my child to feel like it’s impressive enough to be alive and experience himself being alive without my needing to assess his ingredients to see if they qualify?

In my experience, flexibility is empathy-in-action. It's the opportunity to modify environments to reduce the stressors that may be preventing my child from experiencing the peace and calm that make self-regulating possible. And doing so until the child no longer seems like he’s in a state of acute stress.

And if the thought of that makes you want to reach again for your authoritarian lenses, I hear you. But understand that by being flexible with your child, you are role-modeling compassion.

In my family’s case, it turned out there were a lot of stressors that were traumatizing my son because he simply didn’t have the skills to cope with them, and my lack of flexibility prevented me from seeing it.

So we wound up making the difficult decision to remove many expectations around school, chores and screen so that his nervous system could reset and so he could have a say in what kinds of expectations he wanted to set for himself.

And it’s been really interesting. To give you one example of progress—my son, who refused to write and practice spelling, now types faster than his dad because he learned the way he wanted—through chatting with his friends on Minecraft. And he’s really proud of himself. And because he now gets that his concerns matter, our upsets rarely escalate, because he knows now that we will listen to his concerns and find a solution that works for everyone.

Shifting lenses is such a powerful way to understand and connect with our children, and it’s also a really powerful way for us parents to consider how we were raised, and to check in with ourselves to see if there are any unresolved upsets or blind spots that are getting in the way of the kinds of relationships we want in our lives.

In conclusion:

One day, I was walking around my house, and I heard my own voice speaking to myself:

Are you seriously having another cup of coffee?

Didn’t you say you were going to finish your memoir this month?

Do you have a plan for dinner yet?

How long before you get dressed? Jesus.

Etc. etc.

And that’s when it occurred to me that I had become my own authoritarian parent. The voices of my parents and teachers really had become the voice I was using to speak to myself.

And I realized: How am I supposed to wear the empathy lenses for my son while I’m wearing authoritarian lenses for myself?

I realized to heal my child, I had to heal my relationship with myself.

I needed to practice asking for support. And practice modifying my environment to help myself meet expectations in a way that felt like an opportunity rather than a punishment. To take time to understand what’s been unresolved from my own past and how that’s contributed to my own frustrations. And to have compassion for myself and what my own concerns are moment-to-moment, so that compassion can be my motivation to problem solve.

Seeing my son through the lens of empathy turned out to be an unexpected opportunity to heal myself and also my marriage.

Honestly, it was only after my husband and I began to do the work, that we were even in a position to support our son.

Having compassion for myself role-models compassion for my son. Which will hopefully be the lenses he wears for himself, and in time, for the others in his life.

That’s not to say I don’t make mistakes. I make mistakes every day, multiple times a day. In fact if I had a name for my style of parenting, I’d call it ‘repair parenting.’ But the way I see it, each repair is an opportunity to put on my empathy lenses and practice connecting with myself and with my family through a deeper understanding and a deeper appreciation of all we’ve been through.

-JLK

Link to more info on Ross Greene’s work:

https://www.cpsconnection.com/

Also, here’s a piece I wrote explaining in more detail what I mean by communicating-to-be-heard and communicating-to-be-understood:

https://bit.ly/3HQjRMb

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When my son was four, he kept telling me he had an imaginary friend named Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba, and when I looked it up, I found out it means love. This story is from my book, Feed It to the Worms, a collection of very short stories for small children.

The Biggest Beach Towel

I know a boy named Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba. And one day, he and his mama went to the beach and sat next to another mama and her boy.

And Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba noticed that the boy’s towel had some letters on it. And so he asked the boy, “Excuse me, but what does your towel say?” And the boy said, “It spells my name. Max.”

And Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba couldn’t believe it. “Wow,” he said. “I didn’t know towels could say your name on them!”

So he asked his mama, “Mama, can I have a towel that says my name on it?” And because his Mama always gave him everything he wanted, she said, “Why of course you can!”

And so later that day, his mama called the personalized towel factory and ordered her son a towel. “Wow, that’s a mouthful,” the man told her. “Give us a couple months.”

And a couple months later, a giant box was waiting for him on his stoop. Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba Mahabba was so excited.

He and his mama took the towel right to the beach. And as soon as he got there, he ran over to Max and waited for his Mama, who was lagging a bit behind because she needed a hand truck to carry the thing.

And after they unfurled this gigantic towel, every child at the beach ran over because they’d never seen such a giant towel.

In fact, it was so big that every boy and girl at the entire beach could play on it. And so they did. And everyone had the best day they ever had.

The End.

-JLK

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I remember as an adult, visiting my mother in Florida. She had masks all over her walls. Masks from different cultures that she’d found at secondhand stores.

She set up a mattress for me on the floor in her living room, and I could hardly sleep with all those empty faces hovering above me. It was less creepy knowing my mother had collected them. But still unnerving.

Now that I look back, I think it was an unconscious metaphor for her life—a shrine of sorts—of all the different masks she wore to fit in to the rigid parameters our society sets for people to be deemed ‘enough’ in all the ways it’s suggested we aren’t.

I also think the masks on the wall represented her safe space—her apartment—a place she never let anyone inside.

She’d hang up her masks and try to recover from the long hours of wearing them. To slowly loosen and detach from all their pretenses, so she could just be herself, with the help of a zani-tab or 2 and a vodka, which I don’t recommend, as it wound up being her demise in the end.

It’s exhausting to wear masks. To work so hard to be someone ‘more viable’ than you believe you are. To be someone who appears more important, more intelligent, more sophisticated, more normal, more together, more special... so that others will want to connect with you, instead of leave you out.

Masking hides the unusual, the messy, the atypical, the wild, the vulnerable, the dangerous and the controversial. I imagine we mask because of the fear we have that people won’t approve of who we are underneath the mask.

I bet it’s a primal instinct—masking to fit in—because of some deep ancient fear that we’ll be seen as unsafe, and get disowned and banished by our tribe.

But the problem with masks is, over time, if you go out into the world long enough with them on, it gets harder to take them off.

Not only with others but with ourselves.

It’s hard to be comfortable in our own skin after we’ve given ourselves the message that we aren’t worth the risk to be fully expressed in the world.

I think for me, learning to unmask began with the birth of my son. Turned out, the truest expression of myself was just the thing my son needed to feel understood, comforted, and safe.

And I think it was his listening of who I really was, that made me realize I didn’t need a mask. In fact, the mask would have kept me from connecting with him.

And by being myself, I was also inadvertently teaching my son that there’s never a reason for anyone to pretend to be someone they're not.

To me, the greatest tragedy of masking—of pretending to be someone else other than who we experience ourselves to be—is that without our true selves in the world, no one will ever get the chance to know and celebrate who we really are.

-JLK

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My experience of motherhood—trying to balance my reactions while supporting my child with the best parts of myself.

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Sometimes I get stuck in a very difficult and uncomfortable moment. My coping mechanisms stop working, or they cause me even more suffering. And I can’t find anything to distract myself from how I’m feeling, and I get scared and even panicked.

It’s not a fun place to be.

The only thing that helps me in these moments is when I remember that there’s something else going on at the very same time, something as real as my pain, right underneath my circumstances and all the other stuff that makes me feel scared and panicked and depressed and ashamed and guilty and resentful and regretful and just plain burned out.

It’s a place I was born with, and a place I can always find comfort from, whenever I’m able to remember it’s here.

It’s that space inside myself where I’m not my behavior or my gender or my experiences or my age or my family or my thoughts or my health or my neurology or where I live or how much money I have or don’t have.

It’s that space where I’m nothing but a living breathing being.

To get there, I just need to sink beneath my upsets...

Until all I have is me and my breath.

I so often take my breath for granted because it’s so simple: all it does is go in when it goes in, and go out when it goes out.

But when I think about it, it’s really the most reliable friend I have. It’s here all time time, after all, giving me my very life.

So I hang out with my breath for a little while, staying by its side as it goes in, and by its side as it goes out, and after a little while, when I return to the world of my circumstances, life feels a little easier, and a little less painful, because I can still feel the reality of who I am underneath my circumstances—a living, breathing being.

-JLK

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I’ve always found it fascinating that we humans can recognize corruption clear as day when we see it outside of ourselves, but so often cannot recognize the same corruption when it comes from inside ourselves.

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For those who’ve experienced trauma, there may be a recurring time of day where you experience a heightened sense of hypervigilance, a heightened sense that something is wrong.

This can happen no matter how much time has elapsed since the trauma actually happened.

You may find yourself in these moments looking for evidence for what is still wrong, and you may find many things wrong.

These pieces of evidence that everything is wrong might all meld together and leave you feeling privately drained and awful, even though you still may smile and be your best self for everyone else.

You may find yourself secretly desperate for an elixir that might help let you have a little peace.

You may find you notice all this more when you’re by yourself, where there are less distractions and less attractions.

Whenever you find yourself in this uncomfortable predicament, please remember that there is a space within yourself where you are safe. It may be just the tiniest apartment deep within yourself, but it’s yours whenever you’d like to visit.

The walls of this space are built with boundaries, boundaries built not from animosity for others but rather built out of love for yourself.

This space can be here for you to be just as you are and just as you aren’t. Where you can sit on a cushion of empathy and observe all that’s right or wrong but from a less triggered place.

Where you can simplify your actions to breathing in, knowing you’re breathing in, and breathing out, knowing your breathing out.

You may also find comfort that you are not alone here. That there are so many others like you building similar spaces, learning how to not be held hostage by their circumstances and by other people’s behavior.

Sending my love to you, you who gets secretly triggered everyday. You’re not alone. I send you peace from my tiny apartment to yours.

-JLK

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So often, people can’t find an outlet for their ideas and their ideas get stuck and start yelling to be free.

So many people don’t understand that it’s their ideas yelling to be free. They think instead there must be something wrong with their life.

It doesn’t occur to people that it’s their ideas that feel stuck and miserable.

Our ideas are always pushing and begging us to share them because they recognize their own beauty and truth and usefulness.

And when we don’t let them out, it’s really painful for us and for our ideas.

Sometimes I think our real job in life is to find and create outlets for our ideas.

I used to wait and wait and wait for the perfect outlet or invitation to share my best ideas. And when I couldn’t find one, things got pretty crowded inside my body because new ideas are always being born.

It became difficult to move and breathe and carry them all around. Eventually I had to get them out. I just couldn’t take the discomfort anymore.

It wasn’t the outlet I had hoped for, but the thing I learned is that when ideas are allowed to get out, the outlet doesn’t really matter – so long as the ideas can be seen and heard by another.

And after one idea is let out, the rest of the ideas usually get excited and follow, if we let them go. And when we can see our ideas on the other side, they always thank us and take on a life of their own.

When I remember to treat my ideas the way I’d treat someone I love, I remember to give them the space, any space, to be free.

-JLK

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To me, the Christmas Spirit is all about giving to others the parts of yourself that you think are the most brilliant, the most beautiful.

Many people will give you what they believe are these parts of themselves, and yet sadly, they will not be the gifts you’ve been waiting for.

So please remember, you need not accept these gifts from others. Whether it’s their opinion or advice all wrapped up in holiday cheer or their criticism with sugar on top. You only need to accept that which gives you peace and joy and health.

That doesn’t mean you need to say, “Hey buddy, I’ve got an idea. How ‘bout you send this ‘gift’ straight up the ass it came from?”

Instead you can choose to give something in return that comes from the part of your own self that’s aligned with what’s true and beautiful for you, given in a way that might inspire more understanding. Maybe this is the spirit of giving that could stop pain from spreading like a virus throughout the world.

-JLK

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This illustration was inspired by Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ audiobook, The Dangerous Old Woman.

Some people think Baba Yaga is an evil witch, but I feel inspired to think of her as the preserved wisdom of women from the beginning of our time here.

And because each of us comes from the beginning of our time here, this wise woman must exist inside us all.

The part of the self with a heart as bright as the moon, like heartwood that’s been weathered by storms, not to harden and die, but hardened just enough to stay preserved and protected from the turbulence of life.

My whole life, I was the little leaf that was blown and then left alone. My stability was determined by outside forces.

And yet these outside forces in my life were also lost in the turbulence, because they had never been taught about this light within, that offers wisdom and stability, and so they weren’t able to share with their children what they didn’t have themselves.

It’s an invisible trauma when a child says to their grown-ups, “Look at me glow! I have magic inside! Would you like to celebrate with me?” And watching the adults smile and say they’d love to, but sadly they can’t, because turbulence needs their attention.

After enough time, the child may stop believing that the magic they experienced inside themselves was real.

Maybe they exchange the light of their wisdom and magic for compliance, or hollow, commodified rituals, because they’re the only times people seem available to celebrate.

Or maybe they’re fueled by their defiance of such things.

Either way, they must muscle through the turbulence every day — constantly blown off course by a mere look or comment or tone that reminds us of our original betrayal, of someone not seeing that sacred part of ourself when we were so sure it was there.

And this becomes our life, this cycle continuing…

Feeling so privately stressed and betrayed, looking for a way out instead of in.

And when our own children come to us asking for a witness to their magic, or for guidance through their turbulence, we teach them what we were taught—proper behavior and compliance—just so we can have a little peace from their turbulence, before it adds to our own.

And yet, the truth is, after all this time, our light is still here, inside us. Inside us all.

We don’t need to travel to find her to receive her teachings. She has never left—her light is as bright as it’s always been.

When I listened to Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ The Dangerous Old Woman, her light was so bright, it traveled right through the recording and ignited my own.

And this is when I felt it—the importance of waking up each other’s awareness to this light, that is all of ours, instead of letting the hardness of the world convince us that it isn’t real, or worse, doesn’t matter anyhow.

We need only to step into our bodies and listen. Until the light inside us becomes our own, guiding us as we travel through our days in our mobile houses.

And when we cross paths with someone who may look as though she’s doubting what she most definitely has deep inside her, we can share our light until it ignites her own.

This is the sisterhood that we have lost.

Baba Yaga is not an old evil witch, except to those who don’t understand. Except to those who have lost the magical language of light.

We women need to make sure we never quiet our spirit or save it for a rainy day. Or to waste our time wondering if it’s real.

We need to trust that in our light is our unique expression of the most profound humor and wisdom and creativity that’s been flowing from one heart to the next since the beginning of our time here.

—JLK

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Thoughts about what love is...

If you grew up in a toxic household (even if the people who were toxic to you aren’t able to agree that they were) you may not understand what love looks or sounds like.

You know what it’s not: It’s not being controlled or criticized, demeaned or dismissed, punished or shamed.

You know it’s not tough love or getting gold stars for your elbow grease that you may have suffered greatly to produce.

And you know it’s not even being fed or clothed or roofed over your head.

You might think that maybe love is a tone of niceness instead of a tone that yells.

Or a word called love instead of a word that stings.

But to me, love is time spent making an effort to understand someone.

Love is making the effort to make sure another person knows that their perspective is not a waste of time, but that it matters and is valuable, even when it’s different than mine.

And love is also making the effort to share my own perspective, to also be understood, to also matter, so that we can have a meaningful connection based on what’s real for us both.

The flow of communicating-to-be-understood and listening-to-understand between two people, to me, is love. No matter if the flow is free and easy, or if takes a bit longer for two filters to unclog from all the times we felt so stuck inside ourselves, and so hurt by all the people who never seemed to care.

-JLK