/reader

A song I’m loving:

“To live with an open heart is to get more comfortable with risk.”

My therapist said these words to me recently and they’ve been lingering ever since, ringing like a bell in moments I forget. In our work together lately, we’ve been exploring the inherent risk of letting myself be seen, witnessed, known — the risk of living beyond narrow narratives that once felt like the truth — the risk of being true to one’s self, of trying, of allowing intimacy, of leaning into momentum instead of staying comfortable in What Has Been, of Going For It in a world with no guarantees. Most potently, maybe, we’ve been tending to the risk of fully loving while knowing it will all end eventually.

Until the last few years, I had unknowingly associated risk with abandonment. To risk means potential loss, and loss had long been something I’ve avoided at all costs, even if it meant not letting myself fully have anything to begin with. I thought loss would obliterate me. I thought I’d be unable to bear it, unable to face the pain of it.

And yet one of the deepest lessons becoming a parent has given me is the inevitability of loss. I watch my daughter grow past every version of herself, our closeness taking on new shapes at each turn. I witness the wrinkles around my eyes becoming more apparent and remember I will one day leave her in the world — that she’ll be here without me in this form eventually. I feel the grief of every passing phase, every closed season, every reached development. She will never be smaller; I will never be younger; the tenderness of facing this each day has been intense and heart-opening in ways I am still trying to fully grasp. And it has forced me to reckon with the ways I’ve hesitated to let the love exist in its fullest — to unguard my heart, even when loss is unavoidable.

The comfort of avoiding risk brought me far. I needed it to stay alive at one point; I guarded my heart from love because I didn’t yet know how to handle loss. I think of my infant self who had no clue why her first mother, her home, had left. I think of my child self who always sat on the periphery of friendships, reading on the hill at lunch instead of playing, of being known. I think of my teenage self, desperate to leave because staying, feeling, potentially losing, was unbearable. I think of my 20-something self, still unsure of how to let my partner’s love permeate my fear of opening. I think of my new mother self, floundering in the amount of love I felt for my child and the barriers I carried from the womb, the ones that still made it hard to truly let that love become a home instead of something to be skeptical of.

And I feel my current self, leaning into the risks of living more than I ever thought I’d be able to. I imagine all those past versions who didn’t know how to take the risk, who were too afraid to unfurl, and I bring them along as I practice, as I learn. I feel my daughter watching me be brave instead of afraid. I feel myself loving her in ways I didn’t ever know was available to me, and leaning into that love instead of turning away from it. I feel my infant self being cradled as I let love pour in and out now, as I remind her, us, that it’s inherently risky to let it all in, and yet the risk is the only way.

I’ve been asking myself lately, what is worth the risk of vulnerability, the risk of stepping out of comfortability? What am I willing to risk my comfort for?

I’m willing to risk my comfort for the sake of connection.
I’m willing to risk my comfort for the sake of possibility.
I’m willing to risk my comfort for the sake of alignment.
I’m willing to risk my comfort for the sake of release.
I’m willing to risk my comfort for the sake of true presence.
I’m willing to risk my comfort for the sake of understanding.
I’m willing to risk my comfort for the sake of growth.
I’m willing to risk my comfort for the sake of wholeness.
I’m willing to risk my comfort for the sake of love.

Even naming it is a reminder: there is so much on the other side of comfort. There is so much on the other side of taking the risk, of trying. There is so much on the other side of a guarded heart, on the other side of a protected self. There is so much on the other side of contrived certainty by way of staying comfortable. There is so much on the other side of the risk — and what’s on the other side is often not the danger we assume is there, or the rejection we fear awaits, or the pain we’re unsure we’ll be able to face; often, what’s on the other side is all we’ve been looking for, all our own strategies and modes of protection have been keeping at bay.

And with each risk, each step beyond comfort, each movement toward the potential of love blooming, my body learns it’s safe to not know — it’s safe to risk — it’s safe to face the hurt that may come from doing so — it’s safe to trust myself to be with it all. I can be with it all. I can be with it all. I can be with it all.

“To hope is to gamble. It's to bet on your futures, on your desires, on the possibility that an open heart and uncertainty is better than gloom and safety. To hope is dangerous, and yet it is the opposite of fear, for to live is to risk.” Rebecca Solnit

To live is to risk. Here’s to taking the risk. To doing the thing, wobbly and afraid. To reaching out with no guarantee you’ll ever hear back. To saying what’s on your heart, without being able to predict what will unfold from doing so. To going toward beauty, even when pain lingers. To changing direction, even as the familiar path remains. To trying, even when also failing sometimes is inevitable. To letting our imperfect humanness be seen, known, witnessed. To letting love out and in, perhaps the most risky thing of all — because letting it all out and in is what brings us more alive. Because letting ourselves grow more and more alive, in spite of all the uncertainty and risk in doing so, might be the only way to truly live.

Thank you, as always, for being here.

△ Making strawberry cake with my daughter

△ This book is forever on my nightstand

△ The quiet courage of climate activism

△ Ancestral embodiment

△ The revolution of tenderness

△ Revisiting this gem as I re-open my private practice

△ “The river is time, and we are always within it -- even when we think we’re standing dry-footed on the bank, watching the current pass.”

△ Look for the helpers <3

△ Gratitude for being able to go on a drive & arrive here —

With care,
Lisa

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