Every once in a while, I like to share the notes from our weekly Office Hours session. This is one of my favorites from early in December. I hope you feel the love and peace inherent in it.
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One of the things I like to do every once in a while is give you a little peek under the hood of what is going on inside this little system of mine.
As many of you may know, yesterday was the day of my treadmill stress test for my cardiology follow-up. And this is how the day unfolded. After my first two morning clients, my youngest daughter Parker came into my office to let me know that she had received an email from NC State Veterinary School—the school of her dreams—and they let her know her application had been rejected. She was crushed. I consoled her the best I could and sent her a Starbucks e-gift card so she could get her favorite iced coffee on her 45 minute drive to work and to her class. But about 30 minutes after she left, I got a call that she had been in a car accident on the interstate. She was OK but her car was not. I dropped everything I was doing and drove 30 minutes out to pick her up. She was shaken but physically OK. The officer on the scene determined that it was her fault. Thus began the phone calls to insurance and collision repair shops. And, in between, the pouring out of love and kindness to my sweet girl who was beating herself up for causing an accident.
Once I got her settled in at home, it was time to drive to my appointment for the stress test. The irony of it all was not lost on me.
And as I got out of my car to walk into the building, I was suddenly overcome by what I can only describe now as the most inexplicable sensation of gratitude, love, and peace. It felt like warm honey pouring through my body. Not gratitude FOR or ABOUT anything. Just gratitude that was nothing like I had ever felt before. It made no logical sense.
As I drove home from my appointment, that warm honey feeling was still with me. And what occurred to me was that when I had been driving to get Parker from her accident, my body had been filled with physiological panic—sweaty palms, a racing heart, a tight chest, dizziness, and disorientation. The sensations were what could have been described as unbearable or overwhelming. And yet, they weren’t either of those things. Beneath all of the physical, biological STUFF going on in this little system of mine, there was an instinctive opening—a welcoming of sorts. It’s so hard to put words around—but it was kind of like a mother welcoming home her long lost children. I experienced those wild sensations in the body in such a different way altogether. And when the sensations subsided, I instinctively placed a hand on my chest as I drove. And I smiled. My nervous system was learning that it was safe to have that experience. I wish words could do the experience justice, but all I can say is that it felt miraculous. Those shaky hands, that sense of dizziness and disorientation, the tight chest—all of it—they were ready to be welcomed home.
Last night, after I did my little 5-minte Coming Home practice that has become one of the best parts of my day, I wrote this in honor of those beautiful, wonderful, perfect sensations that love to visit me:
Inside me
there is a bowl of light,
a quiet room,
a soft-breathing home
that grows each time I stay.
Every feeling
is a visitor at the threshold;
Fear wrapped in morning fog,
Panic with its trembling hands,
Joy rushing in with its bare feet
still dripping with sunlight.
And the home within me
does not choose between these visitors.
It opens its door
and widens.
And widens more, still.
Here, nothing must be conquered.
Nothing must be figured out.
I am teaching my nervous system
the timeless skill
of holding without collapsing,
of feeling without becoming enmeshed.
I am touching the energy that my mind calls terror
without being pulled into its story.
Every time I stay with intention,
my container grows.
The safety that has no opposite reveals itself even more.
And the light inside
learns one simple truth:
All human experience belongs.
All internal sensations and emotions are welcome.
The ones that have been rejected for generations
Are now seen through the lens of TRUTH.
They were never what I believed them to be.
They were always Life and Love
in the temporary form of a story that my mind learned.
Innocently.
And now they are free to come home
To be integrated, welcomed, and held in the warmth of safety.
Each of us arrives here in this beautiful zoom space today with a different set of sensations, emotions, thoughts, and narratives happening within. Some of those feel welcome; some feel complicated; some might feel overwhelming. And yet… there is a place inside each of us that is learning how to hold all of it.
We’re not here to solve our feelings or fix what arises.
We’re here to make room. We’re here to challenge the generations-old stories and labels and pathologies that have been reinforced for a lifetime in this culture.
Our nervous system is teachable.
It can learn to remember its innate safety.
Right now, I imagine that everyone here has at least one sensation or emotion that your mind has innocently learned to reject or dislike or at the very least learned to do everything it can to find the cause of …
I used to try everything in my power, spending thousands of dollars over many years to make my nervous system be different than what it was. I tried acupuncture, Chinese tinctures, online courses, traditional therapy, and herbs. All in the name of being more “normal.”
But what if getting RID of the energy we have learned to call panic, fear, anxiety, or even grief, isn’t the only option anymore?
What if, instead, we help our systems remember the safety that is already there? We help grow the container within us to allow more and more human experiences to lose their false labels and reveal their true nature?
What if—without the LEARNED pathologies and concepts—every sensation and every emotion is actually more like a long lost child that is now ready to peek its little face out of the shadows and come home…if we are simply willing to trust the process.
This isn’t about making the mind tell better stories. After all, the nervous system DOES NOT SPEAK in LOGIC or COMMON SENSE.
This is so KEY that I want to say it again. The nervous system DOES NOT SPEAK in LOGIC or COMMON SENSE.
So your mind can KNOW with 100% certainty that, say, going to the dentist is safe. You have evidence for that. It is common sense that millions of people go to the dentist every day without panicking.
But the nervous system is not verbal. It does not learn safety through logic and common sense. And it definitely does not learn safety through shame or a list of should’s.
It learns to remember safety through kindness, compassion, TRUST, and an openness to feel beyond the labels, concepts, and stories.
So, today, I thought it might be helpful to share (again) a version of the practice that feels like it has changed everything for me. I call it my coming home practice.
But, really, it’s simply the practice of helping my brilliant, amazing little nervous system remember that it’s MADE of safety. That safety is its birthright—its unshakable foundation.
So, let’s take a couple minutes now to practice meeting ourselves exactly as we are — not to get rid of anything, but to gently remind our system, “It’s safe to be human here. It’s safe to feel. All of you is allowed.”
Feelings become portals. Sensations become messengers. Every wave points us back toward the vastness inside of us that is already okay.
Let’s begin by finding a comfortable position…
Allow your body to be exactly as it is. No softening or relaxing needed.
Let your breath move however it wants to move.
There is no correct way.
Just notice that the breath is happening for you.
Bring your attention to your chest or your belly;
wherever ‘home’ feels closest today.
No forcing, just noticing.
And imagine this inner space — your home, your bowl of light—
as something that can grow, gently, with each breath.
Not by trying…
but by allowing.
Now I want you to notice the very first sensation that comes into awareness.
Maybe pressure, warmth, tightness, fluttering, tingling, heaviness, or openness.
Whatever is here already.
And instead of collapsing into that sensation
or jumping into its story…
allow it to be held by this inner home.
Let the sensation be a visitor.
Let the container be the host.
If a feeling or sensation arises — simply notice.
You may say internally:
You can be here. There is space for you.
Feel yourself watching the feeling,
not becoming the feeling.
Feel yourself being with the sensation,
not merging with it.
And if your mind tries to explain, fix, or judge —
that too is welcome.
Let the thoughts be visitors as well.
Let the container hold them.
With each breath, gently remind your system:
It is safe to be here.
It is safe to feel.
All of me is welcome in this home.
Take one more slow breath,
feeling the bowl of light inside you
just a little wider,
a little softer,
a little more available.
And when you’re ready,
bring your awareness back to our call,
knowing this safe internal home within you
travels with you wherever you go.”
Today’s question:
Can you recall a moment this week when a sensation or emotion showed up—one that the mind has learned to label unwanted or uncomfortable—and there was even the tiniest capacity within you to welcome it into your home for a brief visit? What did that feel like?
May you leave here today
with a heart just a little wider
than when you arrived.
May the home inside you —
that quiet bowl of light,
that soft place that remembers safety —
continue to grow
each time you turn toward yourself
with even one breath of gentleness.
May every sensation you meet
be greeted not as a problem
but as a visitor
wanting only your presence.
May every emotion —
the trembling ones,
the loud ones,
the tender ones,
the unexpected ones —
know that they have a place
to rest inside you
without being pushed away
and without taking over.
May you walk through your life
remembering the truth
that you do not have to collapse
into your feelings
nor run from them —
you were born with a container
vast enough to hold them all.
And may you feel,
in moments both ordinary and overwhelming,
the quiet reassurance
that you are safe to be human,
safe to feel,
safe to return home to yourself
again and again.
Go gently,
go slowly,
go with a widened heart.
I am realizing that I am only just now learning that the most intimate relationship I have is this little one—this "ME" inside.