Four months ago I went to see an eye doctor for the first time in my life. I had grown up with smug satisfaction in my 20/20 vision... until my most recent visit to the DMV, when I squeaked through the vision test and couldn't quite believe they granted me a new license.

Every member of my family has gotten glasses in the last year and it was time for me to acknowledge that night-time driving had gotten a little scary and my leaning so far into the computer screen was not normal. So I got my eyes checked. It turns out I have astigmatism in both eyes. Lines all look a little fuzzy and my eyes are perpetually trying to focus. Do any of the lines below look blurry? If so, you may have an astigmatism too!

Every year that I have lived in Chicago, February has been the month to survive. Kids run manic laps around the house and a massive pile of boots, coats, and mittens defies organization at the back door. Fluffy white snow turns to nasty gray slush. Faces stay hidden in coat collars and scarves, turned down against the bitter wind. 

I start to daydream of warm places. I imagine what it would be like to live in Miami or what my life would be like if I'd never left San Diego. I berate myself for thinking it was a good idea to move to a place that is frozen for half of the year.

In the fourteen years I have lived here, February has come to symbolize the big cold, the long winter, the push through all the sadness and pain and the harsh reality of life for so many people, embodied in the composite grim faces framed by wool and fur.

In reality, Chicago Februaries have been good to me. In February 2004 I started volunteering at the Garfield Park Conservatory Demonstration Garden, where I unearthed a passion that carried me in my work for ten years. That same week I met the person who would, in February 2007, become my fiancee (and then later my husband). February 2011 led me to the mama village that saved me when I was drowning in new motherhood and desperate for community, and three Februaries later I brought home my second baby. 

Yet February has always felt like something to be endured. 

This year, after reading a children's book about hibernation and all the sensible ways mammals hide themselves hide themselves through this dark time, I thought, "Why not me too?" I re-branded February as my favorite month, the month when I give myself a pass to do whatever I feel like doing. I went to a game night with friends I love and attended my first gala event. I bought a pot of silky ginseng face moisturizer that became the highlight of every morning.

I said no to plans and complicated meals that I didn't want to make. I said yes to no-guilt falling asleep with the kids at 8pm and breakfast for dinner. I let myself off the hook for writing and avoiding sugar and all the other things that I know are important but which sometimes feel so heavy. I drank pots of Rose Hibiscus tea and gave myself permission to settle into enjoying the challenge and personal space of my full-time job and being okay with not managing all aspects of my children's lives. I stepped away from Facebook and put aside the yardstick by which I measure my womanhood, motherhood, humanity. I created space for feeling grateful, every day, for the splendor that is my life. I gave myself permission to make the easy choices, knowing they would only be temporary.

And before I knew it, March brought out the scilla, my favorite tiny blue flowers that cover lawns and parkways for one month of the year. I moved out of my puffy winter coat and I listened to the birds singing every morning as I woke up. I read Cheryl Strayed's "Tiny Beautiful Things," thanks to the winter care package from my dear sister, and I was reminded how good it is to read fierce, true, beautiful writing. I returned to my yoga practice and morning pages. Morning by morning I re-learned that life really is better when I start my day with an investment in myself.

I experienced a sparkling clarity about my professional interests - and with timing that felt unreal in the way that the right things often do, I was presented with a job opportunity that now allows me to act out my semi-private, long-standing love of databases with my more well-known love of people and problem-solving, topped with a ten-minute commute. I accepted a role that has allowed me to evolve into a more actualized version of myself.

I looked around social media and found myself in the midst of a political season that felt both startlingly different and discouragingly the same as other election years - candidates competing to drag each other down, commentators looking for punch lines, nobody really hearing each other. I emerged in time to witness Orlando and Dallas, tragedies distilled to the names of cities. I read daily stories of new terror and old fear around the world.

I started to feel overwhelmed, as I so often do when I let in all of the feels at once.

But then I paused. I returned to my hibernation stillness. And I had a radical thought. Grief and fear and abuse and injustice are not new. These things have existed since the beginning of humans. But so have love and compassion. Maybe what I get to do while I am here is to choose love and compassion.

I can just... choose.

It's like I've worked so hard to stay moving on this treadmill, running to absorb all the world's hurt without taking time to process, breathless as I attempt to argue a political stance with disdain rather than try to consider how people's lives lead them to believe what they do. I've been running desperately toward the right way to parent and the right way to lead. I've operated under the belief that I'm only worthwhile if I keep moving and that we're all judged by the ability to keep up with each other. I've fought to squelch my empathy and learn how to live in an overwhelming world.

But in February, my hibernation month, I chose to step off of the treadmill of expectations that I never approved of in the first place. So much of my life has been spent paralyzed by choice and the fear of choosing wrong. I have squandered years on worry and self-doubt and the fear of disappointing. The gift of my hibernation month was the opportunity to slow down, to stop running.

And in the stillness, what emerged was love. 

I have had love poured into me my whole life. I have been blessed by family and luck and privilege. Maybe my life's work - the reason I am here, the whole deal - is to let that love spill out around me. I don't have the luxury of guilt or shame or withdrawal from the world. It's my responsibility, my obligation even, to spread the love that has been invested in me. Maybe I can be a healer by just being me.

​For most of the year I need to do the hard work - eating well, refusing caffeine, staying hydrated, prioritizing sleep, avoiding toxic media, practicing mindfulness, nourishing relationships - to stay well so I have the capacity to keep my heart open for business.

I don't always succeed in that work. Just tonight I ignored the desperate cries of my three-year-old from the other room - "My legs don't work for standing and I can't sit and I can't walk, and I don't want to be alone here!" - because I had to put the sheets on the bed, dammit, or we wouldn't have a bedtime, and why can't they just act like reasonable people, and what about the times when my legs don't want to work? Why don't I get carried? What about meeee??? 

Even with all the self-care and smug convicton that I am living exactly the life I want to live, it is still such hard work.

But tomorrow, if I'm blessed with another day in this life, I will wake up and I will get to choose. My plan is to choose compassion and kindness and see where they lead me. So far I haven't been disappointed.

And in those times that it all just feels like too much? There's always hibernation to look forward to.

Thank goodness for February.

​by Tiffany S. Chan, PhD

My dear friend,

I almost can't believe it. After years of trying to become a foster parent, you suddenly have a little person to care for. She arrived last week and she calls you mommy.

Welcoming a child into your home like this is just about one of the most big-hearted things you can do. I made the leap into parenthood, but it was really more like a roll down a gently sloping hill. I had months to prepare, and I had hormones getting me ready. I read and worried and dreamed while I felt my baby growing inside me. We had the privilege of getting to know each other slowly as I felt things out and eased my way in.

But you, dear friend, you have opened your heart and your home and your life to a little person that you have been preparing for and dreaming about for years, without ever knowing if the dream would come true. Those false starts must have felt like opening your arms to hug someone who might either hug you back, or shrug and walk away, or punch you in the stomach while your arms were tied to your sides.

And now that you have your little person, does it feel like you got both the hug and the punch to the gut?

Here are some true things that you may need to hear right now.

You do not need to be a perfect parent - you just need to keep showing up. You have promised to be there as a protector and you will do your best, but you will not be able to protect this child from all hurts. You have promised to be a healer, but you will not be able to heal all of the wounds your child brings from the past. Yet every day you will show up. You will be a shining light in this child's life. You will be you, and that will be more than enough.

You will not always feel at your best. Sometimes you will feel like you are at your lowest. Sometimes you may even feel horrified that your child can see that you are afraid too, and that you hurt too, and sometimes you get angry, or upset, or frustrated. We all move through emotions but they do not define who we are. Over time your child will come to know that your one constant is your love. I know you, my friend, and you know how to love. That is a beautiful gift that you are offering this child, and everything else is just noise.

Sometimes you might feel so afraid and out of your depth that you wonder if maybe you really did something crazy. Maybe you took on more than you can handle. But guess what? All parents feel this way sometimes. More than sometimes. Maybe most times. Doubt and fear and even anger and regret for the life you have left behind are so, so normal. They do not undo the love, and they are not signals that you have made a mistake. They are signals that you have decided to do something big and brave with your life. It does not need to feel right all of the time. It just... is.

And when you feel utterly alone with thoughts so shameful that you can't possibly say them out loud? That's when you call me, and you say them out loud, and I yell, "ME TOO!" and then we cry and laugh together. I will remind you that the sun comes up again every day and we just need to breathe and ride through our love and pain and joy and fear like the waves that they are.

I am so proud of you. You are a person who feels so deeply and commits so fully, and you have opened your heart in the most profound and generous way I can imagine. I feel privileged to be able to share in this journey with you as part of your village.

With love,
Tiffany 

Last week I read the blog post I fit the description.... by Steve Locke, an artist and professor and black man, who during his lunch break was questioned by the police about a break-in because "he fit the description" given by a white woman - black man, puffy coat, knit cap. Here's the part of this story that punched me in the gut

And then this --

I was shaken by this story. That night I bolted out of a deep sleep and thought, "I fit the description..." Not of a black man, knit cap, puffy coat. Not the suspect. I fit the other description - the innocent white girl. That is the schema I trigger when people see me. That is the role I count on being able to play out in the world. I worry about whether I am safe, whether there are threats that I need to be concerned with. But never do I worry that I am going to be viewed with suspicion, especially not by the police.

Here's my story about being stopped by the police.

It was Father's Day in San Diego, 2002. After attending the UCSD graduation ceremony of my dear friend Annie, I drove myself and another good friend, Greta, to meet Annie's family for brunch. We started at a restaurant on Inner Marine Drive, right by Mission Bay. It was crowded and had a buffet-only menu that day, not what Annie's dad was looking for, so we piled into a few cars to relocate to a different restaurant on the Bay. We all shared a lovely meal. Then Greta and I got a ride with Annie's family back to my little black Cabriolet, which was still parked down the street at the other restaurant. Greta and I got in my car and we headed home.

It was when I was just about to drive by the restaurant where we actually ate lunch that I noticed a police car behind me. I did what I normally do - check to make sure I'm not speeding and pull into the right lane to let the officer pass. The cop car pulled into my lane, following close behind me. I tried not to feel paranoid but a few moments later lights flashed. I was pulled over.

It was actually two officers who came up to my window - one a woman with curly brown hair, the other a tall slender man. Both white.

I got the impression that the female officer was in training, being guided by the more laid-back and weathered, slightly bemused male officer.

Ms. Officer asked for my license and informed me that my registration sticker was expired. I apologized and said I would take care of it soon.

She then asked for my insurance. I realized that I hadn't put the most recent insurance card in my glove compartment. I assured her it was up to date, just missing from my car.

She asked where we were coming from. I said the name of the restaurant where we had eaten - the restaurant that we were just about to drive past. I laughed awkwardly and then launched into a bumbling explanation of how we had parked at one restaurant and then carpooled to another, and that's why it looked like we were coming from someplace else.

She paused, then asked, "Ma'am, have you been drinking?"

I had not been drinking. Thank goodness I'd said no to that mimosa at lunch. But I probably looked a little bit drunk. The graduation earlier that day had been two full hours in Southern California summer sun. It was an emotional event for me (like most events usually are) so I had "crying eyes". And when I feel put on the spot, I get embarrassed. My face turns blotchy and red. I stumble over words. I over-explain.

In sum, I was acting suspicious.

At this point Ms. Officer looked at my passenger side mirror console and asked, "What happened to your mirror?"

I leaned over and pulled the cracked glass panel from my glove compartment, holding it up for the officers to see.

I'm pretty sure the cops exchanged a look at this point, practically rolling their eyes.

I stammered that I was going to get it fixed but I didn't think that it was illegal to drive without a passenger side mirror. They informed me that it is illegal if you have a tinted rear windshield, like my car had. So I took the mirror and clicked it back onto the base. Problem solved.

Ms. Officer went back to her car for awhile while Mr. Officer leaned against my car and tried to hide his amusement. They didn't know what to make of me.

When Ms. Officer returned, with an air of exasperation, she handed me a fix-it ticket and a warning.

Greta and I were a little shaky, but after laughing about my tendency to get into minor mishaps we headed for home.

For years I've sat on this story and rolled it around in my head. It has come to be a touchstone for a time in my life when I was a little scatter-brained, a little disorganized, when I often found myself in situations that were uncomfortable but turned out all right in the end.

Recently this story has evolved into something else for me. It's one of many stories about my white privilege.

Had I been a black woman rather than a white woman driving that day, how might the scene have played out differently?

Acting foggy and suspicious. Said I was coming from one place but obviously coming from another. Car in disrepair. No current registration. No proof of insurance.

Would that police officer have taken my word, or would she have asked me to step out of the car?

And had she asked me to step out of my car, would I have remained calm or might I have freaked out a little bit?

And if I had gotten agitated, maybe said some angry words, would she have felt compelled to respond to me with force?

And then...

So, I gotta tell you, at this point in the thought experiment I slow down and think, "... and then what?"

And then I might have been detained that day?

I might have been shot?

I might have been killed?

It feels ridiculous to write those words. Why? Because I am white.

Things like that just don't happen to white women like me.

But things like that happen to black people every day.

Children are being shot and killed by officers who adamantly defend their decision-making, their in-the-moment profiling, their perception of threat and their use of self-defense, over much less than the situation I had created for myself in all my scattered, irresponsible glory.

I got a slap on the wrist and a fix-it ticket. Every time I have ever been pulled over, in fact, I have gotten a warning.

The other day I was trying to get the kids to IKEA and also coordinate buying furniture from someone on Craigslist - yeah, it was a furniture day - and Craigslist lady called while I was driving so I broke the law and my own safety rules and answered my phone in my hand. A minute later I heard the "bloop! bloop!" of a police car to my right. I glanced over and a plain clothes officer was miming, "Get off the phone!" I grimaced and mouthed, "Sorry!!!" I put down my phone and the officer drove away.

I fit the other description. Not a threat. Give her a warning.

If I had been "driving while black" that day, I'm sure I would have gotten a ticket. So I took the $50 that the county didn't charge me and donated it to the CureViolence Fund. This is the organization that houses CeaseFire Illinois and the folks profiled in The Interrupters, a documentary you need to see. Instead of just checking my privilege, I need to try to pay it forward.  

I fit the description of someone who is innocuous, someone who plays a minor and inconsequential role in this power system, someone who is happy to benefit from the oppression of others. But I don't need to accept that role any more than my black brothers and sisters need to accept their given roles of the threat or the thug. It's time we white folks helped re-cast this crazy drama we're all stuck in. Lives depend on it.

One Saturday afternoon in August of 2013, I was home alone with my 6-month-old and my 2.5-year-old and I decided to make iced tea by pouring boiling water into a glass pitcher. I ignored the tiny voice that said, "Maybe you should use a metal pot instead of glass.” I also ignored the fact that all eight drinking glasses that matched the pitcher (made of brittle recycled glass) had already broken during everyday use. I poured the water and the pitcher shattered. 

I was foolishly holding my baby at the time. Thank goodness to eternity that my mama instincts kicked in and I twisted to hold him completely out of the way as six cups of boiling water gushed onto my thigh.

I sent a photo of the grapefruit-sized 2nd degree burn to my husband to let him know I needed to go to the emergency room. He texted back, "Is that your arm or your leg?" Want to know what my very first thought was? "Wow! I must be really skinny if my thigh looks like my arm. Hooray!"

Messed up, no? Blisters were emerging on my leg and I was trying not to go into shock, but skinny leg felt like a win.

It turns out I’m not immune to the toxic social conditioning I’ve received since birth telling me that how my body looks matters more than how it functions or how well I care for it. 

I had lost twenty-five pounds earlier that year as a side effect of a diet change triggered by illness. Around Mother’s Day I developed an intense case of thrush (Candida yeast) in my milk ducts. It felt like someone was surging electric pulses through my left breast throughout the day. The common regimen to beat thrush involves medication for mom and baby, obsessive washing, daily laundry... too much for me to handle. I read up and learned that most people have yeast in their bodies but some people experience overgrowth due to sugar imbalance, so I focused on diet to starve out the yeast from within. I cut out soy, dairy, sugar, caffeine, alcohol, wheat, and most refined carbs - pretty much everything that I loved. 

For weeks I felt angry, resentful, and volatile. I was an addict in withdrawal, dreaming of waffle fries, Giordano's Pizza, and most of all Ann Sather cinnamon rolls. I stuck with the diet despite the symptoms of sugar withdrawal because any refined carbs would trigger a shock from the "yeasties," as we called them in my family. Piece of cheese? ZZZT! Bite of cookie? ZZZT! I was the subject in my own biological Skinner experiment. 

After about a month and a half the infection cleared up, but the real miracle of the Candida Diet was that it forced me to acknowledge that what I put in my body dramatically affects how I feel.

I used to suffer from chronic headaches and radical food-related mood swings. Friends and family knew that when I get hungry you better get me food, or out comes my INNER FOOD MONSTER. I would turn into the meanest version of myself in two minutes flat once I crossed that hunger threshold. I experienced almost daily indigestion, mild stomach pain, and bloating. My husband and I would joke that I was the "gassiest girl" or GG for short, especially after eating pizza (which I adore). I thought that's just what it felt like to be a living, eating person.

On the Candida Diet? No more headaches. No more indigestion. I learned that it is possible to feel hungry ONLY IN YOUR STOMACH and not in your head. Total revelation! My Inner Food Monster went into hibernation. 

Almost incidentally, I dropped three dress sizes in a span of four months. I lost all my baby weight and then some.

There's no denying that with skinny comes privilege. People tell me how great I look. I buy name-brand clothes at thrift stores off the rack because I can tell they're made for my size and shape. I feel more confident because I am more in line with the cultural ideal. 

But I’m a feminist! I’m not supposed to care about whether or not I’m thin, and I'm especially not supposed to enjoy being thin when so many women are shamed for their curvy, average-sized, beautiful bodies every day. When friends would exclaim, "Wow, you're so skinny!" I didn’t want to say, “Thank you!” because that would endorse the notion that skinny is better. So instead I’d launch into an annoyingly long explanation, equal parts testimonial and sheepish apology -

“Yeah, I’ve lost a lot of weight. You see, I had this horrible infection, and the only way to get rid of it was to cut out all the food that I love, which I NEVER would have stopped eating if I hadn't been in physical pain, and I stopped having headaches and stomachaches and mood swings so that's why I still don't eat wheat or sugar or dairy. But it's not like I was TRYING to lose weight or anything.” 

My ambivalence about my weight loss - the cycling between pride, discomfort, satisfaction, embarrassment, and guilt - signaled that perhaps I have a more complicated relationship to food and my body than I ever cared to admit. 

I recently read this article written by Judith Matz, a psychotherapist who works with clients on their emotional relationship to food. In the article she shares a case study of a woman who delves into the underlying emotional triggers for her binge-eating patterns. Matz explains,

Melton has an eating disorder that she can point to - she suffers from bulimia, still recovering twenty years later. So many of us suffer from eating disorders, and many more of us, if we're honest, have a complicated, messy, and possibly unhealthy relationship with food. Mine is that I view what I eat as symbolic rather than an actual relationship between nutrients and my body. I use food to express my identity and to drown negative emotions. I let connecting with others around food override how the food I ingest will make my body feel. 

The notion that food can nourish my body and soul has been an afterthought for most of my life. I'm working on this.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, opening day of the biggest eating season of the year. As we brace ourselves for waves of stress-triggered emotional eating, sugar overindulgence, weight gain, and body shame, let’s remind each other of these truths -

The food you put into your body is not a reflection of your self-worth. 

What you eat is nobody’s business but your own.

Your choices about food are not good or bad, they are just choices with consequences, and those choices do not make you good or bad either. 

If you catch yourself in a shame cycle as you over-indulge in your “comfort” or “trigger” or “danger” foods, be gentle with yourself. You are more than what you eat. 

Your big feelings are not too scary to feel, and they don’t need to be masked by food. They need to be expressed and shared.

You are worthy of love, connection, and acceptance regardless of how your body fits anyone’s standards of beauty. 

Wishing you a Thanksgiving weekend full of love, connection, gratitude, nourishing and delicious food, and a healthy dose of compassion for yourself!

Dear White Neighbors,

You may have noticed the "Black Lives Matter" sign that recently appeared on my lawn. My husband requested the sign for us from a co-worker who handles such things, and one day it just appeared, strategically placed for visibility on our high-traffic street.

I'm hoping that you'll drive by and think, "Wonderful! Another ally! Maybe it's time I put a sign on my lawn too." 

But let's be real. You might be thinking, "Oh, so they're one of those POLITICAL families."

Or maybe, "Hmmph. Well, I think ALL lives matter."

It's even possible that you're feeling defensive because you imagine that I'm shouting these words at you as you pass by:

I imagine you hear me saying these words because I hear those voices in my head often, whispering some of my deepest fears as a white person living in this society. How can I be a good, kind, and just person, and also live with the burden of all of my white privilege? How can I fulfill my desire to live a moral and purpose-filled life when I see what an ugly, painful legacy I've inherited? How can I continue to strive for the "good life" for myself and my children, when I know that our "good" life is built on the foundation laid by broken families and stolen labor and the bloodied backs of slaves? 

The more I read and learn, the more reprehensible I understand this history to be - and the more I realize that this history is alive and well. Twelve Years a Slave leads to The New Jim Crow which leads to Trayvon Martin and Sandra Bland and more recently Tyshawn Lee, the 9-year-old boy murdered by a shot in the back of the head, execution-style, at 4:15pm last week on the south side of Chicago.

I know, white neighbors - it feels really scary to open ourselves up to truly seeing the reality faced every day by our black neighbors and co-workers and friends who have fundamentally different experiences as citizens of this country because they are black. Not only do they have lesser access to public spaces, jobs, housing, and leadership roles, but they are more likely to experience unprovoked violence from the police or be victims of crimes within their own neighborhoods. They're more likely than we are to be incarcerated (for the same crimes) and they are more likely to die young - especially young black men.

As a mother, I worry about whether I'm feeding my kids too much sugar or whether they get enough "free nature play" out in the woods. My primary goal is to help my children thrive. What I don't worry about is whether my babies will be shot and killed if I let them play outside, or whether they will one day be falsely identified for a crime and sentenced to death. Those deep primal fears just aren't part of my daily reality, the way they are for so many of my black sisters. 

This weighs on me. It makes me sick and horrified every time I hear of another instance of violence against children, often perpetrated by children and mediated by poverty and institutional discrimination, within the black community. Those mothers carry fear and pain and grief that will likely never touch my family directly.

As an HSP, it's so hard for me to keep my heart open to really feel with these families, because to stay open leaves me vulnerable to system overload and shutting down. And as a white person, it's easy to simply turn away from the reality of inequality in this nation.

​But I just can't turn away any more. It's like I'm facing the choice from The Matrix, red pill or blue pill, and I have to decide whether I want to go back to blissful ignorance or to take on the burden of living, eyes wide open, within a corrupt and unjust system.

Four years ago I read this opinion piece in the New York Times, written by Nicholas K. Peart: "Why is the NYPD After Me?" Since then I've committed to never leaving my house without carrying a photo ID, because why should I enjoy the luxury of not being concerned about whether I'll need to prove my identity to the police? It's one small way that I "check my privilege" and keep my heart open. 

Sometimes, we need daily reminders to keep us connected to our hard truths and core beliefs. That's why I'm glad that "Black Lives Matter" sign is on my lawn. I need to be greeted with a physical reminder to check my privilege, every time I come home. 

Here's what I hope you read between the lines on my "Black Lives Matter" sign -

Thank you, white neighbors, for living and growing with me as we all try to create a more just and compassionate world for our children.

​I'm doing my best to live with open eyes and an open heart. I hope you'll join me.

With love,
Tiffany

A few nights ago I decided I could no longer let my 2.5-year-old sleep with his cheek pressed against my belly button. I just couldn't.

This used to be a sweet bedtime ritual for us. It was a way for him to feel close to me - especially since we stopped nursing - and I loved the feeling of his soft cheek against my skin and the flutter of his eyelashes as he drifted off to sleep. But in the last several weeks he has been calling me into the kids' room and demanding, "I want to lay on your button!" Over a series of nights I let myself get pulled into an arrangement that stole hours of precious sleep from me, as my restless kid rolled and flopped and cried whenever I tried to gently move him away. I would start the day resentful and grumpy, something I try so very hard to just not do - if only these kids would cooperate.

So on this particular night, as I was laying down with the kids at bedtime, I explained to my little guy that he could lay with his head "on my button" while we were reading but that he would need to cuddle next to me with his head on the pillow to fall asleep. In compromise, he was permitted to put his feet against my belly. Bedtime went smoothly enough. He got it. But then came the 2am wake-up, when he called me into the room and declared, "I want to lay down on your button!" and I offered a loving but firm no.

He totally flipped out.

This was the kind of flipping out that is incredibly disproportionate to the situation, which told me that we were engaged in something much bigger than just disappointment over not being able to lay his head on me to go to sleep.

This kid seems easy going but he can be INTENSE, sometimes putting his face right into mine to scream when he's upset, and this was the most intense I'd seen him. For twenty minutes he crawled around the bed like an animal, just out of my reach but making eye contact the whole time, unleashing the most blood-curdling screams that I have ever heard. Every so often he would come in close to punch and kick me, body flailing, and then he would scamper away again before I could hug him. Any gentle touch sent him into even more of a frenzy.

I had gone through similar stand-offs with each kid when we night weaned. Each time I had hit a breaking point, aware that I needed to set a loving limit or I was going to spiral into the sleep-deprived rage monster that reveals itself when I'm touched-out at night. I knew that I had to stand firm with this limit too, honoring my needs and my body, and I knew that we could make it through.

So I sat with him and let him unleash. I kept repeating the same phrases to him quietly, over and over: "I'm here with you. You're safe. You're not alone."

It would have been so easy to give in to his demand, just this once, and try again tomorrow. 

With less resolve, I might have done anything to keep him quiet because of worries about what the neighbors might be thinking about the wild screams coming from next door.

I might have told myself that I shouldn't let him wake his brother, asleep peacefully in the bed next to us (although this turned out to be a moot point - the kids seem to have inherited the "sleep through anything" gene from their dad).

I might have gotten overwhelmed and left him alone to cry, signaling that his big feelings better be kept inside because they are too scary for anyone else around him to handle.

I might even have witnessed his scared, tired face and let pity and compassion tell me that I was allowing him to suffer unnecessarily.

But I stood strong in my instinct that he had been storing some major big feelings and that my loving limit was giving him something to push against to trigger the release of these feelings. 

My commitment to the moment was rooted in all I had learned from Hand in Hand Parenting and Aha! Parenting, online communities with resources about how to place connection at the center of parenting and how to support children in expressing the primal need to release emotion in a safe space. I recalled my own experience as an HSP and the knowledge that when I need to cry, the best thing someone can do is just be with me without judgment.

When he finally declared, "I need to blow my nose!" I knew we were on our way out of the pool of despair. This is something my kids and I all say at the end of a good cry, signaling that we are emerging from the waves of emotion where we have been swimming and we're ready to climb back up onto dry, rational land once again. 

Next he bellowed, "I'm hungry!" and we were in the home stretch. I got him a Hawaiian Roll with butter and let him eat it in bed - I figured we had earned a little lenience from the usual late night rules.

He leaned against my legs as he ate his bread, dripping crumbs onto the sheets. Then he laid his cheek next to mine, cuddled his feet to my belly, and fell into a deep, peaceful post-meltdown sleep.

The next night we repeated the routine. Grudging respect for the "no falling asleep on my button" rule. Another wakeup, this time at 4am. His pleading, "I want to lay down on your button!" My gentle but firm no. More tears. This time, he only cried for 2 seconds before yelling, "I'm hungry!" Another Hawaiian Roll with butter, more crumbs.

And miracle of miracles, the next night there was no wakeup until after 6am.

I suppose we engaged in a form of sleep training here, something I had always resisted. But instead of crying-it-out, we were crying-it-in. I was bearing witness to whatever emotion he needed to let out, and I was loving him through it.

The gift of loving limits and safe space for the release of big feelings is something I try to give to my kids every day, but I only succeed when I have cared for myself and tuned in to them well enough to recognize the cues that a release is needed. 

When I feel a big one coming - kind of like the earthquakes I experienced as a kid growing up in California - I see the paths diverging in front of me along the fault line of my own self care. I could focus on me or I could focus on him.

When I am exhausted and depleted, I feel resentful of the idea that my kids need yet another opportunity to release their big feels. What about me? What about my big feels, my comfort, my needs? WHAT ABOUT ME??

But when I have fed and tended to my own vulnerable soft self, I can be the anchor that I know my kids want and need me to be - the same anchor my friends and family and especially my husband have been to me over the years as I have realized the power of a “good cry” in my own life as a release for all the tension and stress that have been building.

How many of us have the deep dark fear that our true emotions, our big feels, are too big and too scary to share? 

How many of us worry that to release the full amount of sorrow and pain and disappointment and shame and envy and fear from our hearts will frighten away those who love us and reveal us to be weak, pitiful, and unworthy of love?

How many of us wish that we got daily reminders that we are enough, that no matter how we act out we are loved, that there is nothing we could do to scare away the people we hold most dear?

My children are still learning how to release and express feelings in a way that won’t be damaging to themselves or others. They are learning how to be who they are in this overwhelming world. I try to remember that it's a privilege to be on this journey with them, and to remind them daily that they are loved - every single part of them.

I can’t protect my children from the inevitable intense feelings that come with being human, but I can offer my unconditional presence and acceptance of all of those feelings. I can help them learn that they don't need to fear their deepest selves. 

And here's a radical idea. What if that is enough in other areas of my life, too?

I’ve cultivated relationships and community that ground me and help me find joy and beauty in life. Yet at times those very relationships and community have sometimes felt like a burden because I have worried so much about whether I was disappointing, failing, or diverging from the path I was expected to follow. I didn't always feel like it was enough to just be me and show up. I made it about me instead of them. 

I read a wonderful blog post this week by my good friend and fellow writer Margarita Valbuena, on her page Child Parent Connections, that reminded me of this terrifying and freeing truth: I'm not ultimately responsible for the outcome of my children's lives. I can provide for them and love them and guide them, but I'm not in control. Nor am I responsible for the lives of my loved ones. I can agree or disagree with their choices and I can do my best to offer love and support, but we are all part of an interwoven web of complex forces leading us to places nobody can guarantee or predict for sure. 

Maybe instead of trying so hard to optimize and maximize and strive and succeed, we should focus on just showing up and letting each other know that those deep, dark parts of us aren't too scary to share. 

Let's try to let go of our plans a little. Let's try to just accept that we aren't in control of our children, as much as we believe (and are told) we are supposed to be. Let's dive in together and show up and remind each other and our children of the truths we already know.

This is only temporary.

You will get through it.

You are enough.

​You won't scare me away.

I'm here with you. You're safe. You're not alone.

Last month Dr. Elaine Aron, along with filmmakers Will and Diana Harper, released their film Sensitive: The Untold Story, the first documentary to closely examine the trait of high sensitivity. It was screened in San Francisco for one sold-out night, and was concurrently made available over live streaming for three days. I managed to watch it at 10:30pm on the final night, while in Milwaukee with my family, cuddled in the big hotel bed with my sensitive four-year-old who was committed to staying up to watch it with me. 

The film is a lovely consolidation of research and individual perspectives on the trait of high sensitivity and life as a Highly Sensitive Person. The structure includes interviews with researchers who study various aspects of the trait and its expression, testimonials from people who identity as highly sensitive such as the singer Alanis Morissette (featured prominently in the film), recommendations from Dr. Aron on how to apply the research findings in the areas of work, relationships, and child-rearing, and my favorite feature - fictional vignettes depicting some of the more poignant challenges of living as, or loving, an HSP.

Although I've read extensively about high sensitivity, I still found it helpful to see so many perspectives drawn together. The film is lovely and moving. It would would be an excellent introduction to friends and family who are new to the idea of high sensitivity and it offers many starting points for conversation and future reading. My son made it through the whole film and I expect we will watch it together again as he gets older. If you are an HSP, you may leave the film feeling better understood and ready to view this aspect of yourself as a strength rather than a liability.  

Since seeing the movie, I have felt guilty and inept for failing to share news of its release - How could you not tell your readers about the first movie focusing on the very topic that your blog is about? - and I didn't even want to say I'd seen it, in case I heard the words, "Oh, it sounds great! How can I see it?" and I'd have to say the movie was no longer available, with no wide release date set.

But here's some great news! Sensitive the Movie has very suddenly been made available through VHX (a new online service) for immediate online rental and purchase! The filmmakers are also hoping to release it on DVD in time for the holidays, for those of us who still like to have physical copies of things.

So you can watch the movie today! Or this weekend, or next week, or next month. You know, no rush. And I can check this off my list of things to feel bad about.

I discovered this podcast through Elizabeth Gilbert's podcast, Magic Lessons (which I first introduced here and highly recommend). This is the tagline for Dear Sugar: "Listen to your heart -- Radically Empathic Advice from Cheryl Strayed and Steve Almond". Every hour or half hour is spent in compassionate and empathic discussion of letters sent in by listeners, and it's so moving that every time I listen I feel like this: 

The story goes that back around 2010 Steve Almond wrote this advice column, Dear Sugar, until he was ready to pass it along to someone new. About this time writer Cheryl Strayed, the future author of the gorgeous memoir Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail (please read it if you haven't already), was writing to Steve Almond to tell him how much she loved his column. And it turns out that she was the EXACT PERSON he had in mind to take over for him. So she did, without revealing her identity, and she became an internet phenomenon.

​Her writings as Sugar are collected in a book, Tiny Beautiful Things, which is currently on my reading list and probably should be on yours too.

The great news is that Almond and Strayed recently collaborated to develop a podcast where together they discuss listeners' letters and call friends and family to chime in on the topics, too. They consider multiple perspectives and talk about what it means to live and love through loss and grief and pain. They push each other to share themselves fully and in doing so offer the optimistic hope that everyone has the capacity to heal and grow. 

I can't get enough of this podcast. Sometimes I listen to it before I go to sleep and have the most vivid, interesting, storied dreams. Sometimes I listen to it while I'm folding the laundry. Sometimes I listen to it while the kids nap. It's the best way to spend a few unallocated minutes because it takes me out of myself and stretches my heart. Give it a shot. I hope you love it as much as I do.  

I've been busy for the last several months working on a project with my mom that I want to share with you.

My mother is an artist, inspired by years of travel through Europe and trained with a B.S. degree in illustration and graphic design. She is also one of the most generous people I know, ready to do anything for her children and those close to her who need help. This generosity over time translated into self-sacrifice and the loss of her art. For years she believed that her talents and gifts had escaped her and would never be recovered.

Last Christmas she started playing around with the illustration program on her new tablet, and suddenly she had discovered a brand new medium through which to express her talent. Since then she has amassed a portfolio of over 100 diverse pieces capturing her love of nature and travel. 

When I was growing up, I knew that my mom was artistic and that she loved her chosen profession of graphic design. However, it is only recently that I began to understand the importance of daily creative activity in our lives. For me it's writing, for her it's illustration and design. Cut from the same emotional cloth as we are, it's not surprising to me that we both need our creative outlets to thrive. She has been a model for me in honoring your drive to create and allowing a talent and passion for art and creative work to be expressed and shared. 

In her Gallery you will find the following collections: Flower Faves, Stunning Sights, Salutations, and Le Connoisseur. Beautiful items such as notecards, posters, pillows, and more offer you many opportunities to display unique art in your home or share it with friends and family. Click-to-buy any of the Featured Products, or apply your favorite design from any gallery to any of the products using the Custom Product option. Products are manufactured to order and shipped straight to you. 

Make sure to apply the coupon code GrandOPENING for 20% of all orders! FREE Economy Shipping is available for orders $25 and up.

Follow creationsbyjanet.com on Facebook for updates on new designs and special deals.

If you do visit the website and enjoy her artwork, leave a comment here or send a note to my mom... she loves to get feedback that her art is reaching people. 

by Tiffany S. Chan, Ph.D.

I'm feeling ambivalent about my relationship with social media. Some days I just want to walk away.

This is particularly difficult for me because social media and I have been together for a long, long time. 

AOL was my first love. Early in high school I didn't have regular internet access at home, so I would ask friends to use their computers. I'd lose time as I checked for new messages and chatted with whoever happened to be around to talk to me online (rather than talking to my actual friends in their own homes, the irony escaping me at the time). 

Later, when I had regular access, I would stay up for hours into the night chatting with people from around the country, like Daniel in Florida who shared my affinity for flowers and surfing. I still feel a giddy flutter in my stomach when I hear the creaky modem sound that used to signify signing on, or the friendly deep voice exclaiming, "You've got mail!". Those sounds captured the intrigue and the excitement and the possibility of who might be waiting for me.

I used to say that the internet was an equalizer - you could speak directly and honestly, showing your true self, without being held back by the petty discrimination and judgment that would come with talking to people in person. I didn't yet understand that tone and facial expressions and pheromones add layers that really matter to communication. As a language person, chatting online felt more pure (read: less awkward) and allowed me to leverage my 100+wpm typing skills. It gave me an inflated sense of confidence, and it gave me the courage to be more honest.

In college I used ICQ and AIM to chat constantly with friends, hunched over my desktop computer late into the night. The clicking noise of my frenetic typing drove my early-to-bed roommate to wear ear plugs. I would chat with people across campus or down the hall or next door. My suite mate would say, "BRB, I have to use the bathroom," and a moment later we would wave and giggle as she walked past my room.

I learned to pay closer attention to subtle social cues after spending hours engaged in a tearful online argument with someone I believed to be a friend from high school but who turned out to be his pranking roommate. 

During my junior year I ventured into the online dating world with CollegeClub and met a funny and decent guy who I dated for a few months. My suite mates used to call him "www.boyfriend.com". I found this hilarious, although he not so much.

When I moved across the country to attend grad school, Craigslist led me to the house mate I shared my life with for five years, as well as a few other rotating roommates in the third bedroom of our apartment. They are all still some of my favorite people.

During my second year of grad school I received an email on Friendster (pre-Facebook, pre-Myspace) from a loose acquaintance asking me to attend a blind date party as the date of this funny, laid-back teacher. I had enough experience with online profiles and internet personas to see that these were people I would have been friends with if I had gone to college with them. Besides, I hadn't had a good story in awhile. So I showed up to the date party at Dave 'n' Busters and met my future husband. For years we went back to Dave 'n' Busters on our anniversary, playing games and winning tickets which we redeemed to fill our home with junky toys and logo-inscribed shot glasses.

Early in new motherhood I found solace and community in a Meetup group, an online community that facilitated deep friendships for myself and my kids. Wisdom shared on the message board reminded me that I'm not ruining my kids. Play dates, knit nights, swap meets, and meal trains kept me sane, connected, and even loved. Magical mama/kid camping trips allowed us to create that elusive "village," if only for a few days, as we cooked over the fire and let the kids run around and eat dirt. This community was forged online but it was made real, velveteen rabbit style, through tears and laughter and dirty diapers and lots of coffee.

I've always known that the internet provides the opportunity to connect with real people who, like me, feel overwhelmed by the crap shoot of trying to find kindred spirits at a bar. Social media tools have allowed me to forge some of the most important relationships in my life.

Yet this constant social access has not come without cost. I'm suffering from social media fatigue. Specifically, Facebook fatigue.

The desire to stay connected with friends during the long days home with the kids sometimes keeps me glued to the screen of my smart phone, even as my kids throw toys and start fights with each other to get my attention.

I start by skimming for inter-species friend videos and movie dance scene mashups and the first-day-of-school photos and funny stories. Then I get sucked into the rabbit hole of the minutia and dramas of daily life of whoever happens to pop up in my news feed. My already limited emotional resources are stretched thin as I experience loneliness over the birthday celebration that I wasn't invited to attend, and self-doubt in response to the promotion of a former colleague who chose a different path than I did, and unexpected joy over baby photos from an acquaintance I didn't know was pregnant, and grief for a friend who suddenly lost a parent. 

The compulsion to make it through as many "news items" as possible means that I sometimes rapid-cycle through these emotions in ten minute chunks stolen from my day. I lurk and maybe click"like" but rarely do I build in time to actually reach out to any of these friends in a meaningful way. 

Occasionally I'm even sabotaged by an unexpected graphic news story showing up as a "sponsored item" in my news feed. Once, as I hid from the kids on the staircase for a few desperate minutes of social media binging, I was greeted by the image of a grieving mother in a hospital clutching her dead child, featured by a local Fox news affiliate from somewhere in the country. Her five year old step child and two year old child had snuck outside after bed time to play in the snow. The five year old went back to bed but the toddler chose to stay outside, then couldn't manage to open the door to come back in. The family found her in the morning frozen to death. This devastating story haunted me for the rest of the day. It still brings tears to my eyes.

What kinds of emotional barriers are we expected to have in place to allow us to process detailed and graphic stories of domestic violence and animal abuse and war casualties over our morning coffee? I've been working so hard to be more open, to allow my empathy and compassion to serve and lead me. This state of being is not very compatible with Facebook.

I just emerged from a week-long social media detox, in which I ignored Facebook and other social media so I could focus on my actual life. My family and I visited friends in Albuquerque, where our days were filled with excursions such as a tram ride to the top of the Sandia Peak and our evenings were filled with laughter and roasted marshmallows around their backyard fire pit. The trip was fun and restorative and full of connection. I felt free and clear (well, and maybe a little light-headed from the altitude). This shouldn't be a revelation for me, but I was reminded that I don't need to take everything and everyone in. Life goes on. Facebook doesn't really miss me when I don't check in for a week. 

I still truly believe in the power of the internet to bring us together. Facebook may have led you to this blog, and i'm grateful. Truly.

But it's time for me to really be deliberate about how I allow social media to infiltrate my mind and heart and daily life. I'm not sure what this looks like yet.

Maybe you could use some social media detox too.

Wanna get together? PM me on Facebook, then let's shut off the devices and see what happens.