renee

There’s a certain kind of experience I see over and over again in my work—the “it was just one thing, but it changed everything” kind.

I find myself, yet again, in a season of creating new rhythms.

Recreating my business. Recreating my life. Turning over the soil of a familiar routine and asking — more honestly than ever, this time — what actually wants to grow here?

As someone who has lived with years of chronic pain due to physical trauma to the body as well as a genetic tendency (talking strictly biology there—you’ll understand this comment shortly), I’m always paying attention to how to support myself and others dealing with this lifeforce draining experience.

EMDR isn’t just for big trauma. The biggest shifts often come from healing the small moments that shaped us, unleashing growth.

Most people have heard of EMDR for trauma. But what if it could also help you perform better under pressure, parent with more patience, or finally quiet that low-grade anxious hum you’ve lived with for years?

When we think of trauma processing, we often picture PTSD-level events — the kind that feel obvious and clearly “deserving” of care. EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) is excellent at this work. It helps us move memories that got clogged up in our system toward something new: a felt sense that we made it through, that we survived, that we are still here and capable.

EMDR is having quite a moment.

Most people who’ve done any exploration of the therapy world have heard of it — and many arrive at my office already asking for it by name.

Which I love!!

But what is EMDR? How does it work? And how do you know if it’s the right tool for your healing?

Something happened to me yesterday.

I opened Nextdoor for the first time in years; my original intention simply to figure out how to unsubscribe. But then, I started reading.

Someone was defending themselves after making a hard decision that a group of people labeled cruel. She wrote that she’d cried all night. She edited the original post to ask for mercy and understanding after an evening of piling on.

I felt an urge growing.

I wanted to dig in and read every cruel remark. My gut said: defend her. At the same time a smaller part questioned—what if she was wrong? What if she was backpedaling after being called out? Reading would tell me.

I stopped myself.

There’s something strange happening over here.

People (others—and me) are used to my energy. I’m a connector of concepts and insights, and I tend to quickly weave those things into unique offerings—workshops and groups. So it’s been… weird.

Nothing from Renee.

I have a couple of people who regularly check in.

“You’re not ready yet? You don’t know where this is leading you yet?”

No.

Because this rhythm is so different for me, I could easily slip into believing it really is “nothing.”

But it isn’t.

At the beginning of the year, I told myself I was taking the first quarter to find a new rhythm. It’s going quickly.

January was dedicated to wrapping up system transfers before releasing my virtual assistant. That took more time than I anticipated. I also tried to match my husband’s schedule for his days off, which disrupted my ability to get anything extra done. I ended up feeling behind on my annual plan.

Dreamwork was a significant contributor to my personal growth in my 20s and 30s. It became a constant companion in my healing repertoire—one that helped me listen more deeply to myself, beyond what my waking mind could easily articulate.

I’ve run dream groups at various points throughout my career, and there is something endlessly juicy about giving the subconscious mind the space and presence to communicate directly with you through dreams.

The trick, of course, is learning the language.

While dream symbolism dictionaries are a common tool, I hold them lightly. At best, they’re meant to get you thinking more symbolically—they are not the ultimate translator of your subconscious mind.

Your feelings are.

When clients sense that their dreams are trying to communicate with them, here is part of the exploratory process I guide:

What subtle things do you allow to come between you and your own happiness?

This is a question worth some mindful exploration.

It’s taken many forms for me over the years.

I can’t relax until the dishes are done.
Until the trash is out.
Until the house is less messy and dinner is made.
Until everyone else is taken care of.

I can’t be happy until I’m a success.
Until I’ve done my personal growth correctly.
Until I’ve wrung every last drop of wisdom out of life’s current lesson.

I can’t be happy until my child has the right supports.
Until they feel better.
Until my upcoming trip.
Until I live out my ideals around movement, food, productivity, service…
Until I’ve poured myself into loving the world enough.

Some of the things we put between ourselves and happiness are—if we’re honest—ridiculous.
Others feel justifiable. Even righteous.

And yet, when you really sit with this question, something meaningful can emerge.

It’s not that we actually want life to be neat, resolved, or finally “okay enough.”
Nope.

Over my Christmas break, I noticed something that was music to my soul: spontaneous and brief bursts of belly laughter coming from MY mouth at the most random moments.

I would laugh at a television character who was just being quirky or weird.

I would laugh at myself acting as though something was important that was not.

I would laugh (and yes, this is my newest surprise obsession) at my new-to-me Snoopy face on my Apple Watch. This one has been particularly yummy and wholesome as I flip my wrist over and over just to see him spin pizza dough over his head and get it hung up on the minute hand.

It’s bizarre and entirely delightful.

I remember moments when life was so heavy, spontaneous laughter was not a remote possibility. In fact, mining a mere “surface smile” was impossible.

Some moments came when life became so complex that I didn’t know if I could help family members I cared for deeply. Others came when I was in the deep end of hypervigilance with PTSD.

When the nervous system is overwhelmed, it may mute both highs and lows—not to deprive us, but to create a sense of stability.

But that’s a narrow slice of the full range of this wild ride we call life.