renee

I’ve spent a good part of this afternoon staring out my window . . .

Both here, on social media, and in my journal, I’ve been writing a lot about how we need safe, growth-filled community more than ever. More and more, I feel that the intrinsic hierarchy baked into the therapy relationship just isn’t the right container for the kind of collective healing we need right now.

From the outset of my career, I was a “different” kind of therapist—incorporating the body before it was “cool” and engaging with my clients as someone who (yes, has expertise, but mostly…) is a co-journeyer.

So it’s no surprise that this past month has been one of deep reevaluation. I wish I could say it’s been all magical—but honestly? It’s also been uncomfortable. I’ve been squirming a bit, even as I hold myself through the process with as much grace as I can muster.
I’m 54-and-a-half. It’s legacy time.

I don’t have forever to hang out in a rut—especially one that keeps me busy with maintenance-level system-supportive work instead of the deep, purposeful rewiring kind. It’s time to shift out of the container of therapy and fully into the container of inner wisdom and transformational growth.

I’m stepping out of the overfunctioning, workaholic, Midwestern-farmgirl part of me…

I’ve spent a good part of this afternoon staring out my window . . .

Both here, on social media, and in my journal, I’ve been writing a lot about how we need safe, growth-filled community more than ever. More and more, I feel that the intrinsic hierarchy baked into the therapy relationship just isn’t the right container for the kind of collective healing we need right now.

From the outset of my career, I was a “different” kind of therapist—incorporating the body before it was “cool” and engaging with my clients as someone who (yes, has expertise, but mostly…) is a co-journeyer.

So it’s no surprise that this past month has been one of deep reevaluation. I wish I could say it’s been all magical—but honestly? It’s also been uncomfortable. I’ve been squirming a bit, even as I hold myself through the process with as much grace as I can muster.
I’m 54-and-a-half. It’s legacy time.

I don’t have forever to hang out in a rut—especially one that keeps me busy with maintenance-level system-supportive work instead of the deep, purposeful rewiring kind. It’s time to shift out of the container of therapy and fully into the container of inner wisdom and transformational growth.

I’m stepping out of the overfunctioning, workaholic, Midwestern-farmgirl part of me…

“Disorienting dilemma.”

This is the term Stephen Cope uses in his book, The Dharma in Difficult Times: Finding Your Calling in Times of Loss, Change, Struggle & Doubt, to describe those moments that rock your world. You know—the ones where life will never be the same.

Included in disorienting dilemmas are things like divorce, the death of a loved one, or having someone drain your bank account. They are unexpected, jarring, and demand a radical reshaping of how we relate to the world.

I’d argue that this moment in history is a disorienting dilemma for the collective. Some are longing for a return to the 1950s or the 1980s—“the good old days”—not necessarily because they were better, but because they feel more certain than now.

How we hate uncertainty.

For others, the illusion of safety in those eras is giving way. The veil is being lifted, and we’re seeing how those “good old days” weren’t good for everyone.

There’s grief in that, but there’s also awakening.

From planetary shifts to global health crises to identity politics—uncertainty is here.

Even as I write this, trying to communicate something meaningful about chaos and uncertainty, I feel my body tightening. My movements are speeding up, and my nervous system is following suit.

This era feels like this moment: a little cluttered, a little frantic (like my body and the dining room table I am sitting at).

So I pause. I breathe. I look up from my dining room table and let my eyes rest on the trees outside my window. This is what I know to do. I take refuge in what is true, and steady, and real, and the trees remind me of YEARS of standing tall–of deep roots and of quiet growth.

As I gaze at them, something inside me settles.

Whether it’s in the name of balance, because new revelations have happened, or because—like that Wascally Wabbit and me—you missed that left turn in Albuquerque… life requires flexibility. If you want to live full out, pivoting is part of the process.

This spring, I knew we all needed more connection, so I carved out nooks and crannies in my schedule to offer more groups. As a result, my formerly flexible Mondays and Fridays got a little crowded; Wednesdays too. But with more reflection, I’ve realized that bigger changes are needed to make room for the retreat-style offerings I’m so excited about.

Imagine:

EMDR, IFS, somatics, and energy healing in immersive group experiences

Nature- and yoga-based retreats

Our fall retreat, Stress and the Spirituality of Uncertainty

I used to think that if I couldn’t plan it, predict it, or perfect it… I was doing something wrong.

But that’s just not how life happens.

That belief came from a more simplistic framing of the world—one I developed in childhood, where success meant good grades and being a “good girl.” But the world is far more complex than that. It demands we evolve.

(And the real question is: will we meet that challenge?)

So how did I start breaking free from that story?

Kicking and screaming, of course.

It felt like failure. It felt like chaos. But it was actually reality… paired with the unmooring from old identity. Sometimes that unmooring is forced upon us. But always, it’s a doorway into a deeper, wiser way of living.

Uncertainty, if we stay present with it, becomes the alchemist. It doesn’t just disrupt—it transforms.

It invites radical reimagining—of ourselves, our relationships, our work, our world. It asks us to loosen our grip on old rules and roles and trust the mess enough to listen for something new.

I am thrilled to announce our next retreat:

Stress and the Spirituality of Uncertainty

The more I sit with this theme, the more I feel its truth. It’s the flavor of the moment. The medicine of now.

I believe this chaos we’re living through is not random—it’s revealing. It’s as if every wound is being torn open so it can finally be seen. And I trust that healing follows when the truth is exposed, even when the unraveling feels endless.

As a Gen Xer, I grew up during an era that appeared stable—at least “for people like me.” Looking back, I see how much harm was hidden beneath that surface. It’s humbling. And it makes me long for something more honest, more inclusive, more whole. We’re being invited—forced, really—to let go of illusions. To die to what’s no longer working. To begin the slow, sacred process of becoming new.

And I’m ready if not trepidatious. Not because it’s easy—but because I know how to stay steady in the storm.

That’s what this retreat is about. My mother-in-law, Jan, and I have been exploring how to find the concentrated droplets—the purest nectar of spirituality—in the very process that comes before the rebuild–the part that feels anything BUT holy or good. Just like last year’s retreat on aging, this one asks us to honor the death-rebirth cycles of life. But this time, it’s collective.

Who decides what’s “normal”?

Are you normal? Abnormal?

When is abnormality seen as a deficit—and when is it celebrated as exceptional?

And if you are “exceptional,” do you feel pride—or pressure?

Is the pressure to maintain status stronger than the pressure to gain it?

Our next Important Conversations book club book, Neuroqueer Heresies, explores the systems that define and enforce what it means to be “normal.” In a world that demands conformity, author Nick Walker invites us to unmask, unlearn, and reimagine a more whole (maybe even liberated??) version of ourselves.

The Important Conversations book club (5 years + strong) started as a commitment of love from myself to the world. I wanted to be a greater source of understanding in a pained and divided world.

I almost didn’t write this.

Not because I don’t care—but because I care so much… and the words felt too small.

I see the pain that hate causes. I see the way some people freeze, pull back, or say nothing. And I feel myself tempted to do the same—not out of apathy, but out of reverence for just how big the issue is. I didn’t want to offer platitudes when what’s needed is presence.

But as I journaled about what was holding me back, I kept thinking about my kids.

When one of them was in pain, I offered comfort—sometimes welcomed, sometimes not. And when another had caused the pain, we’d walk through it together. We’d ask:

Is it safe? Is it kind? Is it fair?

That framework helped us return to connection and empathy. Not perfection. But love.

I believe most people mean well. They just haven’t had the chance to be close to LGBTQIA+ people—at least not knowingly. And sometimes, that’s all it takes: exposure. Presence. Realness.

I was walking the neighborhood, listening to a therapist training on a decolonized approach to attachment when my mind wandered deeper.

Let me take you on this morning’s grand meander.

I ran into my neighbor and told her how I periodically pause to think about how bizarre it is that I “own” a half-acre of planet Earth. It’s just… weird. There’s something that doesn’t feel quite right about that.

Pause. Try that on.

How can I possibly own a portion of the universe? Or any part of creation? I don’t even own this body—it moves through the phases of life whether I will it to or not.

I certainly don’t own my children. They showed me early on that they are their own beings. My role was never to claim or control them—but to guide, to influence through connection and respect. To see them as fully autonomous, creative, equal. And only then could I offer reflection, propose considerations, and support their growth.

That kind of connection took intention. And maintenance. And mutuality.

Honestly? They’ve been some of my greatest teachers.

A few weeks ago, I shared about the art of the pivot in business.
But today, I lived the art of the pivot in parenting (let’s be honest, this is most days).
If you’re raising kids who need extra support—especially neurodivergent ones—you know how often we’re asked to flex. To pivot. To respond instead of react. It’s both a dance and a discipline that we have to develop for ourselves!
Today was a classic reroute day.
I’d slept decently after a lovely 9-mile family bike ride last night and had a clear morning plan: yoga (part of my St. Jude’s fundraiser), quick house chores, and this newsletter.
Instead, I found myself helping one of my kids problem-solve a morning that had gone a bit sideways after a night that went a lot sideways. Planning, especially around sleep and transitions, is a huge challenge for him. So instead of yoga, I was out the door with him—grabbing clothes, swinging by the store for some energy support, and ensuring he got safely to work on little rest.