Be the Light in the Tunnel

Until a few years ago, I believed everything worthwhile had to be hard and if it wasn’t, I’d make it harder. Like 3 years ago: Within 4 months, I moved from 35 years in Boston to rural Massachusetts without knowing anyone, bought my first house solo, started a business and a podcast, enrolled in a business accelerator program while completing a book and then decided it was the perfect time to get my first dog.

My early life demanded I do hard things. It’s my comfort zone. I grew up managing a variety of abuse, an alcoholic parent and a pattern of moving every two years from one state to another. The moving was a consistent dismantling of my safety and my joy—school and my friends—and learning how to rebuild it all as fast as possible. It was really hard.

In that world, no one talked about mental health. There were no school counselors or teachers or nuns who asked what support I might need or who offered any. Mindfulness, mental wellness, the concept of social-emotional learning were not part of the curriculum or the vernacular. I figured things out myself as best I could. I believed I had to. I got A’s. I was kind and inclusive. Even to bullies. I had great friends. I was lively and positive and loved being part of everything—at school. I felt belonging at school. And then we’d leave. Over and over again.

As a kid, a teen, even a young adult, I didn’t understand many of my feelings that surfaced seemingly out of nowhere. The ones that didn’t make sense with being labeled smart and a leader, or “so good at making friends” in whatever next school I was tossed into. Feelings like fear of crowds and crowd noise (which made my cheerleading career pretty hard), stomach issues, feeling disconnected from my body, being light headed, not eating around my family, being terrified of comments about my physical appearance from boys—and men. In my thoughts, I’d dismiss teacher after teacher who said I was “creative,” “a talented artist” and “a true writer.” I thought they were crazy. And wrong. I had them fooled. I worked hard at that.

I never talked about my home life. Or the abuse—which was buried far away from my conscious daily living. It wasn’t until my mid-20’s that my inner life started to toss bits of memory onto the sand of my days. I got therapy. And still no one fully explained how my early and consistent trauma was effecting my current life. Nothing about brain development or how the fight or flight system worked. One male therapist didn’t even believe me. No one offered me tools. I found them myself.

In my 30’s, someone finally asked me, “How did you survive all that?” I felt surprised. I never thought about my life as survival. It was just my life. It was a great question. I remember the self-awareness that came with my answer, “I journaled every day. I believed in a Source that would help me. Otherwise, I don’t know.” I knew it was true for me. I didn’t know if that was true out in the world. Turns out, I was right. Now, science knows.

I breathed, moved and journaled. I was a dedicated, medal-winning swimmer. A cheery cheerleader. I cried a lot when I was alone. I shared my feelings when I wrote letters to the friends I’d left behind. I breathed on purpose year upon year of swim practice. I journaled every day. Later I found yoga and breath work. Running. Tae Kwon Do. Breathe Move Journal. Tools now evidence-based to help anyone self-manage mental, emotional and physical wellbeing.

There were other things, too. Also evidence-based. The helpers along the way—my grandmother. My 2nd grade teacher who invited me to a weekend at her home complete with a beach party with all the friends I’d left behind mid-year. My 5th-grade social studies teacher. A college professor. My friends. Writing. Talking openly about feelings. Sharing aloud the positive I saw in others. My need to offer empathy to all. I was lucky to find journaling at 8-years-old. Lucky to be athletic. Lucky to want to talk and share my feelings and make friends. Today, kids, teens, adults—no one has to just be lucky anymore. We just have to share what we know as widely as we can. That’s why I created Breathe Move Journal.

Fast forward to last week. I attended the Massachusetts Coalition for Suicide Prevention (MCSP) annual conference in Norwood, MA, along with several fellow board members from the Berkshire Coalition for Suicide Prevention (BCSP). It is a spectacular conference attended by hundreds of humans dedicated to supporting others with tools and modalities for mental and emotional wellness. The presenters are powerfully creative and experienced in their fields. Everyone is there to offer and learn about tools and organizations dedicated to supporting healing and mental health. There is so much information and understanding. So much hope and help. So much goodness.

More than once during the conference, a light-bulb went off as I made a new connection with current research and my past trauma—which still happens as I move through my life. What also happens is a wave of silent shame: How can I just be understanding this now? I’m glad no one else knows. When the shame arises, I now know how to help myself. I have solid tools to notice and release the judgment. Create a little space to remind myself of this: You can’t know what you don’t know. Now you know. Good for you that you continue on your path to learn. The shame softens and I take a thread a self-compassion and weave into the cloth of my journey.

There was a particular moment at the conference when folks in a workshop couldn’t help but share their fears, frustration and anger about our current government and the purposeful harm it is trying to inflict on us all. Someone said, “I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel…” I had this knowing:

You can’t wait for the light at the end of the tunnel. You must be the light in the tunnel now, as your travel through it. If everyone chooses to be the tiniest light in the darkness, the darkness will cease to exist. The tunnel will become a brilliant path for all to travel. Be the light right now.

I feel how true this is from my lived experience. As a kid, I believed the help would come and it did. I focused on every detail of the present, never once focused on the “someday” when things might get better. I found the tiniest things to be grateful for every day. I was interested in the details of everyone and everything. There were many, many little lights.

Sitting in the workshop, I recalled how I physically couldn’t tolerate seeing someone else in pain or being left out. As far back as my memory goes. Including animals, even mismade toys no one wanted. It hurt me. It still does. I had to help. I shepherded other new kids on their first day of school—sat with them at lunch until they found friends. I talked to so-called “unpopular“ kids all the time. I included them. If I noticed someone was sad or upset, I asked them if I could help. The asking made a difference. I smiled at everyone. Pointed out the positive. I laughed easily. My system wouldn’t let me do anything else. It still won’t.

Along my healing way, I wasn’t sure if my need to be kind was me being me or just a part of my survival kit. In that workshop moment, thinking about the light in the tunnel, I realized being kind wasn’t survival—being kind helped me survive because it was a safe way to be who I actually was. This made me a vulnerable target at home. During school hours, it made me strong.

I’m reminded that the process of living my life is a consistent journey of growth, self-expansion, healing, and self-understanding. In the present moment, not a future one. And it doesn’t have to be hard all the time. It can be soft to heal when you have tools to support yourself. People to support you. Bits of gratitude and kindness. I’m reminded there is no place to arrive. You arrive in each day just as you are in that moment, in the world of that moment, and you do the best you can. That’s enough. It’s more than enough. It moves the needle forward. You don’t need to be the blinding searchlight in the tunnel. Be the tiniest light. Now. Together we can erase the darkness. Yours, mine and ours.

My time at the conference concluded with a brave and powerful panel of 3 young people, ages 15, 19, and 22 (from Berkshire County, where I live), sharing their stories about trauma, mental health, managing the challenges of suicide ideation, and the systems in place that help and hurt them. Those young people were seen, heard and applauded. The needle has indeed moved forward.

With gratitude for all that lit my tunnel, and all that lights it today, Elizabeth