#resetintegrativehealth – The Third Quarter

Bring Me All the Sevens…Part 2

(Previously titled: When the Bones Are Good)

More talk about bones? Yes. Let’s do it! I love this analogy. If you haven’t read Part 1 of this little series I’m creating, go back and take a look. It’ll help you understand what this is all about.

When I was going to school for my certification, one of the presenters read us a quote by Alice Miller. It hit me so deeply that I had it printed, framed, and it sits in my sight across from my desk. It goes like this:

“The truth about our childhood is stored up in our body, and although we can repress it, we can never alter it. Our intellect can be deceived, our feelings manipulated, conceptions confused, and our body tricked with medication. But someday our body will present its bill, for it is as incorruptible as a child, who, still whole in spirit, will accept no compromises or excuses, and it will not stop tormenting us until we stop evading the truth.”

YIKES!!

What does that mean if we break it down? Basically this…We can read books, tell ourselves that everything is fine, ignore it, or take pills. But at some point in our life, our body will let us know it’s done pretending everything is ok. It will demand that we deal with and work through the garbage that happened to us as kids, or, really, at any time in life. But we’re talking about the “bones” of our lives…the beginning part…the foundation. So, as for this post, we’re looking at our childhood.

I’ve known many people who believed very strongly that it’s best to “let it go” when it comes to childhood trauma. I’m not just talking about abuse; I’m talking about the adults in our lives who were supposed to be our protectors, our guides, our examples. I mean those people in the generations ahead of ours who we were to feel completely safe around making degrading, hurtful comments that get engrained into your mind. The inappropriate slapping on the butt, or other uncomfortable places. The relentless teasing. All of these things then rationalized away with the whole, “Oh, he was only joking. Don’t be so sensitive” response if you ever gather up enough courage to speak up about how it made you feel. That one absolutely incenses me! Especially when we’re talking about kids.

Once again I want to ask you to think back to your childhood. What was said to you that still rattles around your brain today? What happened that you just can’t seem to forget about? It might be time to work through it! Forgiveness to the one who hurt you? Yes! That’s important. But, you need to dissect it and see how it influenced what you say to yourself. How do you think about yourself because of what was said or done to you? THIS is where the work comes in. Only you can reprogram that glitch. Search out the truth and begin replacing it. It’s not easy, but it’s possible. Believe me…if I can do it, anybody can!

My second bone…

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My memories of being a little girl come in fragments.  I can often find one screaming back at me when I hear a song, catch a scent or, obviously, see an old photo.  These memory fragments, though, more often than not, replay moments of me noticing what was around me, thinking about it, being aware of everything and everyone.  I noticed smells, sounds, and mostly, feelings.  If I were to try and put them on a timeline, I would guess that at the beginning, I would be at either of my grandparents’ homes.

Grandma and Grandpa Fields, my dad’s parents - they lived in a two story corner house in Yorba Linda when I was young.  I’ve tried to return there once with my kids, to show them this place that holds so many memories for me.  But this was before the days of navigation systems and I failed miserably.  Anyway, it was on the corner of a busy street and across the street were train tracks.  Trains would race by on a regular basis, day and night.  I would often spend the night (especially while my dad was living there).  Grandma would tuck me into my Aunt Sandi’s four poster bed that was so high off the ground I’d have to run and jump to get on it.  She would keep the little glass lamp on the side table turned on to the lowest setting, kiss my forehead, say goodnight & close the door.  I’m not sure if this was the beginning of my being afraid of the dark or not.  But it’s definitely when my memory of the fear begins.  When a train would be headed our way, I’d tuck myself tightly underneath the covers because, as everyone knows, if you’re under the covers, you’re perfectly safe.  The train’s whistle would wail hauntingly, first from far away, warning me that it would soon be right across the street.  Then louder and more demanding as it approached.  When the sun was down, in my young mind, trains were nothing more than giant creatures hoping to derail so that they could catch little girls and carry them away forever.  I was terrified of them when nighttime hit.  They were big, very loud and the intense power they displayed as they raced by, creating wind that usually only God could make, was too much for me to take in.  Luckily for me, those evil night monsters were never able to unhook themselves from the steel tracks.  Or, if they did, those covers were strong enough to keep me hidden.  Too bad for them!  But, to this day, the sound of an oncoming train, that warning whistle that blows long and loud, still sends a chill down my spine.  And I prefer to be far, far away from the tracks.

But what I remember the most is that the walls on either side of the staircase were covered in family photographs.  Every time I traveled up or down those stairs I would see my family smiling back at me. Grandma and Grandpa in bold flower outfits on one of their trips to Hawaii. Uncle Freddy’s senior photo.  Aunt Sandi with the “Beehive” hair.  Aunt Robin in her pretty dress the day she married Uncle Cliff. A family photo of Robin, Cliff, Michael and Chad.   My dad in his Army uniform.  Nonie, Papa, Aunt Teri, Aunt Pat, Uncle Neil.  Baby pictures of Michael and Chad and me.  There were pictures of me.  This was my family.  Yet, even as a child, I remember feeling like I didn’t fit with these people.  I physically matched them, sure.  I loved them and they loved me.  But my world was separated from theirs.  My cousins had their family photo up there.  My mom’s face was nowhere to be found on that wall.  My family was broken so I felt broken.  I knew my mother was considered a sort of enemy.  She wasn’t included.  She wasn’t liked.  And I was a part of her.  It made me feel like I wasn’t completely good enough.  There was always this feeling that I needed to work extra hard to be liked.  I couldn’t talk about my mom or share anything about my life that happened away from my dad’s side of the family.  If they asked about school or friends, I’d make sure to choose my words carefully.  There was nothing worse than beginning to tell a story where I’d slip and end up using the words, “then mom and me…”  This would bring on the eye rolls and the whispered comments that I couldn’t ever quite make out, but knew they weren’t nice.   So began my system of compartmentalizing my life.  When I was at Grandma and Grandpa Fields’ house, I would keep my mouth shut about everything not pertaining to them or that side of my family.  I had no clue that this was what I was doing beyond telling myself, “Don’t talk about mommy” over and over again.  My young brain was incapable of this sort of intentional plan.  Instead, it was what naturally began to happen.  The desperate need I had to feel as if I “belonged” to my very own family drove me to stifling my thoughts, my stories, my feelings, and, in the end, myself.  I would only allow them to know the Kim that I believed they wanted.

I loved my family.  I wanted them to love me. I wanted to fit in with them.   I wanted to be with my family.  And I wanted them to want to be with me.  So, I adjusted.

Did you experience divorce? How did your parents handle it? Did they find a way to get along, or was it WWIII? Were you caught in the middle? Were you a pawn in their battle? How did this carry into your adulthood? This would be a fairly large level bone structure right here…I’m talking femur size! I challenge you to explore your thoughts. Think about how you speak to yourself based on whether you were required to compartmentalize yourself in order to keep the peace or feel accepted by those who were meant to give you a sense of security and confidence. Dig in…then rewire that garbage! Because you’re worth it. Your health is worth it. Your body is worth it.

It’s time!!

If you would like to receive Kim’s posts in your email inbox, subscribe above.

Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She has released her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, which provides 12 weeks of intensive digging into all areas of life in order to find balanced health and a renewed sense of joy. Visit her website listed below for more information.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

Bring Me All the Sevens…Part 1

(Previous title: When the Bones Are Good)

Think about your bones. We’d be a floppy, droopy mess without them, right? They hold us up. They protect vital organs. They endure smashing, kicking table corners, bumping into cabinet doors. If they crack or snap, they’re capable of healing back again. Our bones aren’t just an important part of our bodily structure, they’re pretty bad ass!

Bones are the base of our body. So, as I considered how to describe the “base” of our lives, my mind went there…to our awesome skeletons.

What were the bones of your life like? How would you describe them? Nobody has a perfect scenario as they emerge from childhood into adult life. Some, however, have better life bones than others. Think about yours. Were they a solid, functional, healthy set of bones? Or was there a malformation? Maybe just a lack of strength…Maybe they were broken and not set properly so the healing didn’t happen correctly…Maybe a piece was missing causing a lack in function.

I’ve noticed throughout the last decade or so, that my life bones set me up for a bit of a struggle in this third quarter. Back in 2012 I began writing my story. I got to about age 5 or 6 and then the laptop I was writing on broke and I was unable to recover my documents…until now. I found the story! And as I started to read through it, I noticed something. Being 9 years further in life than when I began documenting my memories, knowing where I am now and comparing it to what I was reading from then, I see that our childhood circumstances most definitely influence how we handle major life transitions. Think about it… we develop coping mechanisms, defense strategies, habits in order to protect ourselves…and we carry them right into our “grown up” worlds.

My memoir (sounds a bit too fancy for me, but I’m going with it), begins with my first child leaving the nest. I was 39 years old, 40 at the time I was writing. Now that my last two kids have moved out, I have more experience on the whole “Empty Nest” scenario. So, I’m finding it interesting to read my thoughts when it was such a new experience. Even then, though, I was aware of the fact that my life bones were the cause of why it was such a devastating transition.

I want to share my story. I won’t dump the whole thing here, though. Maybe in pieces over the next few weeks. But, definitely the first part about my son heading off to college, along with my very first bone…

**********************************************************************************

“I still need you, mom, just in a different way, now. ”

This thought rolls around and around in my head as I try to get some sleep. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it in the past twelve months, either. What’s happening to me? Why do I feel so afraid? It’s not as if I thought my kids would stay small forever. I’ve always been fully aware of the fact that the day would come that my son and two daughters would eventually take off into their own lives. Isn’t that what the goal of parenting is? And not only did I want them to take off, I wanted them to go on their own volition, with excitement and purpose, ready to handle whatever they might encounter. I was determined to release three amazing adults into the world. It was always my goal.

Nearly one year ago, the first part of this goal was met. My son, Bradlee, graduated from Grace Preparatory High School. And two months later, August 2011, Brad, my husband, our two daughters and I packed up the Buick with boxes, Rubbermaid containers, a stereo and so much more. The five of us literally wedged ourselves into the car. We buckled up, gave one last wave goodbye to the friends who’d gathered in our front yard to say their teary farewells to Brad, and began the trip toward Santa Barbara to drop him off at Westmont College – the school he’d wanted to attend since junior high.

Driving home two days later, the car one person lighter, I felt as if I’d left behind a part of me that was vital to life. Pulling into the driveway that night, I no longer understood what my purpose was – at least not in my son’s life. And, not long from now, I’d be doing the same thing with my two girls. This was one of the single most terrifying realizations to ever hit me. Not because I was living in some sort of dream land where my children were never going to leave me. But because I’d now experienced watching one of my birds leave the nest. It was no longer a future event I knew would happen, someday. It had actually already happened. And it happened a lot faster than I had expected. Wasn’t he just a little guy playing with his army men and Legos while watching SpongeBob Squarepants on Nickelodeon?

It hurt. It hurt really badly. It hurt more than I think it should have. I had this all too familiar feeling of being left behind. I felt unnecessary. I felt insignificant. I felt……abandoned. And mixed in with all of this, I felt guilty because I knew none of these feelings were right. My amazing son was at the exact school he’d always wanted to attend. Brad was about to set the world on fire. I was so excited for him. I was so unbelievably proud to watch him drop right into this new phase of life with confidence and ease. I mean, isn’t that proof that I had accomplished my goal of preparing him for this exact moment? What an awesome event in the life of a mother! But as I rolled these truths around in my mind, I realized that this had nothing to do with Brad. It had never been and would never be the responsibility of my children to provide me with security and life purpose. That wasn’t going to start now. No, I realized that there was another level of garbage from my less than ideal childhood trying to rear its ugly head. I could tell already, it was going to be a bad one. And I had no idea how the hell I was going to handle it.

*Dropping the boy off at Westmont College – 2011*

Sevens part #1…

1976

Refrigerator magnets…I remember focusing on the refrigerator magnets, so neatly arranged on the front of the freezer door. I think staring at those magnets, finding a pattern in how they were hanging symmetrically gave me a tiny sense of comfort from the screaming that was going on in the peripheral area of where my eyesight was focused. Mommy & Daddy were fighting again. Memory of the exact words that were being yelled is gone. But what I can recall is the intensity of the voices, the sense of hatred that was being torpedoed back and forth between the two people who were my very foundation. I was four years old. It’s my first memory – finding a pattern in those refrigerator magnets while listening to my parents tear each other apart with terrifying volume.

Whether it was later that same day, I have no clue; Most likely not. But it couldn’t have been more than a few days before memory #2 hits. Closet doors…I was sitting on the side of their bed, now staring at the closet doors. “Daddy’s going to go live at Grandma’s house.” There were four closet doors – the kind that slide on a track. And above those sliding doors were cabinets; Three of them. Another pattern. Sliding door, cabinet, sliding door, cabinet, sliding door, cabinet, sliding door…”sometimes mommies and daddies just can’t live together anymore…” Seven doors all together. Seven doors. Seven…”We still love you so much. And this has nothing to do with you…” Seven doors…”and you can come and visit me every weekend…” The sliding doors have big, circle handles and the cabinets have small knobs. Circle handle, small knob, circle handle, small knob, circle handle, small knob, circle handle. Seven…”and I’ll call you every night and you can call me any time you want…”

And just like that, my family was gone.

Here’s the thing about this first bone; it started a habit – a coping mechanism. I STILL count things in sevens. I decorate my walls in a way that I can always find a pattern of seven when my husband and I have a fight, or if I’m having any type of anxiety. When I enter anybody’s home, I find my seven immediately. This started when I was four years old…for 45 years I’ve been finding patterns and counting in sevens for comfort.

That’s a bone!

What is your first life bone? What was your earliest memory? What was the result of that memory? Has it influenced how you handle life circumstances today? Mine sure did! Think about your bones…be grateful for them, nurture them, honor them, and if they need healing, do that, too. We can work on that healing together.

If you would like to receive Kim’s posts in your email inbox, subscribe above.

Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

What Would Betty Do?

I’m 34 years old. Married for nearly 15 years. My children are 13, 11, and 7. I’m running two small businesses, leading the children’s ministry at my church, and running my household. This is when I decided it would be a good time to go on a second trip to Kenya. You’d think having gone the year before and experiencing crippling home-sickness, I would’ve learned my lesson.

But, no. I’m one of those people who needs to make a mistake and have a lesson dumped in my lap three for four times before it begins to sink in. (On a side note – I went a third time in 2011…like I said, slow learner here!)

A tiny snippet of the village in Kipkaren, Kenya

The thing about my trips to Kipkaren, Kenya, though? They weren’t mistakes. Difficult? yes…Could there have been a better time? Probably…Mistakes? Absolutely not! The lessons I learned from this international chapter in my life were the good kind. The kind that inspire and motivate. The kind that leave permanent imprints on the very fabric of who I am. Betty was one of the most impactful people I have ever encountered. What I learned from her is what set me on the path to what I do now; helping others find their way out of the hole they feel lost in. Let me share Betty with you…

I’m not sure on dates or time lines. What I do know is that Betty was suffering with advanced AIDS. I remember her explaining that she had lost her husband already, leaving her alone to care for her young children. As time went on, she began getting quite sick. One particular day, a nurse visiting from America found Betty face down in the dirt outside of her home. She was horribly ill by this point; dehydrated, malnourished, unmedicated, and on death’s door. She was in a desperate state. The nurse got Betty to the nearby village clinic, assessed her and began the process of getting her on a treatment protocol.

Now, there’s something I learned while I was there. One of my Kenyan friends explained to me that when a villager is diagnosed with a fatal disease neighbors basically write you off. It isn’t because they are uncaring. The mentality in a struggling country is one of survival. Resources are terribly limited. Think about it…if you had very little food or clean water, no guarantee that you’ll be able to get more any time soon, and a family to care for, it would be difficult to spare any for a person who wouldn’t be alive much longer. I realize that seems extremely harsh. But we need to remember that our way of life is very different here in America. Understanding this perspective, you can see why Betty had gone without assistance from nearby neighbors.

Over time, Betty began to bounce back. She regained her strength, and was able to care for her children and home again. To say she was grateful for the care from the clinic staff would be an understatement. What could she do to repay the goodness that was shown to her? There was only one answer…go out and find others who are suffering and alone. Help them find a way back to a vital existence. Show them how to get treatment and care so that they can prolong and improve the quality of the life they had remaining. That’s exactly what she did.

As time moved forward, Betty began traveling around with the medical staff. She would sit next to the beds of those living with HIV/AIDS and explain to them that this isn’t an immediate death sentence. Her experience became a testimony to, regardless of how ill you are, there is always a chance that you can improve. Life doesn’t have to be over.

Here is where this woman absolutely blew my mind…

As I sat on a chair next to her, Betty spoke these words, “I thank my God every day for the gift of AIDS. If I had not been blessed with this illness, how would I be able to go out and help others who have it, too? It is difficult to take advice from a person who is not suffering the way you are. But I am suffering. And I am still standing. And as long as I stand, I will sit next to my fellow brothers and sisters, comfort them, encourage them, and support them as they live with this disease.” WHAT?!? I immediately felt ashamed of every time I complained about anything I had ever had to deal with. Thankful for AIDS? Blessed with this illness? How on earth could a person truly think like this? I decided right there that I would adopt Betty’s outlook on suffering.

Now, listen. I have most definitely NOT been consistent with this. I get caught up in life, go back on auto-pilot and have my moments of feeling sorry for myself. But inevitably, something smacks me upside the head and I remember Betty’s words.

In 2011, I returned to Kipkaren a third time. This trip included my two oldest children – both teenagers. I couldn’t wait for them to meet my Kenyan friends. But most of all, I wanted them to meet Betty.

I was one week too late. Betty finally reached the end of her battle with AIDS. Her funeral was seven days before we arrived. Yes, I was sad that I would never be able to speak to her again. I was frustrated that I would never be able to tell her how much she had inspired me. I was disappointed that my children would never be able to meet her. But, I was thrilled that she had stayed strong to the end. And I was incredibly honored to have been able to sit at her side and hear her story that afternoon five years earlier. What a gift that was! I will share her story as often as I can. I will hold it close to my heart every day. And when I get caught up in my own self-pity, I will see her beautiful face framed in my office and remember…no matter what pain I face, no matter what difficulty I am enduring, what would Betty do? She would be thankful for it and then go out and help others who are feeling the same exact thing. Isn’t that what gets us through this life? Holding each other’s hands in the dark moments.

*photo credit (left): Christie Hemm Klok

There is one more odd addition to this particular perspective I’ve adopted. As I said, what Betty shared with me that day set me on a path. But there was something else I stumbled upon that has concreted this mindset for me. It was the final piece that pushed me to get certified as an Integrative Health Coach and help others struggling with similar autoimmune, chronic health, and life issues that I have experienced. This last piece came from West Wing…yes, the TV show. Weird, right? We’ve gone from a rural village in Eastern Africa to an NBC drama from the early 2000’s. But I heard Betty in this particular scene. Take a minute and watch…

This is my absolute favorite scene in the entire series. It wraps up beautifully everything that Betty was saying. It encompasses the very reason I want to find all the people living with autoimmune disease, overwhelm, chronic stress, etc. Because I’ve been in that hole. Betty was in a hole. She found the way out and spent the rest of her days jumping back in that hole to show others their way out, too.

What holes have you climbed out of in your life? Are there others around you stuck in that same hole? Would you be willing to jump back in and show them the way out? What a beautiful way to turn what you went through into a gift…something you can be grateful for. The next time you see someone in the hole you were freed from, ask yourself, “What would Betty do?” And then follow her lead.

Visiting Betty’s grave in 2011, just one week after she passed away.

If you would like to receive Kim’s posts in your email inbox, subscribe above.

Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

* Photo credit: Christie Hemm Klok

#resetintegrativehealth

A Saturated Heart

*Someone caught me contemplating at Lake Nakuru, Kenya*

I’ve always been one to ponder. My mother used to admonish me quite frequently stating that I needed to stop “dwelling” on one thing or another. From a young age I thought something was wrong with me because my mind would never shut up. My feelings ran so remarkable deep inside of me, even as a little girl. When I was four years old I suffered a trauma that would set me on a path of searching for coping mechanisms, a search that led me in an extremely introspective direction. I blocked the memory, which didn’t come to the surface for decades. In the meantime, though, I had been left with a ridiculously loud mind. My thoughts are always swirling around, banging from one side to the other. And these thoughts are tightly connected to my heart…my emotions. In my 49 years of life I have been told repeatedly that those emotions were a problem; they were something I needed to either gain control of, or eliminate altogether. Believe me, I tried to rid myself of feelings, to no avail. It’s simply woven in my DNA. Control them? This I can do, however, when you feel as deeply as I do, what I consider “control” is often still looked at as chaotic.

Have you ever been told you were an Empath? Are you familiar with what that is?

An empath is someone who feels more empathy than the average person. These people are usually more accurate in recognizing emotions by looking at another person’s face. They are also more likely to recognize emotions earlier than other people and rate those emotions as being more intense. (Excerpt taken from:https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/what-is-an-empath )

I am most definitely an empath. Another term for this personality trait is “Highly Sensitive Person” or HSP. This is me. I can sense a person’s energy. I can feel the mood in a room as soon as I enter it. If someone near me is hurting, angry, sad, excited, etc. I feel it. I’m like a human sponge. It has also been found that empaths or HSP’s are more likely to develop chronic illness. (I’m not going to go into that here, but if you’re interested… https://drjudithorloff.com/ask-dr-orloff/empaths-prone-to-illness/ )

Now, I’m not saying that I have super powers. I can’t read minds. And I’m not like Jasper from Twilight (Oh, Lordy, did I just expose myself there! Yes, I was one of those “Twilight moms”. Please don’t judge me.) It’s just this really weird thing I have where I can sense what others are feeling. And then I feel it too. Living as an empath, being so sensitive, I’ve carried around a heavy heart for a very long time. It’s not always bad. When I’m around happy, excited people, I get to feel those emotions too. There’s always a silver lining, right? But when you have your own garbage you’re processing, soaking up everyone else’s stuff leaves you walking around with a double load. And not ever learning proper coping skills, it began to weigh on me, eventually leading to anxiety trouble, panic attacks, depression, and finally complete emotional exhaustion.

So, why am I feeling led to post about this?

Recently I was told my feelings made me untrustworthy. That because I was “always feeling something”, there was no credibility to anything I said. That has been rattling around in my head for days now (Of course it has…that’s how my brain works). It’s important to me that I always grow as a human. I want to make sure I am always striving to become a better version of me so I listen to things I’m told about myself. I consider them. Then I begin to pay close attention to how I function in that particular area of behavior. Not because I allow others to change who I am, but because if I have a quality or habit that needs to be tweaked, I want to tweak it. It’s called “Self-assessment”.

Here’s where I’ve landed on the whole “I can’t trust you because you feel too much” thing…

It’s total bu*^sh#t!

Yes, I feel deeply. Yes, I think constantly. Yes, I have made mistakes. Yes, at times I have allowed my emotions to get the better of me. But, also… Yes, I have matured and realized that there is a time and place to let emotions out. Yes, I have learned that being in touch with my feelings provides me with incredible insight into other people’s behavior and reactions. Yes, I understand that because I feel what others are going through, I can be a better friend, better mother, better health coach, and better overall human. It is a gift. It provides me with an additional category of wisdom, if you will. I believe that we are feeling beings who think, not thinking beings who feel. Look at a newborn baby. They are surviving strictly off of instinct. They aren’t compiling rational thoughts. They aren’t making pro & con lists in order to make a decision. They FEEL hungry, they cry for food. They FEEL uncomfortable in their diaper, they cry for a change. Something startles them, they FEEL and then they react. As we grow, we learn to think things through. Feeling beings who think…

I have been through a lot in my life. I was born to unhappy parents, I suffered abuse, my parents divorced, I watched my grandpa take his last breath when I was 16, my step-dad (who I love dearly and consider to be my true father, and who was suffering from PTSD due to his time in Vietnam) was a functioning alcoholic, then when I was 22, I sat next to his bed and watched him die, too. My husband went to work for a man who required his 100% dedication at the expense of our marriage and our children. I lost my best, more-like-my-sister, friend with absolutely no explanation whatsoever – she just disappeared from my life. My friend and I raced a starved, sick, dying infant to a hospital in Eldoret, Kenya, learning the next day that she just wasn’t strong enough to pull through. I developed an autoimmune disease which led to me giving up everything I loved to do, lost my church, my friends all moved away, need I go on… I don’t list all of these happenings in order to feel sorry for myself, lead you to feel sorry for me, or to adopt the label of “victim”. My point here is, a lot of crap has happened in my life. Just like all of us, right? I have felt every one of these events to my very core, and they have molded me into who I am. They haven’t RUINNED me, they have MOLDED me! There’s a huge difference.

Here is the beauty of being an empath…of being one of those HSP’s –

Yes, all of those things I listed above are part of my life story. But also? I got a fabulous step dad who always treated me like I was his biological daughter. I have a mother who has literally been the ONE human being who never left me from day one. I got two awesome sisters, then a bonus sister and brother later on. I became an auntie for the first time on my birthday. I was honored to be in the room with all of my sisters and my sister in law when they had their first babies. I had excellent grandparents who loved me dearly. I have a husband who cares for me, three kids who I couldn’t love more if I tried, and a fabulous daughter in law who I adore. I’ve traveled to Kenya three times and encountered people who I will never forget, learned more about what’s truly important in life, and am honored to still maintain friendships that I made in that beautiful country. My friends may have moved away, but now I have new places to see when I go visit them. I have 14 nieces and nephews who have brought me so much joy, I have wonderful in-laws, a fantastic family, amazing friends – some clear back from my childhood. And I live in the cutest little house in the mountains where I can watch squirrels run and play right outside my window (Seriously, there’s one running around out there right now as I type this!)

*Not just the sorrow, but the beauty of life is felt deeply, too*

You see, all of those moments were also felt with every fiber. They also had a hand in molding me. The fact that I feel deeply does not make me untrustworthy. Actually, the opposite is true. I FEEL, but I THINK, as well. I can see all sides of a situation and that gives me greater insight. I’m not going solely off of logic. I’m not going solely off of emotion. I see it all.

Are you an empath? Are you a highly sensitive person? Can you read the mood in a room or sense when something is wrong with a friend? Have you been told you’re too emotional? If yes, how do you feel about that? What do you THINK about that? (See what I did there?) If you have ever felt “less than” or ever felt shame because somebody told you they couldn’t trust you due to your emotions, I want to challenge you to let that go. Search yourself…make sure you are balancing that emotion with accurate thoughts…and if you are? Own that truth and move forward. Only you know your own mind and heart.

And if you are someone who thinks emotions are a negative trait or cause someone to be untrustworthy, I would like to challenge you to change your perspective. Flip the table and think about the opposite observation; that those who show no emotion are heartless, cold, and uncaring. Is that true about you? Or is it that you simply do not expose that side of you? Maybe that is the case for those who do not expose their thinking side.

Something to THINK about…and see how you FEEL.

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Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com

Drop The Rock.

As I sat down to write this post, I’ll admit, I was feeling angry. Disappointed, hurt, misunderstood…But mostly, just really pissed off. I asked myself, is this a topic that needs to be shared on my blog? As I considered the answer, I literally looked up the definition of the word “blog”. According to Dictionary.com I found this:

“A website containing a writer’s or group of writers’ own experiences, observations, opinions, etc., and often having images and links to other websites.”

I also thought back to my initial post, “Why The Third Quarter?” My goal with this blog is to share my mid-life experiences so that hopefully they can speak to others going through similar situations. In addition, I want to showcase what it is that I do in my coaching program – help others replace negative habits with beneficial ones, find solutions to struggles, and reach the goal of a fully balanced & healthy lifestyle. Anger is definitely a struggle of mine that I constantly have to address. So, yes, I will share it here. Get cozy. This will take a minute.

I’ve mentioned before that we lost our church in late 2016. This place was our second home; the people, our extended family…or so we thought. I won’t dive into the event that triggered the avalanche, but it was devastating, it was quick, and it caused a spiral of painful events that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fully overcome. The result was our pastor and his wife, basically overnight, were no longer a part of the church. These people were my husband’s and my good friends, had been our mentors since before we were married. Their youngest son and our oldest were close friends. I could go on and on explaining the depth of importance these two people had within our family, but I’ll leave it at this – It left a tremendous hole in our world. Within one week those who remained in the church were left with shattered hearts, anger, fear, and no direction. My husband was one of three of the church leaders at the time. He and I were heartbroken, but had to move forward. Scott was in the middle of onion harvest, the worst time for something this enormous. He was driving the two hours back and forth for several days, attending meetings as the leaders tried to figure out how to navigate this mess. A friend and I stepped up and took over the Sunday School program that our pastor’s wife had been running. Everything was absolute chaos for weeks. To top it off, the interim pastor that had been sent to help us through this was useless. He was among the group of people who were happy our pastor was gone, seemingly “too liberal” for many of the congregants and people at the district level. So, for them, they saw this as an opportunity to get the church back the way it should be. Whatever that means.

The months that followed were a roller coaster of emotions and things just kept getting worse. To keep this from becoming a novel, though, I’ll move on to what caused my family to leave the church. As I said before, we were close to our pastor and his wife. There were certain people at church who didn’t like that. They wanted to rid the place of anything connected to the “old way” of doing things. I overheard one of the women talking about the need to get rid of the puppets (us being the puppets). The leadership used an app called Slack to stay in communication. My husband and I, being in leadership, were on that app. Unfortunately a few of the others didn’t understand the concept of channels. One evening there was a conversation being had over the app about my husband and the need to get him off the board. The interim pastor didn’t really like him much and took every opportunity he could to try and sully his reputation. Their mistake? They hadn’t removed me from that channel. I was seeing every word!

From there it was nothing more than us hearing from the few people we had left that we could trust that things were definitely being said behind our backs. I left. I was done. I can’t explain the disappointment I felt. The hurt. The betrayal. It was 100 times worse than the original problem that caused our pastor to leave in the first place. Scott stuck it out a while longer until he was accused of having a drinking problem (which, if you know him, you know is absolutely ridiculous) and told he needed to “get his family in order” by the interim pastor…who didn’t know us at all. The worst part? The people who DID know us, never stood up in our defense. Nobody had our backs. That was the end. Never in all my life of being involved in a church had I experienced this sort of thing. We were crushed.

Now, why did I tell this story? What does this have to do with why I woke up angry today? And how on earth does it relate to the title “Drop The Rock.”?

From time to time, my youngest, my 22 year old daughter, still helps at the youth group at our old church. She has a heart for the kids and hasn’t quite been able to completely cut the cord yet. Last night, late, I got a text from her. She was upset. The head of the youth group is one of the other leaders my husband had served with. We’ve known him and his family for years. He began grilling my daughter about how our family felt about the church, then continued on to say that we should’ve “stuck it out”. That we should know that sometimes people are people and we have to deal with the tough stuff. He basically said that we quit. SO not accurate. It’s five years later. Never once has anyone called us to ask what happened. Never once did anyone stop to consider how dedicated we were to our church, and that it must’ve been something enormous to cause us to leave. Not one call. And now? My daughter is getting questioned and hearing that her parents just quit.

The momma bear flared! I barely slept last night. I was fuming and ready to pounce.

Here’s where the rock comes in…Probably 20 years ago – back in what I call my “corny Christian days” – I attended a weekend Women of Faith conference. There was a speaker named Nicole Johnson who gave a lecture entitled “Dropping Your Rock”. It stuck with me. Her point was focused on our quick tendency to judge others…to throw a stone at those who do wrong in our eyes. She told the story of the adulterous woman who had been dragged into the street to be stoned for her sin, then Jesus walked over and with very few words, “Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone”, got them all to drop their rocks. (John 8:1-11) I feel like those people in our church were throwing rocks at us. I feel like last night, that man speaking to my daughter was still throwing rocks at us. Our family was going through hell at that time and we were receiving no compassion. That man never asked why we left, he simply assumed and made a judgement.

But here’s the thing…am I not also throwing a rock at him? I believe that the only thing we have control over is ourselves. Our actions. Our reactions. Our thoughts. Our words. By me waking up so angry and wanting to call him to lash out for upsetting my daughter and wrongly accusing us, what does that say about me? What do I have control over in this situation? I need to drop my rock and realize that I know the truth. If I want that man to know it, I have the ability to call him and CALMLY explain. From that point, I can’t control what he does with that information. But I can rest easy in knowing what actually happened. I can hold tight to the truth that we did not quit. We simply understood that it was time to go. We stuck it out as long as we could then for the health of our family, made the decision to move on. I must drop the rock.

One last point I want to make…

I don’t want this story to cause anyone to think that having faith brings turmoil, pain, judgement, etc. Faith does not do that. People do that. My faith is what has carried me through this mess since day one. It was the hurtful people who caused the issues. I said above that I had “corny Christian days”. I say that light heartedly. As we grow our spirituality we mature. We learn truths, we gain compassion, we gather wisdom. My corny days were when I was still fairly young in my spiritual life. And, honestly, I’ve had to fight growing callous as the years stack up. The corniness, though, is definitely gone. I struggle with the label “Christian” because so many out there behave terribly and hurt others in the name of Christianity. I do not want to align myself with those people. I love Jesus. I want to be like Him. I want to love others, care for them, bring light and joy into their lives. It is not my place to judge. If I were standing around someone lying in the street waiting to be stoned for their sin, and Jesus told me to throw the first stone if I was without sin, I would drop that rock so fast! Every one of us deserve to be rolled up on the ground waiting for that stone to hit. So who do we think we are throwing them at others? Again, this event in my life had nothing to do with God. It was the result of people who had an agenda. Please don’t let this influence your thoughts or feelings on spirituality.

Now…as I drop my rock, are you holding one? Is there a big jagged stone in your hand that you’re holding onto so tightly that it’s causing cuts in your skin? Who do you want to throw it at? Who is it that you are judging? Is it time to drop that rock and focus on what you can actually control? Yourself? Let’s drop our rocks together.

This is a small excerpt of the Nicole Johnson lecture I referred to above.

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Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She is in the process of releasing her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, due to launch in November of 2021.

For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com