Two years ago, I had very little support when I gave birth. My family couldn't come to the USA due to COVID-19 and ongoing visa issues. Ben cared for us as I juggled nursing, working full-time with little sleep, and tending to my boy. Aki's and my first outing after giving birth was at a farmer's market in Joshua Tree, three months postpartum. I remember how happy I was to show him a glimpse of the world, to introduce him to it, and to feel like I was re-joining it. That day, when he took a nap, I knew it was time to take care of myself and reconnect with my spirit. Through serendipitous encounters at my chiropractor's office, I was connected with Carolyn, who soon became my therapist and teacher.
A few days ago, I visited her after a year away. She checked my pulse, as she always does, and knew immediately which points needed the soothing touch of her needles.
Not even a minute into the session, I started to sob.
I've felt gutted this past week, and I've got a handle on why. It's the stress of not having a stable place to call home, the absence of the routine that my sensitive war survivor self absolutely craves for well-being, the constant struggle to decide where to put down roots, and, naturally, dealing with PMS on top of it all.
Do you know that feeling when someone asks you a question, and it's like the floodgates open, and your answers pour out without stopping? Phew, that's precisely what happened as I was talking to her. It was a lot—I was unloading everything I'd held in for a while. But in that moment, I felt truly safe, embraced in a feminine presence. Being as kind and loving as she is, Carolyn didn't interrupt me, even though I knew I was pouring out my heart and soul at her feet and her next appointment was nearing.
Tears have always come easily to me, and I've never been one to hide my emotions. Even though I thought I'd have this down by now, I realized that in those moments of opening up in front of Carolyn, I couldn't help but feel like I was somehow failing at something. That conditioned inner voice that used to tell me I was weak for crying made an appearance.
Carolyn closed the doors and turned on the heat lamp to keep my feet warm, a small gesture she always made. We ensured my feet were comfortable, whether it was acupuncture, emotional clearing, cupping, or therapy. The room dimmed under the gentle glow of the heat lamp, and I lay there alone, tenderly holding this feeling of failure.
As I settled into a state of relaxation, my breath deepening, my diaphragm opening, my jaw relaxing, and my pelvis expanding, I began to feel my tears welling up from deep within.
Yes, I cry.
I cry because I'm weary of carrying so much on my own. I cry because of the uncertainty that lingers, even though I find strength in navigating the unknown. I cry because I yearn to be held the same way I hold my child, or perhaps I mourn the absence of that same embrace when I was young. I cry because my son is morphing super fast and I want to pause the time. I cry because I'm rewriting my reality with little context on mothering or being in a healthy relationship. I cry because I'm doing what feels right. And sometimes, I cry because I feel guilty when I think I'm not, especially when I only want a nap.
I cry for Maui, for Morocco, for Ukraine. I cry over the current state of the world.
I cry because I watched a touching video of someone saving a bumblebee with one wing, bringing her home, creating a cozy nook filled with flowers, and watching her now thriving life.
I cry after witnessing two brothers on their deathbed saying goodbye to each other. I cry because I miss my grandmother. I cry because I can feel the world inside my heart.
I cry because I'm tired of selling art for money to survive. I cry because I'm tired of everything being marketing now. I cry because I'm tired of housing prices going sky-high. I cry because I'm tired of being across the world from the people I love. I cry to my mother and father, asking them for help, something I'd never done before. I cry because I feel comfortable to be honest and raw. I cry from belly laughs at night. I cry because, despite it all, I love my life. I cry in awe of every desert sunset and rise. And I cry because I know the power of tears, the radiance they give me.
I cry for so much more, not because I'm weak but because I've been strong for too long. That little voice holds no power anymore because my feminine heart softens with a pure, connected essence to all life, feeling, sensing, healing, and knowing that our tears are sacred.
I cry my soul's most profound songs, and I cry because I've found that tears speak the unspoken language of our hearts when words are hard to find.
I left Carolyn's office that day, tears freely flowing. I walked into a smoothie shop and a bookstore, still in tears, without any need to hide them.
Welcome to Mini Orbits: A window into my inner journeys, life as a writer, artist, and mother, filled with insights, tips, and experiences. With the hope of being both useful and inspiring, these audio notes are where my thoughts seamlessly meet Ben's original music and sound design, creating an uplifting and grounding atmosphere for your spirit.
Love,
Vanja
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I feel less alone in my sensitive nature through your words. Thank you for sharing your heart 💟
It's sad that us adults tend to forget that crying can indeed make us feel better . Crying comes easily to me too , and I try to be strong , but sometimes it is better to let things flow .
Thank you for sharing your story , it makes my crying feel less lonely.