a reflection, a poem, and a practice
“Trauma is not what happens to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness.”
―Peter A. Levine
Content warning: depression, pregnancy loss, anxiety, grief
For much of my life, my sensitivity has felt like moving through an ultra-bright, sunlit world without sunglasses. When I do not see my experience of overwhelm mirrored in the people around me, it can be easy to feel that something is wrong with me and to question my own experience of reality. As a parent of sensitive children, I have become highly motivated to reframe our sensitivity as a gift rather than a deficit.
Though my anxiety is multi-faceted, it is often a response to an external stimulus that reminds my body of a difficult time in the past that still needs some attention. When I lack an empathetic witness after something overwhelming happens, my body, heart, and mind are unable to move through the pain, which then gets stuck in the body. The manifestation of “stuck-ness” can show up in varying degrees, ranging from a little flutter of anxiety to a full-blown panic attack or a period of depression.
12 years ago, I became one of the many women who experience a miscarriage. I had a concurrent medical problem that necessitated an emergency surgery. My doctor was flummoxed by my symptoms and inconclusive test results, stating in exasperation, “I don’t know what to do with you!” I lay in the hospital bed on the postpartum floor, listening to the sounds of newborn babies while attempting to come to terms with the fact that my pregnancy would not end in a birth. The doctor seemed extremely concerned about my health yet completely unsure of how to treat me. Her uncertainty, piled on top of my grief, was too much.
I had several visitors during that emotionally and physically painful hospital stay, but two stand out in my memory. The first seemed unprepared for my grief, sadness, and anxiety. In response to any mention of my real feelings, she tried to put a positive spin on the situation. She assured me that I was ok even though my own doctor could not say the same with confidence. When she left, I felt hurt and defensive but also guilty for having those feelings toward someone who was well intentioned. I worried that her unspoken implications were right—maybe my anxiety and sadness signaled a lack of faith.
The second visitor had experienced pregnancy loss herself. After I filled her in on what had happened and she shared briefly about her own similar experience, she sat calmly, a peaceful presence during an emotionally chaotic time. She said the words I didn’t know I needed to hear: “Sometimes people will tell you everything is ok, and they mean well, but sometimes… sometimes things are just not ok.” Her words instantly unlocked something inside me and I felt an immediate unburdening of guilt. The raw, tender emotions that I had tried to cajole into something more “correct” released in the safety of her compassionate presence. She opened the door for my experience of heartbreak to be validated.
Psychologist Peter Levine says, “Trauma is not what happens to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness.” The second hospital visitor served as the empathetic witness I desperately needed in order to release what I had been holding inside. Empathetic witnesses validate our pain, and with some practice, we can learn to become an empathetic witness to our own suffering. (The Internal Family Systems model, as well as exercises in self-compassion, can be helpful for this.) Once our pain is validated, we experience the freedom of honestly naming, allowing, and honoring our raw, tender feelings, unruly and uncomfortable as they may be.
One of the beautiful transformations that tends to happen as we become practiced at tolerating our own difficult emotions is that we can increase our capacity for being present to the difficult emotions of others. I have no doubt that the compassionate visitor who played such a significant role in my healing 12 years ago was able to be present to my grief because she had worked to build the capacity to tolerate her own.
Healing is contagious. I believe that empathetic witnesses come from a lineage of other empathetic witnesses who have shared the fruit of their own healing. Our healing journeys invite us to join in the lineage of those who have gone before us, passing on the gifts of compassionate presence in a world full of suffering.
Poetry
The Invitation of Our Overwhelm
When the bright greens and pinks of spring
become awash in dull grey,
the elusive sun missing
from wherever you last saw him…
When all your “yeses”
morph into “noes,”
leaving even yourself befuddled
but too tired to investigate…
When the overwhelm drags your body
back into bed
at odd hours of the day,
last night’s sleep insufficient…
Listen.
Come close.
Tell me where it hurts.
Sometimes grief wants to come out
for some fresh air.
Perhaps she’s feeling
a bit dusty and cramped,
as you had to keep her tucked away
so you could do all the things
life requires of you.
She hates to be a bother
almost as much
as you hate hosting her,
so when she’s been unheard
for a while,
she can be a little…
passive aggressive.
She doesn’t mean any harm;
it’s just that her invitations
tend to be painted in muted tones,
slid surreptitiously under the door,
where they are likely to be trampled.
You are very lucky, indeed,
if someone who loves you
pauses at the threshold,
sees the trampled, muddied invitation,
written in disappearing ink,
and holds it up to the light
to see what it has to say.
“Let’s just go there,”
my spiritual director says
any time I skirt around
the thing I’m referencing
but not quite naming.
Darling, let’s just go there,
at the pace you’re able.
Can you name the fear under the fear,
the sadness under the anger,
the tipping point of the overwhelm?
All the human responses
to the gap between what is
and what should be
find their home in grief.
Today I cried
and named the little dears
one by one.
My spiritual director reminded me
that we do not choose—
and therefore, need not judge—
our trauma responses.
And then,
like the dazzling colors of Oz
after the sepia tones of Kansas,
the world opened up to me again.
The expansion in my chest
beckoned me outside,
bare feet on the ground,
and Beauty showed herself again.
Practice: Listening to your grief
As I wrote the poem above, I thought of Patrick Watson’s song, “Je te laisserai des mots” (“I will leave you some words/notes”). I imagine grief like an inner companion that is leaving us notes in the hidden places of our souls, waiting to be found and read with tenderness. The song is in French, but if you go to the link below, you can listen to it in French while reading the English translation of the lyrics. As always, you can modify or discontinue the practice (below) as needed if you become overwhelmed or need additional support.
- Listen to Patrick Watson’s song here.
- Listen a second time, but this time, imagine that the notes (translated as “words”) referenced in the song are from the parts of you that are grieving and/or overwhelmed.
- Notice any somatic responses you are experiencing as you listen to the music and enter into the imagining described above. How does grief and overwhelm show up in your body?
- If your grief/overwhelm could write you a note, what would it say? Write a letter as though you are your grief, addressing you. You may wish to continue listening to the song as you write.
- Consider how you would like to respond to the letter. You may want to respond with written or spoken words, movement, drawing, creating a collage, or another art form.
- If you sense that you need more support or time with this exercise, consider sharing with a trusted friend, therapist, or spiritual director.
Spiritual Direction
Spiritual direction is a slowed down, sacred space where we take the time to name and honor grief in its many forms. Grief often accompanies times of transition and can creep up whenever reality is/was different than what you wish would have happened/would happen. For more information about spiritual direction or if you would like to schedule a free introductory Zoom call, click here or email me.
Blessing
May you find gentle spaces and compassionate companions who can be present to your real feelings whenever your grief is ready to come out for some fresh air. May you become an empathetic witness to your own suffering and join the lineage of empathetic witnesses who provide respite and healing to a hurting world.
Be well, friends.
Lindsay L. O'Connor 
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