Seasons of Change

I’ve learned to welcome the discomfort and aching that proceeds a season of change in my life. Sometimes it comes as a panic attack in the midst of a restless night or my rising pulse during a benign conversation at work. It sounds like my body banging on the door of my conscious mind on behalf of my soul to say, “No. Not this. Nope. No more.”

And it’s often because I am repeating some pattern that is a manifestation of unresolved stuff — stuff that usually starts with “should” and that doesn’t ultimately serve me or those around me:

I should continue to chase success in a marketing career.

I should strive to make as much money as I can now.

I should be grateful to have this job.

I should earn the right to pursue my dreams.

It’s all the dodgy stuff of telling myself who or what I think I am supposed to be. Or more accurately who or what I think y’all think I should be. Those limiting beliefs are a faulty house of cards that eventually crumbles or crashes down, depending on how tightly I’ve been gripping to the facade. I am left in the rubble of another identity, my sense of self in shards.

Let go or be dragged.

Gusts of another season of change blow through once I start to listen to the truths my body delivers. The stress and anxiety are not-so-subtle cues to dive into the wisdom of the inner well.

“I think there’s another version of me that was an art therapist,” I said nonchalantly to colleagues in the office kitchen during lunch. I’m sure I was sharing about a recent journaling workshop I’d facilitated in the U.S. Penitentiary in Terre Haute, IN – or when my boss mentioned she’d seen my paintings on display at a local yoga studio. There’s all these different aspects of me around town that didn’t quite fit the role I’d been hired to fill at that job.

Once upon a time, I would’ve done whatever it took to succeed in marketing agency gigs. And I did do anything to the point of complete burnout in 2021. Yet, I thought I should try it again to secure a good paycheck and be a corporate career-minded gal. But it wasn’t long before my body started dropping hints that I was in the insanity of doing the same thing expecting different results.

In that moment when I flippantly declared that I existed in an alternate universe as an art therapist, I heard myself tell myself the truth. I told my wife what I had said when I got home that night, and she said, “So then go be that.” (cue: The Avett Brothers - “Head Full Of Doubt/Road Full Of Promise")

It’s not lost on me how truly beautiful it is to have a partner stand in the potential of a dream with me. Honestly, it was a sense of permission I hadn’t fully given myself to even consider what it would look like — to gather information and explore next steps towards graduate school.

Then I got busy researching and having conversations with trusted advisors and professionals in the field. I investigated multiple routes: art therapy, social work, and counseling. I started to follow the breadcrumbs before me (something that happens when I loosen my grip and let go – I start to receive the guidance) and was led to the Masters of Arts in Clinical Mental Health Counseling at the Christian Theological Seminary. I was awarded a scholarship that allows my wife and I to step into this season of change with deep gratitude and hope.

Pain in the body signals where something needs healing. In my experience, emotional and mental pain acts in the same way — indicating where some serious tender loving care is needed. I fear pain less and less. Not that I call it in, either. But I see it as an essential component on this journey to a sense of wholeness.

Joy, sweet, sweet joy affirms me to follow this calling. It's an inner knowing found in surrender.