When I was a little girl I wanted to be a priest.
Now before we get too far along, you should also know that I was often told that I thought “too much” and that I was “too sensitive.” Now all that really does to one who thinks a lot is leave them to wonder WHY they think so much, and how to NOT be sensitive, thus perpetuating the “problem.”
Anyway, I was a totally successful Catholic. I confessed and felt guilty and loved to read in front of the whole parish during the children’s mass. I sang my heart out in the choir. I was an angel. For real. Like every year in the Christmas program. (Except the one year I was a mouse. Long story for another time.) I had the whole mass memorized and could not WAIT to give my first homily in my very own church.
Until…
I remember being in elementary school and telling Sister Mary that I wanted to be a priest. She smiled and told me that I could of course be a nun, but that girls were not allowed to be priests. Or even altar boys at that time. No further explanation. Just, no.
I.was.crushed. I even had my own argument as to why I should be allowed to lead a church. (Wanna hear it? I share it on my blog in case you do.) What a horrible turn of events! I knew I was not going to be a nun. I also knew that I still wanted to guide people to God. The Holy Spirit mattered. Love mattered. I mattered.
As a young person I was an overachiever. Hence the church reader, choir singer, aspiring congregation-having Heidi I already referenced. I wanted to be the best at EVERYTHING. Successful. I was an excellent student, a threesport athlete, a member of our select choir and show choir, and even a pageant winner complete with a crown, a successful platform and volunteer schedule, and a hefty dose of body shame. I worked hard. I was driven. I was a perfectionist. I was successful.
And I was also severely depressed.
In high school I was told that I had a chemical imbalance in my brain and that I would have major depression for the rest of my life. I was hospitalized for depression. I was told that medication and therapy would help me cope, but that my brain was not making enough of what it needed and never would. I was told that more than likely my children would also have depression and there was little I could do.
When I think back to that time in my life, I remember sitting in my therapist’s office and telling him that I actually felt like I was the only one who “gets it.” Faking happiness and fun and doing drugs and drinking can’t be what high school is for, right? Didn’t it make sense that I was sad all the time? Wasn’t I actually the only one paying attention?
While I struggled to “feel good,” I also launched myself into taking college courses as a junior and senior in high school, being a member of the National Honor Society, and volunteering in my community all the while having a job and still going to church. And of course being an active member of the youth group.
I now see my overachieving as a form of distraction.
A place to try to outrun my feelings of lack and pain and disconnection. It was what I had access to. I honor that version of me. I continue to integrate her. She was working so hard to figure it out.
As I headed off to college I remember feeling like I was going to escape my depression. I had a brand new slate. I was ready. I was eager. I was still a massive overachiever out to prove my worthiness. To prove I was successful. To find happiness.
I ended up the President of my dorm, on every single committee, staying up late to plan events and taking on more than a full course load just to prove I could. Along with volunteering and platform work, (ironically, my platform was about depression education and suicide prevention) I was the picture of perfection. But I was also self-medicating with smoking way too much pot and running way too much to stay thin. I confessed to my new therapist that I was seeing on the sly that I didn’t understand why I wasn’t happy yet. Maybe I needed a new medication? A sleeping pill? A new brain?
I ended up dropping out of college.
I felt like a complete failure. A total fraud. It was the lowest time in my life. I ended up in the hospital again.
Fortunately, my mom stumbled upon a resource that changed my life. It incorporated meditation, nutrition, exercise, and mindfulness as a plan for treating depression. (I am still an advocate for medication if it’s needed. I also know that we can do SO MUCH with the aforementioned tools as well.) Up until that point in my life, nobody had ever made the connection between my body, my brain, and my mind. You mean a cigarette and a Diet Coke are not a
healthy breakfast? Running myself ragged wasn’t a good idea? My body and brain are connected? It was revolutionary.
During that time, I re-enrolled in school and studied philosophy. I found out that my “thinking too much” is actually one of my greatest assets. I thrived. I had found “my people.” Oh did we analyze and study and philosophize about it ALL! I was also making better choices about what I was putting in my body and learning that I really did have so much more influence about how I was feeling.
After graduation I entered the “real world.” I did what grads do: I found a job, got married, moved away from my college town and pursued happiness. Again.
So now I’m in my mid-twenties and I’m lying in bed trying to figure out why I just can’t get up and go to work. It all looked right. I was college-educated with lots of debt, newly married to my best friend, living in a beautiful home, working a “good job” with a company car, benefits, and lots of bonuses. From the outside looking in, I was
“successful.”
But I could.not.get.out.of.bed.
The feelings were familiar. “Hello darkness my old friend.” Depression. Shame. Irritation. Confusion. Overwhelm. Fear. Anxiety. Dread. Mostly I was just so defeated. Not this. Again.
And so began 3 years of jumping from job to job trying to find the one that would make me happy. The one where I would FEEL successful and not just look it.
I remember at my last “straight job” (that’s what I call jobs where I have to work for someone else) that I asked one of the women if she really liked what she was doing. She said, “Of course not.” She made the most money out of all of us. She seemed happy. I remember confiding in her that what I really wanted was to make a difference and help people. She told me that I needed to make money at my job and volunteer to get that “hit.” Successful people do what they have to do. Happiness and work don’t mix.
Um… eff that!
So if you’re keeping track, up until that point, I knew that God/Source/Love mattered. I knew that what I was thinking about mattered. And I knew that I could NOT just get a job and do what I really wanted as a side gig. I also began to recognize that depression and anxiety showed up when I was supposed to be listening and doing something differently.
“BUT WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO
BE DOING!?”
I prayed/begged/shouted these words as I prepared my resignation from my fifth job in three years. Again, I felt like a complete failure.
And then, by the grace of all things holy, at an annual family picnic, I was guided to ask the calmest person I knew how she lived such a beautiful life. She was so serene. She always smelled of lavender and cinnamon. Her face was content. She carried herself with grace and JOY! She loved God and I felt so safe in her presence.
She was a massage therapist.
Within 3 months, I enrolled in massage school (against the better judgment of many of those I loved) and my being “too sensitive” became one of my greatest assets. The connection between the body/mind/brain/soul began to take a clearer shape. My body became a friend of mine. My hands became another way to “see” people. My own discomfort began to reveal myself to myself. There was so much healing. Unfurling. Remembering.
I started seeing another therapist as a form of support during my massage program. She was the first therapist to tell me I was healthy. That I was truly aware and that it was appropriate for me to be experiencing life the way I was. It was a relief.
And I still wasn’t happy.
But for the first time in my life, I disconnected success from happiness. Healthy is my new definition of success. Healthy means I get to be me, as me: A person who thinks and feels deeply. A divine and human being who truly wants you to see the God inside you!
A soul who wants you to have access to your own divine and human wisdom so you get to FEEL your successful nature.
Healthy means that I can react and respond to life with tools and wisdom and receive support from a place of connection. Healthy means I get to align with my purpose. I get to listen to my body and know that it’s for me. I get to honor my beautiful mind and my wise brain and align purpose, my values, and my boundaries. I get to evolve and heal and grow and share. I get to receive.
And as a BodyMind coach and business owner, I get to share that. As I type this, tears are streaming down my face. I am the healthiest (and most successful) version of me that I’ve ever been. Amen. Welcome to my church. It’s me.
