In Praise of Being Grounded

 © 2018 Gretchen L. Schmelzer Lake Windermere, UK

© 2018 Gretchen L. Schmelzer Lake Windermere, UK

“You’re grounded!” Two words no teenager wants to hear. These words are the sign that your plans are sunk and all possibility of fun is gone. Being grounded means being disappointed. It means missing out. It means being stuck at home with everything and everyone you don’t want to be stuck at home with. And truth be told, it is no fun for the parents either. When parents ground their kids they are also stuck at home with an angry teen who will spend the entire time in a state of sulking silence, maybe not trying to make their parents miserable, but doing a pretty good job of it anyway.

I’m 53 with no one to really ‘ground’ me, but that’s what I did this last weekend. I grounded myself. I’d been on the road for most of this spring, coming home, dumping my suitcase, and repacking it and moving on.  Keeping up with things enough to avert a crisis, but not enough to know what was actually completed. My life was starting to feel like a professional version of the fairy tale, The Red Shoes—where I was dancing as fast as I could—and mostly staying upright— but my life had an energy that was starting to feel quasi-maniacal.

I arrived home at midnight on Wednesday looking towards another fast turnaround to head out for the weekend on Thursday afternoon. I had planned on this weekend for months and I had been looking forward to it through the early part of the week while I was working. But on Thursday morning I stared at my suitcase with exhaustion and began to wonder aloud whether going away was a good idea.

Immediately I argued back. Of course I needed the weekend! I rationalized that the weekend would really help me—I could ‘chill out’ and ‘recharge my battery’—but even as I said these things out loud I knew the words didn’t feel true. I knew I felt untethered and off balance.

For the better part of a day, I sat in a standoff with myself not entirely unlike any scenario of a parent and teen. There was the part of me that wanted to go away—that argued and rationalized that, no, really, I would definitely get to everything that wasn’t done next week—that I really, really needed the time off—and there was the part of me that stood there in the doorway of my room as the inner ‘mean mom’ and said, “Nope. You are grounded sister.”

As disappointing as it was, it was just time to stop. It was time to stay home. It was time to regroup. It was time to ‘be grounded’ so I could actually ‘get grounded.’

And did I hear that inner voice of wisdom and say, “Oh, thank you. That’s so helpful.” NAH. I did what any self-respecting teen would do in the situation of being grounded: I called my best friend. I wanted my emotional wingman, I wanted someone on my side. I wanted someone to trash talk the inner mean mom and make it possible for me to do what I wanted, so I could go back to that inner voice with just the slightest bit of snark and say, “See, Jane thinks it’s a good idea.” And Jane did her job perfectly— she tried to help me figure out how to go away—because that’s what best friends do—they want you to get what you want.

But the problem with true inner conflict is that there really is no bad guy—no one to take sides against. Because for better or worse—you are actually both sides. You are the angry teen. And you are the mean mom. And that’s the beauty of it really—when you finally drop the end of the rope in the tug of war with yourself. You are both. And in that moment of stopping—you have all aspects of yourself in one place—but not yet together.

You can’t get grounded until you stop, but how do you ground yourself? At its most basic level, it is about stopping, and, as one of my wise mentors says, ‘being where your feet are.’ But the act of stopping is usually not enough. Getting grounded takes work. And it takes different kinds of work at different times—depending upon what feels untethered or disconnected.  First, you have to have some sense of your physical and emotional state and ideally connect your brain to your body. Marsha Linehan, who created Dialectical Behavioral Therapy writes about grounding yourself in your five senses. Using the warmth of something like hot tea, or a cool washcloth. Or the sound of music you like or the smell of something that soothes you. This is a handy practice because your five senses are always with you and if one doesn’t seem to help, perhaps another will. Other grounding practices are mindfulness and breathing which can help you connect your body and your brain. And some people need more activity—like walking or biking to bring themselves in to the present.

Another thing that can be amazingly grounding are routines. Slowing down enough to reestablish and connect with routines that help you feel healthy and more solid: bedtimes, meals, walks, reading—routines that can offer some consistency and constancy and help you relax and settle in to yourself and your life. They can be especially effective at grounding you when you have become ungrounded by crisis, loss or trauma. And sometimes things like tidying up and putting everything away, or organizing something (anything) can help you feel like you and your life is more in order.

Once you have reestablished a physical connection with yourself —and a connection between you and the rhythms of your life, you can also ground yourself in your values and your noble purpose— ground yourself in the motivations that drive you and the reason you get up in the morning. Connecting to your values and purpose can recalibrate your inner compass and remind you where you are headed or where you want to go.

Being grounded is not a quick fix like penicillin or a pain pill—it’s a feeling that needs to work its way back into the fabric of your being. It needs some time to settle, to knit, to mend. One you regain that feeling—you need to steep in it a while. Take some time to feel the ground underneath your feet, and your feet underneath your body. Take some time to feel your breathing, your values, your purpose and your relationships. And take time to have all the pieces of you get to live in the same place for a while—long enough to find common ground.  The common ground of steadiness and sturdiness – a platform from which you can leap again—when you are ready.  

 © 2018 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

The Letter Your Teenager Can't Write You

Dear Parent:

This is the letter that I wish I could write. 

This fight we are in right now. I need it. I need this fight. I can’t tell you this because I don’t have the language for it and it wouldn’t make sense anyway. But I need this fight. Badly. I need to hate you right now and I need you to survive it. I need you to survive my hating you and you hating me. I need this fight even though I hate it too. It doesn’t matter what this fight is even about: curfew, homework, laundry, my messy room, going out, staying in, leaving, not leaving, boyfriend, girlfriend, no friends, bad friends. It doesn’t matter. I need to fight you on it and I need you to fight me back.

I desperately need you to hold the other end of the rope. To hang on tightly while I thrash on the other end—while I find the handholds and footholds in this new world I feel like I am in. I used to know who I was, who you were, who we were. But right now I don’t. Right now I am looking for my edges and I can sometimes only find them when I am pulling on you. When I push everything I used to know to its edge. Then I feel like I exist and for a minute I can breathe. I know you long for the sweeter kid that I was. I know this because I long for that kid too, and some of that longing is what is so painful for me right now.

I need this fight and I need to see that no matter how bad or big my feelings are—they won’t destroy you or me. I need you to love me even at my worst, even when it looks like I don’t love you. I need you to love yourself and me for the both of us right now. I know it sucks to be disliked and labeled the bad guy. I feel the same way on the inside, but I need you to tolerate it and get other grownups to help you. Because I can’t right now. If you want to get all of your grown up friends together and have a ‘surviving-your-teenager-support-group-rage-fest’ that’s fine with me. Or talk about me behind my back--I don’t care. Just don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on this fight. I need it.

This is the fight that will teach me that my shadow is not bigger than my light. This is the fight that will teach me that bad feelings don’t mean the end of a relationship. This is the fight that will teach me how to listen to myself, even when it might disappoint others. 

And this particular fight will end. Like any storm, it will blow over. And I will forget and you will forget. And then it will come back. And I will need you to hang on to the rope again. I will need this over and over for years.

I know there is nothing inherently satisfying in this job for you. I know I will likely never thank you for it or even acknowledge your side of it. In fact I will probably criticize you for all this hard work. It will seem like nothing you do will be enough. And yet, I am relying entirely on your ability to stay in this fight. No matter how much I argue. No matter how much I sulk. No matter how silent I get.

Please hang on to the other end of the rope. And know that you are doing the most important job that anyone could possibly be doing for me right now.

Love, Your Teenager

© 2018 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD, original post June 23, 2015

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Leaving an Old Identity Behind

What else is left to us but to drown the past to save the future?
— Hassan, an Egyptian construction supervisor on the Abu Simbel project*

In the 1960’s the two temples built by King Ramses II during the 12th century BC at Abu Simbel had to be moved out of reach of the rising waters of Lake Nasser. The temples were carefully deconstructed, moving the most important and most precious parts of the temples to higher ground, and then flooding the rest of the site. And so it is with our own identities. There are parts of us, that should come with us in to the future. And there are parts we must leave behind.

I have been thinking a lot this week about identities. Partly because a young friend of mine is having a hard time and part of her struggle, as it often is, is about leaving an old identity behind. And the reason I could see her struggle so clearly is because I too am in the same place: struggling to leave an old identity behind.  Even identities that have helped us, or maybe even especially the identities that have helped us: my identity as a ‘survivor’, or my identity as a ‘fighter’, or my identity as the ‘good girl.’ These identities helped us get here, but often they hold us back from getting to where we want or need to go. They stop us from our continued growth.

Sometimes the identity was created in reaction to trauma or to struggle or loss. Or sometimes it’s just the identity that went with the time of life. Parenting is a great example of this. Your identity shifts when you become a parent, and then as a parent you are asked to shift identity all the way along the process: the identity of a parent of a toddler isn’t the same as the identity of a parent of a ten year old, or seventeen year old, much less the parent of an adult. Sometimes a new circumstance or role catapults us in to a new identity: manager, widow, retiree. We are aware of aspects of ourselves because of what others expect from us, or what we have expected from people in a similar role.

It seems simple when you see it. Of course I need to grow in to that new thing, that new aspect of myself. And even if I want the new skills, the new experiences that this identity is allowing me it can be hard to make the shift, let alone in those times when we didn’t choose the moment of growth.  The old identity is such a security blanket. In my better moments I feel strong enough to walk away from it. But when any darkness comes in, any stress, any fear, I instinctively reach for the familiar, for what feels comfortable, even if it really no longer fits. I seek to lean on the self I know, rather than the self I am getting to know.

It’s so hard to let go of that part of us that helped us survive. And it seems that no matter how many times I learn this lesson, and no matter in how many ways, the learning feels brand new every time I have to learn it again.

We talk a lot about the fact that growth requires learning new things, but we don’t talk as much about how growth also requires us to let go of old things. And how hard this process is, and how many iterations it takes. We see it in kids: how they can march forward into a new developmental stage and then slide back in rough moments. But they don’t yet have a concept of themselves in the same way adults do, so they are constantly and excitedly reaching forward. There are a few kids who can feel the loss of their growth—kids who realize that learning to read themselves might mean less time sitting on their parent’s lap being read to. But most don’t. Most forge ahead.

But adolescence and adulthood are different. We begin to really understand that a move forward is a loss of some kind. We can’t always express it. Or name it. But we can often feel it—and it can feel out of place. And it can make us feel out of sorts with out a way to say where we are.

The me-that-I-was needs to give way to the-me-I-am-becoming. This is the trajectory of growth. This is true of very young children and it remains true for all of us until our last breath. But it requires stronger and stronger muscles as we get older. Growth, I am learning, doesn’t get easier with age—in fact it may be the opposite. When we are older we have more invested in the people we believe we are. Children have a particular identity for a couple of years, we have that particular identity often for a decade at least. Its not that old dogs can’t learn new tricks. It just turns out that it takes an enormous amount of strength and patience and compassion to let go of the old tricks.  

And why is it so hard? Well there are a few reasons, but one of the biggest is some fear of living in this in-between space, no man’s land, the land of the lost. This place is hard because it isn’t familiar. You don’t know the rules. It feels awkward. It feels messy. But most of all, we anticipate this space as lonely. We imagine exile.

Our identities don’t exist in isolation. We are not so much individual selves as we are, as Jean Baker Miller described it: Selves-in-relation. We believe who are are is connected to how people connect to us, and we fear that if we change we will lose people. They like me because of who I was, and they will never like who I am becoming. And honestly, there is some truth to this fear. When we grow and change, people do have to get used to our new selves and our new views, as we do when they change and grow.

But the biggest support to this trajectory of growth from me-that-I-was to the-me-I-am-becoming is the ability to be held, witnessed and supported in the place in between them. Not only is growth not about isolation, growth requires relationship. We are designed to grow in relationship. It was a a multi-country, multi-agency partnership that worked together to take the temples of Abu Simbel apart block by block with precision and care. It took years as the temple was neither rooted in its past location, nor safe in its new one. Growth requires us to be in a space that is neither here nor there—it a space where you often don’t know—where you need the conversation—where you need to contradict yourself, in order to find out what you do know, what you need to learn. You need to be able to held both parts of yourself at once, and in order to do that, someone needs to hold you. It is one of the most important jobs of a parent, or a therapist, or spouse or friend, this work of being with someone in the space between. When you have let go of one shore and are not quite at the other.  So change is not just about moving forward, it is also about what you need to leave behind. What parts of your temple do you want to move to higher ground? What parts of your temple do you no longer need and need to let go of? 

© 2015 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

*Gerster, G. (1963). Threatened treasures of the Nile. National Geographic 124 (4), 587-623.

Women's Growth In Connection: Writings from the Stone Center
By Judith V. Jordan PhD, Alexandra G. Kaplan, Irene P. Stiver, Janet L. Surrey PhD, Jean Baker Miller

Healing from Trauma? Use Training Wheels!

Yellow brick road 300ppi.jpg

I have decided that the only thing more difficult than having training wheels is not having training wheels. Feeling tippy is better than being stuck, or afraid to move. In my current place of growth I am in a ‘tippy place’ where I wobble precariously from one side to the other side trying to find my balance: I am moving forward, and I can feel my own hard work, and every once in a while I get the sensation of what it might be like to not have the training wheels at all, where I can feel open space, where I can glide. And then moments later, I reach towards something new and I feel the wobbliness again.

New learning in adulthood is awkward. And learning or re-learning any of the skills of relationship or attachment is really hard. It’s not easy to find your center from the wild swings to the edges. Training wheels can be perfect for learning because you can actually start with them right on the ground—as if you had a perfect third wheel. You get to feel what it is like to sit and steer with the bike completely balanced. Having training wheels lets you incrementally decrease your need to rely on an old source of support so that you can rely gradually on your new skills and sources of support.

What is the psychological equivalent to training wheels?  The stepwise and incremental progressions of mending a heart and repairing trust?  How do you shift a worldview from one that is always vigilant—to one that can relax and lean in to safety and in to relationship?

We always want the solution to look more complicated or exciting than it really is. We don’t like to admit how even a small adjustment can make us feel wobbly. So how do we begin? The starting place for creating your metaphorical training wheels is a sense of solid ground. But what feels solid and comfortable?  In my book, Journey Through Trauma, I talk about the first phase of healing from repeated trauma as the Preparation Phase. The Preparation Phase is where you work on all of your resources for healing and you find some solid ground for yourself: where you make things more predictable or more routine or more supported than you have ever had, or than you will eventually need.

And then as you begin to take in the experience of safety and predictability that you have put in place—not unlike the training wheels set to the ground—you may begin to try to find some new edges of learning. You feel safe enough in a relationship to ask for a need to be met. You risk saying, “No.” You admit how you are feeling. Finding your learning edge in the  psychological world than they are in the physical world can more difficult than it is in the physical world because in the physical world you can see clearly what you are using or not using. One of the best examples of this kind of learning comes from Norman Doidge’s book The Brain that Changes Itself, where researchers figured out what it took to bring back full functioning to a person who had experienced a stroke, where the stroke makes impairs functioning on one side of their body. The prevailing treatment had been to work with the side that was not functioning with physical therapy—to teach it to work again. But that treatment had slow and intermittent success—most people reverted to using their ‘good hand’ to do most of the things that they needed to do, and the less functioning hand rarely gained functioning again. Instead, the new treatment intervened by strapping down the good arm or leg with an ace bandage, or putting an oven mitt on it—making it impossible to use the good side at all.  In the absence of being able to use the functioning limb, the brain appears to rewire the weaker side and eventually allow a person to gain complete functioning. So learning and healing is not just about what makes you feel more solid or helping you lean in to new learning—it is also about knowing what needs to be unlearned, or unused so new learning can take place.  And psychologically, what are those things you need to put your oven mitt on so that you have no choice but to lean in to the new learning?

How can we bring these ideas to healing from trauma? For learning or re-learning attachment? We need to remember that repeated trauma, and really, any relational trauma, is really three forms of trauma— what did happen (the trauma that occurred), what you did to survive--the protections you used to survive the trauma, and what didn’t happen— the growth and development you missed. And the work of creating training wheels is twofold—one wheel is like the oven mitt used for stroke patients— it is a set of behaviors that will keep you from using your old protections, and will keep you from following the old rules of survival. By putting a metaphorical oven mitt on your old protections—you will have to lean in to new behaviors and new attitudes. And these new behaviors and attitudes are the other training wheel—the things you may never have tried before.

So now you get to practice with the training wheels. You head to one side thinking you can use your old protections but you can’t because you have covered them with an ‘oven mitt’, so you wobble to the other side looking for refuge, and instead you find a new behavior that feels like a risky new behavior—which you try and feel anxious so you lean back toward your protections which you are bravely giving up and you go back and forth –sometimes gloriously finding the center—finding something brand new.

I call these moments new beginnings, they are ‘what didn’t happen.’ But how can these moments become woven in, become the new default? I have another example from Norman Doidge’s book, where a woman has severe vertigo from a reaction to antibiotics and is unable to stand or walk. As treatment she uses a helmet that serves as an external vestibular function for her inner ear that has been damaged. When she puts on the helmet she can stand up and stay balanced and doesn’t feel nauseous. That the helmet can support her this way is amazing, but what is really amazing is that wearing the helmet gives residual benefits that increase over time. The longer she wears the helmet, the longer she can feel the benefits even when she takes the helmet off: the helmet re-teaches her brain how to experience and manage balance. And this residual learning mirrors my own experience of psychological training wheels: you get a benefit in the moment of the new learning experience—but if you can stay in it with some constant repetition—you can begin to feel a residual benefit long past the actual practice time.

These moments of new beginning give you the brand new experience of growth—and the more they happen, the more of these moments that can get strung together, the more they have residual effects where you can pedal for a while without the wobbliness. Where you carry your center with you.

In healing the relational aspects of trauma what I have noticed is that these new moments of growth give me a sturdiness, I can feel my own two feet.  They give me a feeling of elasticity— I can feel like relationships have an elastic quality that will allow some give and take, and they give me a feeling of openness and expansiveness where I can look up and around. For me and many people with a history of trauma there is a hyper vigilance that is the constant background noise—the constant operating system running in the background all the time. Finding the tippy place between the two training wheels means living in a place where that operating system isn’t in the background: its acknowledged and worked with. In the tippy place you have owned the protections that keep you from learning a new way, and you have identified the new behaviors that are your learning edge. In the training wheels model you aren’t denying your problem or wishing it away—you are living with it—and working not to use your old protections so that you can try something new.

© 2018 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD