This is an offering of love. To all of you. To all of us. To our mothers and our sisters and our daughters. To our world.

________

When a woman tells you she’s been violated:

Believe her.

No matter what words she uses to describe the violation.
No matter the drinks or the outfit or the degree to which she knew or didn’t know her violator.
No matter the time of day or night or the spaces in memory.
No matter her age now or her age then or how many years it took to speak it.
No matter how many times it’s happened or what came before or after.

No matter the questions that arise in your own mind, planted by a culture that has taught you that her-story is the one to be met with disbelief.

Believe her.

Hear her story.
Blanket her shame with your love.
Counter her fear with your faith.
Hold the relentless questions running on loops in her mind between your palms, tenderly.

Believe her.

When she says, “It was my fault…”
Tell her no.

When she asks, “Was this okay…?”
Say not now. Not ever.

When she wonders, “Did I bring this on myself…?”
Remind her that she has only ever called in goodness.

When she worries you’ll never look at her the same way…
Do not hesitate or waver.
Tell her that she is wrong.
That she is beautiful.
That you love her.

When she tells you they didn’t believe her before…
Remind her that you are different.

When she cannot look you in the eye…
Hold up the brightest mirror you can find, and show her the vast and unchangeable beauty of her being.

When she shows you her bruises…
Swallow hard and don’t you dare look away.

When she cries…
Let her.

When she reaches out in need of kind arms…
Hold her.

When she cannot find her voice to safely speak. When the words stick like swords in her throat. When the sound of her own voice is too much to bear…
Will your love to transmit across miles of silence.
Hold the space without sound.
Fill it with wildflowers and sunshine and infinite softness.

When she needs to tell her story again and again and again…
Listen. As many times as it takes.

When it takes far longer than you expected for her to heal…
Be infinitely patient.

When that healing looks nothing like they told you it would…
Find every dictionary in your house. Cross out the definition they gave you.
Allow her to write in her own.
Make sure to use pencil so she can change it as often as she needs.

When her body feels unsafe on the street or in the coffee shop or at the grocery store…
Walk closely beside her, ask if she would like to hold your hand.
Shield her energy with your own.
Don’t let go.

When she’s afraid of the dark…
Keep the lights on.

When she’s too terrified to sleep alone…
Plan to stay as many nights as she needs.

When her body feels unsafe in your bed…
Stop. Look her in the eyes. Remind her that in this space, always, she is sovereign.

When she asks you to make love to her…
Trust her. Go slow. Be prepared to stop.

When you’re not sure how to proceed…
Ask her.

When she answers…
Pay close attention.

When the rules change…
Accept them.

When you can’t touch her the same way. When what was beautiful between you is now a reminder of horror. When triggers arise in unexpected and tender spaces…
Don’t you dare take it personally.

When her body, her home, and the world transform into fields littered with landmines…
Walk carefully and gently and with great reverence.

When you trip over one of them — and you will…
Go easy on yourself. You too will need infinite kindness to get through this.

When you get it wrong…
Forgive yourself.

When the weight of what is required begins to feel so very heavy. When you fear your bones might crack. When your own heart is tangled and your soul is weary and longing for rest and a place to lay it all down….
Reserve tenderness for yourself.
Make a religion out of the most exquisite self-care.
Remember that you, too, deserve respite, comfort, and safe arms to hold you as you cry.

When you do not live up to the words in this poem. When you hit your limit and your own being is crying out for respite and you feel you are failing the woman you love…
Remember that you can call in reserves, that no single person can do this alone.

When she wakes up at night, sits straight up in bed, a silent scream caught in her throat, her body echoing memory knit into bones…
Sit up with her.
Light a candle and shine it in all the dark corners.
Breathe with her until her breath returns to her body and her heart stops trying to escape from her rib cage

When she can’t sleep…
Stay awake.
Invite her to nestle her head against your chest.
Play with her hair. Sing her lullabies. Whisper truths in her ear.
Truths about her beauty.
And her power.
And her absolute right to autonomy of spirit and soul and body.
Her ownership of her sacred yes and her holy no.
Her warrior strength and her ability to survive.
Now and for the rest of her life.

When a woman tells you she was violated….

Believe her.

And say so.

Don’t just think it.
Don’t just feel it.
Speak the words to her.
Out loud. Right now.

As many times as it takes.
Over and over and over again.

In words
In writing.
With your body.
In the way you look at her.
In public. On social media.
At the hospital.
At the police station.
In court.
At the bar.
On the street corner.
In your outside voice where other people can hear.
In as many different languages as you can memorize.

Because too many women in this world have been violated.
And too many are met with the violence of disbelief.

So, when a woman tells you she was violated.

You stop what you’re doing.
Look her in the eyes.

And tell her you fucking believe her.

_____

{image credit: Kat J via Unsplash}

The post Believe Her: A poem for survivors (and those who love them) appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

It’s okay to hate today.

To hell with all that positive thinking mumbo jumbo. Toss your gratitude journal to the side, just for now.

It’s okay to wallow.

It’s okay to feel like PMS and Mercury Retrograde and your hour and a half commute and your tantruming nine year old and the headache that won’t go away and the fight you just had with the one you love and the 28 dollars left in your bank account till payday and the dirty house and the way you can’t quite seem to make your purpose in this world a viable option are just too much.

Because guess what. It is too much. Way too much.

And yes. We both know people who have it much worse. Who lay awake at night worried about having a roof over their heads or doing battle with an illness that could take it all away. Who live in uncertainty and violence and everything that is the opposite of safe.

We know that this earth of ours bears witness to things that are beyond words. That people are sleeping in cold, hard streets and children are dying and people are hated for the color of their skin or what god they believe in or who they welcome into their bed at night.

And it sometimes seems there is never, ever enough compassion or action to change it all.

You see and feel all of that. All of that deep and painful reality. All that exists within and beyond you that is so, so much harder than any of this stuff that is getting you down.

And you feel minuscule and impossibly irrelevant in the face of it all.

It can be tempting to write off your own very real experience in comparison.

Because truly, most days your too much is really not all that much at all. Not in the face of homelessness and genocide and fatal car accidents and deep dark depression and sexual violence and all the rest of the deep ache of our wounded planet. In the face of civil inequality and brutality and racism and natural disaster and a nation divided.

It’s absolutely true. In the face of all that, your daily stresses and irritations are next to nothing.

Even your deepest heartache… totally survivable.

Perspective and compassion are infinitely important. You wouldn’t be who you are without these things. They live at the core of your strong and tender heart.

I know this. You know this.

Your empathic soul soaks in the aches of this world and spins them infinitely inside, so close you could touch and feel and name every individual slice of pain.

You feel and you feel and you feel. You couldn’t stop feeling if you tried.

You can take so much and keep standing back up. You can absorb and absorb and absorb and still have room to give.

Nobody is going to argue with that – not for a second.

But sometimes – you strong and tenderhearted soul – you’ve just got to sit down in the corner with your favorite cozy blanket and the saddest possible music and give yourself over to the ugly cry.

You’ve got to wallow and tantrum and feel hopeless and grumpy and disillusioned.

You’ve got to, because that’s what’s real in that moment. Because in that exact moment, there is nothing real but that.

Because that moment, right there. It sucks. It’s hard. Life is not going according to plan or wish or desire. Your heart, she is hurting. The stress and the worry are weighing you down, deep and dark and heavy. No way around it.

And you don’t need the pain Olympics or a complex a relativity equation for bravery or the my-struggle-sucks-worse-than-yours game to help you sort it out.

Because of course you know – even in the worst, there are always blessings. And when you play the comparison game, someone will always win and someone will always lose. We can use it to make ourselves feel better. Or we can use that to make ourselves feel worse.

Or – we just give ourselves permission to feel it all.

If you need permission. If you’ve been waiting for someone to say here, stop for a minute. This place that you’re in? It’s not easy. It hasn’t been easy for a while. And I see that your hurting and I see that you’re tired and damn, I know how the worry eats away at your gut. And I know that today, all you want to do is find a sliver of space and a moment of silence and some open arms.

Consider this your invitation.

Lay it all down love. Here. My arms are outstretched and waiting to hold it for you, just for a bit. I’ve got space for you here on the sofa next to me, and I’ve queued up my best heartbreak playlist. The candles are lit and my heart is open to hear your stories.

And you don’t need to worry about holding it in. Or worry that I’ll judge you. You don’t need to listen to that voice inside that tells you that you shouldn’t, that levels criticism for daring to complain when you’ve got nothing to complain about.

Tell that voice to hush. There’s a time and place for that.

But now is time for you. And if you need we’ll sit and cry together. Or I’ll just listen to you vent and whine and moan and complain – because darling, those are perfectly valid things to do sometimes. If it comes to that, we can wail and moan and roar together, eat ice cream and watch sappy movies and listen to sad songs until those much needed tears finally fall.

And not once do you need to fear judgment for just feeling what you’re feeling. Let the bad stuff suck for just a little while.  Take a minute without searching for a positive spin.  Stop trying to convince yourself that because others have it worse you don’t deserve to feel what you feel and say what you think and wish it could just really be all sunshine and roses and rainbows and unicorns.

Don’t we all at some point just wish it could all be sunshine and roses and rainbows and unicorns?

And when you’re done, when the weight has lifted a little – we’ll walk out into the sun together. And we’ll be grateful, and we’ll remember that it’s up to us to change what we are able to change and send the deepest love to all that we’re powerless to impact.

Because it’s hard to offer peace to the world around you when you’re doing battle with your own heart. And it’s hard to feel what you need to feel if you’ve labeled some feelings unworthy or unacceptable.

What we all need is to feel a little more okay with what is. Not just the pretty and blessed and grateful, but also the gritty and messy and raw.

Because love, you are here to feel. You’re here to love and mend and take action and make change.

You are here to heal.

So give yourself permission to feel the fullness of your emotion, good and bad and cranky and wallowing and full of self-pity sometimes.

Because in doing so, you free the space in yourself to offer the same to others.

Because in doing so, you send a wave of acceptance, inward and outward.

Because in doing so, you open your heart to the world.

And if there is one thing this world needs, it is more wide-open love.  The sort of love I know lives inside your beating heart.

So go ahead. Let it suck, just for today. Let someone be there for you, not because your world is falling apart, but just because this moment – the one you’re in right now – is kinda tough. And it’s worn you out. And you’re tired.

Give your heart a rest. Let someone else pick up the slack for a bit.

And then, when you’re ready – go offer yourself again, a little bit lighter, a little bit more supported – and a whole lot more ready to take on the world.

xo

Jeanette

The post You Are Here to Heal appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

back to the mat, no exceptions. fall asleep in savasana. cry in pigeon. laugh out loud in happy baby.

mascara and groomed brows, always.  red lipstick when you need it most. save your highest heels for the days you feel the lowest. wear clothing as costume. match it to your mood. always wear perfume, it helps you remember yourself. 

chin up. best foot forward.

find comfort in words and wine and the women who love you. cuddle sleeping children. leave your comfort zone, at least once a week. dance alone in the living room, at least once a day.

guyatri by candlelight. inhale. exhale. inhale again. do the work. do the work. do the work.

spin your hoop, your hips, your dreams. mountain top church every wednesday – never you mind the unmet dreams, you still can kiss the sky.

feet to pavement, music blasting in ears. forget everything but the run.

remember why you are here. remember yourself. remember yourself. remember yourself.

cultivate presence. become fierce about your autonomy. take long drives with the windows down.

bless everything, even your regrets. accept your regrets and allow them to teach you. welcome admiration but decline the pedestal. make friends with your unmet hope and allow it to guide you. kiss your solitude and allow it to work through you.

be infinitely tender. show up for others. live out loud. live as the personification of wide-open-vulnerable-crazy-free. stick your landings.

live in kindness. keep a prayer candle burning for someone at all times. give thanks, every day. practice intentional, loving touch. om namo guru dev namo.

tidy your space before bed. know it as an act of love. make your bed tightly with the brand new sheets. when your naked skin slides inside them for the first time, know it as a gift to yourself.

let the sadness flatten you. stay in bed until it lifts. do not rush your grief. do not rush your grief. do not rush your grief.

honor the divinity that is everywhere. get down with your inner badass. turn off your phone, and your computer and your mind.  find your heart center and send it compassion. see the holiness in everyone you meet. honor it.

know your worth. know your worth. know your worth. accept no less. become familiar with the space where compromise is unkind. nuture your exquisite loneliness. let it teach you.

light candles at every opportunity. touch your inked ribs lightly when you forget who you are.

let yourself be moved. seek out art. surround yourself with artists, creative, deep thinkers, high divers and earth shakers of all kinds. accept gifts offered with whole heart. even when such acceptance is difficult.  

stop behaving.

eat food that nourishes body and soul. cook with those you love. seek perspective. do not chastise yourself for believing and dreaming and trying. open yourself always to love.

know your body as holy, your want as holy and your shattered heart as whole.

continue to believe in lucky pennies, shooting stars and signs from the universe.

get rid of what does not serve. let go of what no longer feels like you – clothing, decorations, people. holding on just fills up space that could be put to much better use. hold tight to that which brings you to your highest realization of self.

ground your feet to the earth, at least once a day. reach for the sky every night. sit in the quiet darkness and let your mind go wild. find quiet peace in the midst of chaos. drink as many lattes as you want.

own your losses, wear them clean. write the letter. speak the truth. unleash your voice.

let the music be your mourning and your memory. let the music be your celebration and your reclamation. let the music be. let it wind it’s way through you. let it all wind it’s way through you. it will anyway, so don’t try to fight.

it’s okay if you fight.

remember your inherently flawed humanity exists nestled side by side with your inborn divinity.

forgive yourself everything.

and make sure you don’t forget buy a lavender plant. fall asleep with sprigs of it on your chest.  breathe it deeply, all the way inside.

it makes all the difference in the world.

The post 115 ways to heal your own broken heart. appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.