I’ve never been particularly comfortable with the word forgiveness.
Yet here I am considering it my word for 2026.
Here’s a popular definition of forgiveness:
Forgiveness is the conscious, voluntary decision to let go of resentment, anger, and vengeful thoughts toward someone who has wronged you, freeing yourself from the pain of the offense rather than condoning or excusing the act.
It sounds reasonable. Even generous.
But I get stuck on one idea: “toward someone who has wronged you.”
Because as long as forgiveness is organized around they wronged me, it stays trapped inside a courtroom. Someone is right. Someone is wrong. And someone has to rise above it.
Real forgiveness—at least the kind that actually changes something—doesn’t live there.
For me, forgiveness begins when I’m willing to question my certainty. Not erase my experience—but loosen my grip on the story I’m telling about it.
I don’t actually know what the other person intended. I don’t know what they were seeing, hearing, or feeling in that moment. I don’t know what shaped their choices or what fear, pain, or blindness might have been operating.
When I truly own that, something shifts.
The work of forgiveness stops being about them and becomes about my willingness to step out of righteousness and victimhood.
What I’ve discovered is that suffering is real—but blame only hardens it.
Forgiveness happens when I stop insisting on being right and start telling the truth about what I cannot know.
In those moments—when I land there in real presence— my heart opens, but my spine doesn’t disappear.
There’s clarity. There’s connection. And there’s a surprising strength in not needing anyone to be the villain.
It doesn’t feel passive. It feels liberating.
Which is why I don’t think forgiveness can be thought through or performed correctly.
Forgiveness is experiential. It arrives in moments of curiosity rather than collapse, innocence rather than innocence lost, wisdom that comes from letting a rigid story soften into something truer.
I recently came across a research abstract suggesting that Virginia Satir’s experiential family systems approach might be “integrated” with models like Emotion-Focused Therapy. The intent: give her work more structure, theory, and replicability.
It stopped me in my tracks. Could Satir’s profound body of work—rooted in presence, creativity, and relational aliveness—be reduced to “mere creative techniques”? Sadly, yes.
And it’s not just Satir. Many programs born of humanistic psychology have been distilled into measurable techniques, slotted neatly into systems that can be studied and standardized. Relevant, yes. But at what cost?
When we prize only what can be researched or proven, we lose something vital. Aliveness. Creativity. Connection. We flatten the very field where transformation emerges.
Creation vs. Consumption
What I long for isn’t consumption of another “evidence-based” tool. It’s creation. Taking an idea and living in it—moving, playing, risking. Not applying theory with rigid gestures, but engaging the unpredictable edge where life actually shifts.
Evidence-based living too often traps us in right/wrong, safe/unsafe. The result? A shrinking space for wonder, possibility, and connection.
What Haven Taught Me
As part of The Haven Faculty, I’ve witnessed again and again the raw, alive field where healing happens—not through protocols, but through presence. Haven’s roots were never built on the theoretical. They grew from two physicians—one working with teens, one with elders—who noticed transformation simply by bringing people together.
Of course they developed models to support learning but they also made presence and connection the bottomline.
What drew me to Haven, and originally to Satir, wasn’t a model to be replicated. It was the power of human beings meeting each other without guarantees, without smoothing over, without management.
Haven has always been about leaning into conflict, discomfort, intensity—not to retraumatize, but to discover. To find more of ourselves and more of each other than we thought possible.
The Trouble with Safety
When frameworks and protocols become the defining lens, the focus shifts. The energy becomes about safety, prevention, containment. Safety matters—but transformation doesn’t live in managed safety. It lives in risk, in storm, in staying connected when it would be easier to retreat.
True safety is born in presence, not control. In the messy, unpredictable space of being human together.
The Larger Gift
Yes, trauma walks through our doors. It always has. And we hold it with care. But I refuse to let trauma—or the management of it—define transformation.
Satir’s gift, and Haven’s, is larger: a space that is alive, not managed. A space where fear and love meet, and in that meeting, choice becomes possible.
When I’m in the middle of a rich, real community moment, I want to be all in. I want to name what’s happening, address it, and keep the connection alive right now. That urgency can be a gift — and sometimes, a challenge.
I’m a very immediate person. Sometimes that comes across as pressure or like it’s “all about me.”
At the recent Haven Faculty meeting — a deep, rich, and swirly experience — I threw myself into what I call a “pop-up community.” For me, the Haven is the best place to strengthen my skills in real, relational, and self-responsible living. It happens in programs, leadership, weekend meetings, and even online. But it takes intention — being present with what’s visible and invisible, owning mistakes, laughing, crying, and practicing patience.
That patience is my growth edge. In the moment, I often feel a strong urge to address issues right away, fearing they’ll grow if left alone. I’ve learned to speak my truth, then step back if others aren’t ready, leaving with clarity when I’ve invited full exchange.
Not everyone processes instantly. Sometimes insights or tensions surface later, away from the group. As a leader, I want to get better at supporting that — whether through a follow-up process, online sharing, or other ways to integrate after the fact. It’s one reason I’m developing Camp Connection.
I left the weekend with a few incompletes, so I’m reaching out, reflecting, and staying connected to that community energy as long as I can — to integrate, to strengthen both the branches and the heart of Haven, and to keep showing up real, relational, and self-responsible.
On a morning walk during our recent faculty weekend, I passed this small campground with a curious sign:
AREA QUESTIONABLE – See Supervisor Before Entry
It made me laugh—and then it made me think. Later in the day as we gathered as a faculty, I realized it was the perfect metaphor for our topic: The Haven’s Code of Ethics.
The intent of the code is good—to offer process and clarity, to provide a path for complaints, and to protect the Haven, its faculty, and participants. But here’s the challenge: our real purpose is to create a community where people can Come Alive and be fully themselves. And “protecting” that? I’m not sure it’s possible—or even helpful.
Which brings me back to that sign. Maybe, I thought, ours should read:
Coming Alive Is Questionable – Check With Yourself Before Entry
What if a code of ethics wasn’t a rigid set of right/wrong rules, but an invitation into dialogue? Legal language tends to close doors with absolutes. Coming alive is messier—it lives in the grey, the “questionable area.” And maybe that’s okay.
That campground, after all, was a beautiful, vibrant place for kids and adults. Yes, there were risks. But life—real, alive life—always carries risk.
I’ll admit, I’ve had a complicated history with codes of ethics. As a therapist, patient, healthcare provider, and business owner, I’ve mostly seen them as legal shields—documents crafted to prevent lawsuits rather than foster connection. So when I first heard The Haven was deep-diving into a new code, my walls went up. This place I love for its realness, mistakes, and growth suddenly sounded like it was drafting hospital paperwork.
But thanks to Jane K and the commitment of our faculty to wrestle with this, something shifted. I started to hear that this wasn’t about legal cover—it was about creating a shared path through conflict, a way to open dialogue before we ever head toward litigation.
It won’t be perfect. No document can guarantee safety or resolve every dispute. But if we keep it living, breathing, and grounded in relationship rather than bureaucracy, it can serve our purpose: to support people in the vulnerable, risky, beautiful work of Coming Alive.
The sign still says it best: safety not guaranteed—enter at your own risk. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.
Lately, I’ve been deep in the process of putting together a video for my mom’s memorial. It’s been emotional, tender, overwhelming — and surprisingly, expansive.
My sisters, Penny and Melissa, and I have each been weaving together pieces of the celebration for Bernie’s life. Alongside family, friends, and partners, we’re building something that’s both a tribute and a revelation.
As I move through photos, memories, and stories — I find myself feeling my mom’s presence more clearly than ever. Not as a body, not even just as my mother, but as energy. A field of love and impact still vibrating through all of us.
It reminds me how easy it is to forget that we are more than our bodies. We spend so much of life becoming “someone” — chasing meaning, purpose, and a sense of fulfillment — only to realize, eventually, that none of those identities matter as much as the connections we share, the presence we hold, and the love we carry.
This journey of grief is also a journey of remembering. Of feeling, more than ever, that we are not separate.
My mom is still here — not in form, but in frequency. In creativity, in laughter, in the light my sisters and I carry forward. In every connection that pulses with love.
We came from energy. We are energy. And in those moments of openness, when I stop trying to hold or define it, I feel her. I remember.
Mom — thank you for helping me re-member that we are not separate. That we never were.
I wrote most of this on Mother’s Day. My mother is mostly in the spirit world, though her heart still beats and body carries on. Her memories are gone and the woman now seems anxious and uncertain where she is. So, it seemed more like a burden to call as her daughter. I know her care team and those around her are honoring her as mother, woman, and human being. That’s the blessing I wanted for her on this Mother’s Day.
One of the stories I tell in Crazy, Cracked, Warm and Deep is about the Three Sisters—a Native American planting tradition—and how it beautifully reflects the relationship I have with my own sisters. I’m the youngest of three. As we navigate my mother’s later years together, I see this story playing out again and again.
But I also believe this story has something powerful to offer all of us—right now.
Here’s the plant version, if you haven’t heard it:
Three very different crops—corn, beans, and squash—are planted together. And each plays a unique role:
Corn, like a strong older sister, grows tall and gives the beans something to climb.
Pole beans, generous and grounding, pull nitrogen from the air and feed the soil for all three.
Squash, with its sprawling leaves, protects the ground, shades the soil, and keeps pests away with its prickly vines.
Together, they create a self-sustaining, living community—each one offering what the others need.
I love this way of thinking. That three different beings—plants, sisters, people—can grow together by weaving their strengths, instead of competing. And that this nurturing, collaborative way of being is deeply feminine.
It’s no accident they’re called the Three Sisters. This collective, collaborative, and nurturing process of growing with the land feels deeply feminine to me—more so than masculine.
And I struggle with how often our Western culture misses the value, the depth, the heart of the feminine.
I don’t want to just say “women,” because I know women who don’t honor or value their feminine side. I’ve been one of those women.
I spent years trying to kiss my elbow because someone told me that would magically turn me into a boy.
Not because I wanted to *be* a boy—but because I wanted to be dominant.
I didn’t want to be the one who could be crushed like a bug, raped, or terrified by arms stronger than mine, forcing me to do something against my will.
If that’s what relationships were—one dominating, one surrendering—then I wanted to be the one dominating.
And for a while, I tried. But I wasn’t particularly good at it.
I didn’t like dominating or powering over anyone.
And I had this deeper, quieter knowing that even when I armed my rage and delivered it, it only left me with more shame, pain, and isolation than when I bled on the ground from being on the receiving end.
Somewhere along the way, I began to understand: the feminine isn’t a weakness.
Maybe it was learning that childbirth—one of the most painful experiences a body can endure—is something women do all the time, to bring a child into the world. No glory. No fanfare. Just a newborn.
Maybe it was through poetry and songwriting—how music can deliver truth without destroying.
Maybe it was watching women leaders who build teams rather than just climbing ladders.
Or maybe it was from the men who’ve whispered their longing to let go of the fight and the might, and to share their tender sides.
Maybe it was my own mother’s way of being in a medical world and bringing Healing Touch into a world that wasn’t particularly receptive. Yet, she wove her beliefs into energy work, spirituality, and science. Just last weekend, three practitioners spoke of her mentoring them at various universities.
I get now—it’s not really about gender. It’s not even about birthing a baby.
We all have masculine and feminine in us.
But the dualities make it harder sometimes.
It’s easier to grow like the Three Sisters—interwoven, interdependent—than to live trapped in polarities.
I see that with my sisters. When one of us is at odds with the other, the third—if she’s not too entangled—starts dancing, loosening the knotty vines so we can work together again.
We need to do that.
Weaving together the seeds from our different beliefs, not getting stuck in the right path or the wrong path but allowing the beauty of the sun to shine through and help each of us become a brighter light.
Ultimately, I believe that is the lessons of The Three Sisters and one of the gifts from my mother.
Maybe I thought I had done the work, so I’d be okay as my mom transitions.
I’m not sad in the sense of losing her—I believe that with her dementia, some of that connection to memory and story has been gone for a while now. I don’t feel there’s a lot left unspoken or unshared between us.
And yet, I find myself caught in this underlying undertow—a swirl that leaves me feeling heavy, struggling to stay present.
I’m a marriage and family therapist with a systems background, so I’m well aware of the powerful pull of family of origin. I had imagined that, with all the work I’ve done to gather pieces of my past into a kind of fractal—a pattern that allows me to live and love more fully—I would have unhooked myself from that pull.
But no.
Over the past few years, I’ve been on a journey with my sisters in caring for our mom.
I live in Montana. Melissa, the middle sister, lives in Indiana. Penny, the oldest, is on the ground in Seattle—closest to Mom, and most often in charge of appointments, care, and transport.
COVID shifted everything for Mom. During that window of being locked down in her apartment, her memory began to decline. We did what we could. But let’s face it—there was so much that left our elderly isolated and alone. Maybe it impacted all of us in that way.
We moved her into a care home where she’s been for the past few years. She has a great care team, and our family stays connected in various ways.
As sisters, we try to meet weekly for a call—to check in, share, and support each other on this journey. Sometimes it’s been about Mom. Sometimes it’s been about all the other dynamics unfolding in our own lives. Sometimes we’ve agreed. Sometimes we haven’t. Sometimes it’s been hard. And sometimes we’ve laughed.
We each hold different beliefs about life, death, faith, and spirit. We also have different perspectives on health care and managing expectations. What I’ve loved is that none of these differences have undermined our shared purpose: caring for our mom.
We’ve cultivated an intimacy—in-to-me-see—with each other, using the energy of emotion to be creative, supportive, and, I believe, lov-ing with each other.
And still, this undertow.
There’s a fabric of family that lives in the body—in emotion, in images, and in story. That fabric is losing one of its essential threads. Though I know, energetically, my mom isn’t gone, the tangible contact with her texture, her vibration, is slipping away.
Will the fabric of our family continue without that thread?
Maybe that’s the fear.
There are aspects of my life that I know will never be “known” once my mom is gone.
I had never tasted anything so wondrous. As I swallowed the liquid from the tiny paper cup handed to me, I turned to see the source.
Coke.
No way. And yet — despite my disbelief — I surrendered to the ecstasy of that syrupy liquid. It quenched my thirst, revived me, energized every cell in my body. I let myself savor it slowly, taking smaller and smaller sips to make it last.
Time stood still.
With my eyes closed, I crushed the empty cup in my hand and let it drop into the garbage container.
As I walked away, the tingling flavor still dancing on my tongue, I felt a gentle hum of satisfaction grounding me.
Then I noticed — the aches in my body, the quiet joy of completion.
An Insight That Changed Everything
I’ve come to understand that forgiveness isn’t really for the other person — it’s for me. But it is relational. It opens a doorway between us. It’s about adjusting my own mind, softening my stance, so I can truly see, hear, and know another.
That realization shifted something deep inside me.
When I fully grasped that forgiveness raises consciousness — that it opens my heart — something clicked. It stopped being a nice idea and became a lived experience. A tectonic shift in how I saw, how I felt.
Of course, I still slip. I fall back into judging others — or worse, myself — getting stuck in that old loop of blame, of right and wrong.
But when I let go of the judgment and lean into curiosity instead, something changes. There’s expansion. I notice more. Not mentally — not with the mind — but energetically.
I sense it: energy, frequency, sound, vibration — possibility.
What was stuck begins to move. And then I realize — it’s not just the situation that’s been freed.
It’s me. I was the one who was stuck.
And now, I am free.
From Miles To Meaning or Running to Real: A Memoir
Running was my joy. Morning runs before work. Evening runs after. Weekends too.
I ran until I couldn’t run anymore.
The doctor called it a disorder. The therapist called it trauma. So I fought the demons — and the demons fought back.
My body was desperate to quit. But my dog reminded me to keep going.
Eventually, I found a haven. A space where I didn’t have to explain or prove why I was the way I was. I just had to show up — be real, be honest, in the moment.
There, I learned to bridge the gap between the old chaos — the drama, the trauma — and something new.
I didn’t have to be right. I didn’t have to stay wrong. I could be relational. I could be real.
Relating, though — that was harder than running. Running was easy. Relating asked me to feel. To face waves of sorrow, despair, heartache.
It wasn’t easy to share any of it. But when I did — when I let myself be seen, or when I listened deeply as someone else shared their raw truth — I felt something shift.
Held. Warm. Moved.
Those moments were sacred. Lasting. Connected.
Far more rewarding than finishing a marathon or closing any deal.
Sure, pleasure can come in quick highs. But becoming real — becoming connected — that gives something deeper.
I fear I won’t get my piece out for today and yet I have particpated more fully, taking a couples classes – one live and two of recorded through that all access. pass
One piece seems too personal to share as a blog post so I am holding on to it. Instead I’ll share this other piece – written and then crafted into a poem. The class was Writing Self-Intimacy – very intriguing to me. Here’s the poem:
Such an interesting question— how does intimacy ripple? Something in me doesn’t quite grasp it— and yet, as I write, a hush moves through my chest, a soft bloom of sensation— could this be the ripple itself?
Inside, it’s all motion: breath as messenger, bringing in the new, carrying out the dissonance— a surrender to the stirrings that chaos brings.
When I imagine this inward pulse moving outward— it feels like waves, sometimes gentle, like a whisper across skin, sometimes wild, like wind tearing through still water.
My relationships feel this— my dogs know the rhythm. My wife feels the shifts too, though fear sometimes stirs in her— then, I feel the quiet plea for control, or help, as if my wave might wash too far.
Community… That’s more elusive. Sometimes I skip the people close by, and instead, let the wave spill into music, into words, activity into distant spaces in Zoom windows where I may be felt, but not held too tightly.
And maybe that’s why intimacy in community can feel like a shore I can see but haven’t quite reached.
I signed up for an online program called Healing Through Writing—a four-day firehose of classes that blend somatic practices with creative expression.
From the start, I could see the challenge. Live sessions, bonus workshops, all on Zoom—it was intense enough to convince me to go for the all-access pass without hesitation.
But now that it’s begun, I’ve found myself drifting toward excuses. It’s surprisingly easy to avoid sitting down, tuning in, and doing the actual writing.
So, I’ve set a gentle but firm intention: to post a blog each day, sharing something I’ve learned or something that stirred me—even if it’s small.
Because for me, this isn’t just about writing. It’s part of something bigger. A path I’m carving toward a more abundant life—one that feels whole, connected, creative, and deeply alive. The ink heart is my symbol for that journey ( remember I’m a writer not an artist).
Symbol for My Abundant Life – A little journey I am on and this course is a part
Day one, and already I’ve landed somewhere meaningful. My biggest takeaway? Just sitting with the question: What does healing mean to me?
Turns out, that’s a powerful place to begin. And maybe the first step toward the life I’ve been quietly reaching for all along.
Here’s my quick take:
Healing, to me, is the shift from survival mode into a space of creation. It’s when I begin to reconnect with life, with others, with myself—not just intellectually, but viscerally. It’s when I feel that connection is present, even if my senses or internal narratives try to convince me otherwise.
There’s a deeper knowing beneath all of it—that I am still connected, always.
When that sense becomes rooted in my everyday life, when I can live from that knowing and move with love and intention—that, to me, is healing. It’s living. It’s loving.
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