PART FOUR: Acceptance
The third of four indicators that we are well--that therapy is helping, recovery is working, and that we are, in fact, human.
If you’re grieving, moving through change, transitioning careers, or struggle with anxiety and depression, this is the most helpful concept I’ve learned for navigating life’s great uncertainties.
Hard—certainly. Painful—at first. Effective—absolutely.
“We spend our time and energy defending our life rather than living it fully. Radical Acceptance is the willingness to experience ourselves and our lives as it is.” -tara brach
For decades I was the willful queen.
Ok—I still am. Stubbornness swallows me whole (or do I eat stubbornness for breakfast? This metaphor fell apart before it started).
God I’m tired. That’s the only true thing I know right now. And in my fatigue, I feel lazy and irreverent. I don’t want to write. I feel willful to write because I’m afraid that if I do—if I really lean in and WRITE, I’ll fucking fall apart.
Writing used to be my outlet. It was how I got out of my head and into the world. How I processed the stuck gunk and pour out my hurt. How I watched my internal world unfold outside of me so I could make sense of it—so I could point at it and go, “oh, there it is. There’s why it hurts so bad.”
Lately my writing has felt clinical. Stale. Willful. I read the resistance in my word choice and taste the blandness in my tone.
Willful willful woman.
Why do I resist feeling? Why am I avoiding what is? Why, when I know that letting myself flow with the raging water brings peace, am I kicking so hard to stay upstream?
Let go let go let go.
Let go
Let go
Let go.
Hi, this letter is supposed to be about the art of letting go, and I’m terrified to let go.
Last month I started writing about “how I know I’m well.” About life post-recovery or when symptoms of mental illness stabilize. About the factors I believe are both indications of and tools for true wellness.
I did a big fucking keynote speech in November sharing these four concepts, and after it ended I wanted to share them with you here.
(if you’d rather just watch the talk, heeeere you go!)
If you’d rather read through these concepts, you’re in the right place.
Each week on my Substack I’ve shared one of the four concepts. Last week I talked about Satisfaction, before that Belonging, next week, Connection, and today, LOL, Acceptance.
If you want to start at the beginning of this mini-series or whatever this is holy cow my brain today y’all…you can start by reading this post for context:
And ironically, as I share this concept of Acceptance with you today, I am indeed, struggling.
Which, ironically, is why I’m slightly symptomatic. I’m lacking some key, fundamental components of radical acceptance (letting go of control, surrendering to the unknown, finding faith in the future). And as a result, I’m micromanaging my life, trying desperately to control outcomes, creating false narratives about the future and operating from a place of intense scarcity.
I am, indeed, willful.
So today, as I share this third component with you, I’m also being humbled. I’m being reminded to practice what I preach and find a little faith, surrender a little more, and let the fuck go.
Without furthur WILLFULNESS, let’s willingly dive into Pillar Three: Acceptance
I want to start by saying that acceptance and satisfaction—while very connected, are not the same.
Satisfaction is about navigating what is in my control.
Acceptance is about navigating what is not in my control.
Last week we covered the second concept of Satisfaction, feel free to go back and read that piece first if you’re just joining us.
Acceptance is what keeps us from being anxious about an unknown future or depressed about an unpleasant past.
There are two things in my past that I thought I might never overcome: the death of my highschool sweetheart and my divorce.
When I was 19, my high school sweetheart was killed in a boating accident.
A few months prior to Lyle’s death, I chose to operate from my not-enoughness (this is a concept we covered last week) and when our relationship wasn’t progressing as fast or good or perfectly as I wanted it to, I sought love and attention in other places.
I was terrified he might reject me if I was honest about what I wanted, so instead of saying “I love you,” I pretended I didn’t care about him, and moved on.
When I got the phone call that he had died, the first thought I had was, “this isn’t real,” and the second thought I had was, “I could have stopped this.”
Naievley I wrapped myself around the story that if only I had told him I loved him, I could have prevented his death.
That maybe, if I’d been courageous enough to be honest and true, I’d have tipped one domino—one small enough drop to create a ripple effect big enough to alter the course of his life, and save it.
I did the same thing when I got divorced.
This time, though, the story I wrapped myself in was about not seeing what was right in front of me.
Shame about my constant longing to seek something better, and the belief that if only I’d been satisfied with the man before me, I could have kept the love alive that was real and there before it started to die.
I held onto these stories to stop reality from striking.
“What if’s” and “how comes” ruled my life for years after Lyle died and Josh asked for a divorce.
I did not want to accept a reality where Lyle was dead. He was 19. He sang James Taylor songs and flipped his hair across his face when he was too nervous to say “I like you.” He was too young, too good, to real to be gone.
I did not want to accept a reality where my husband, the person who promised to love me until I died, changed his mind. I did not want to accept a reality where the person who helped me find safety in vulnerability no longer wanted a part in my openness.
read more about my divorce in my memoir, Where the River Flows.
When I wrote this part of the talk I gave in November I was sitting in a bar in Seattle.
I like to write at bars—number one I love being around other people for that communal energy, but number two, I like a good glass of wine.
So I’m sitting at this bar, writing about the loss of these two loves in my life, and I’m crying.
I’m crying about the boy who I never admitted my love to and the man who I constantly confessed my love to.
I texted my friend immediately—something I wouldn’t have done a year ago, and something I’ll talk about in the next newsletter—I texted her and I said,
“I’m ordering another glass of wine. This part of the talk includes Lyle and Josh and I’m tearing up. Also, I’m ok, it’s just wild how reliving it makes me feel heartbroken all over again.”
And that right there said it all:
Re-living it makes me feel heartbroken all over again.
Staying with the past kept me in a constant state of grief. And any time I re-visit it, I feel the pain of that unfathomable heartbreak as if it were happening for the first time.
There are two reasons we struggle with acceptance: Attachment, and the Fear of the Unknown.
We attach to a past we wish had been, in order to avoid a present we cannot bear, in fear of a future we cannot know.
For years, attachment to what was, what wasn’t, and what could have been kept me stuck in grief.
I was attached to the idea that maybe Josh and I would get back together. Attached to the idea that if I’d told Lyle I loved him, he’d still be alive.
And despite my hope or longing for a different outcome, I’d have to let go of the stories I attached to.
I’d have to accept the present moment, where Lyle was dead, and Josh wasn’t my husband. And in doing so, I’d have to embrace the uncertain future.
It is scary to have nothing to hold onto.
So what happens in this liminal space? Between what was and what could be? Why are we so afraid of the unknown?
I’m going to geek out a little bit on science here.
Our brains are designed to protect us from the unknown.
If you’ve ever heard of fight/flight/freeze, you’ll know that the survival mechanisms in our brain are set up to detect the unfamiliar, label it as danger, and then fight, flee, or freeze as a way to stay alive.
If we’ve experienced trauma or chronic stress or weren’t supported in trying new things, this survival system can be on hyper-alert, and will assess non-life-threatening things as life-threatening, simply because they’re unfamiliar.
A math test becomes a fight with a bear. Meeting new people becomes jumping out of an airplane. Going on a first date becomes swimming with sharks.
The unknown represents danger to a mind that’s used to living in survival mode.
And if anything unfamiliar, if anything unknown, if anything uncertain sparks the same reaction as if our life was in danger, our systems are functioning in a constant state of survival.
We become perpetually afraid of the unknown.
The thing is in order to engage with life, in order to try new things, make new friends, play, experience joy, and take risks towards our goals, we have to be a little resilient in the face of the unknown.
We have to learn that it is safe for us to approach what’s new.
We have to be able to navigate change or transition or loss—not ignore it, not stuff it down, but navigate it.
So how do we train our brains to navigate the unknown? How do we engage in new activities without fear or the threat of danger? How do we let go of the past and feel comfort about the uncertain future?
Faith and presence.
Faith.
This first one got me all bent out of shape for a while. My mom and dad were raised with different religions, so the choice to believe in god, and which one, was up to me.
I quickly chose NONE and vowed to be an atheist. I believed in nothing beyond what I could touch, taste, see, feel, hear.
A year after Lyle died I was going for a run—Lyle was a singer and I had a lot of his songs on my ipod (like you know the OG ipod) and I was on this run and one of his songs came on. And right when it did I saw a hawk out of the corner of my eye come flying out right beside me. Immediately, I burst into tears.
I watched this hawk fly alongside me as I ran for the entirety of the song. And just as soon as the song ended, the hawk disappeared. And I thought to myself, “that was Lyle. I don’t know how, but it was him, and he’s telling me it’s ok to let go.”
From that moment on, I opened myself up to the possibility that I might not have all the answers.
That no matter how much I tried to, I couldn’t control everything.
And that maybe if I learned to accept what I couldn’t control, I might find peace in the unknown, instead of fear.
I accepted that Lyle was dead—and acceptance, I know now, doesn’t mean agreeing with. I could accept he was dead and not like it.
Both were true.
Acceptance doesn’t mean agreeing with. We can accept something and still not like it.
Both can be true.
Presence
My first week in eating disorder treatment I had a panic attack at lunch.
For whatever reason, what we were eating that day was triggering me. I started to think “this meal is going to make me fat. If I eat this, I'm going to gain weight. I started thinking about all the ways that this meal was going to ruin my body ruin and ruin my life.”
So I’m sitting at the dining room table, crying and hyperventilating, and the therapist at our table says,
“Rachel, I can see that you're really struggling with this meal. So why don't you stand up and walk over to the window.”
And I thought, fuck you, that's not gonna help. But I was still quite a rule follower so I got up and walked over the window.
“I want you to just look out the window and name everything you can see.”
Oh my god here we go, I thought. Begrudgingly I started naming everything I could see:
“Firetruck, lady crossing the street, stupid man with stupid hat—”
“Rachel non judgmentally just label what you see.”
Jesus.
“MAN with HAT, house, bridge…”
I didn't understand why, and truthfully I was a little bit mad that it was working, but I started to calm down.
My breathing started to slow. My heart rate started to decrease and the tingling in my palms and stomach started to go away.
And what I didn't know then, is that she was teaching me mindfulness.
She was teaching me to focus on what was known, instead of what was unknown. On what I could see, touch, taste, hear and smell. She was teaching me presence.
Presence and faith have allowed me to be more adaptable and flexible.
I cope with change and transition—two constant certainties in life—with more ease and less stress.
I’m more open to trying new things, meeting new people, and enjoying what I’m doing because I’m focused on the process, not the outcome.
I’ve started operating from a place of trust and openness instead of insecurity and fear—not because I expect things to turn out well or good, but because I believe that no matter how they turn out, I’ll be able to handle them.
I accept what I cannot control, and do not attempt to control what I cannot accept.
And today, I am reminded, to let go.
If any of this resonated, I’d love to hear from you in the comments <3
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart for being here.
See you next week,
Rachel
P.S. for more of my story through eating disorder recovery, divorce, and mental illness, read my book “Where the River Flows.” You can read chapter one free by clicking the button below.
Ha, I don’t think I have reading anything or felt anything that has explained it all so well. Thank you for this. I read to the end.♥️