The Therapy Gods Are Undefeated | Season One: Episode 4
As I reflect over this last year around the sun, as 40 changes to 41 in Katie Years, I can still mentally recall enough history in my life, where I have been, and where I still aim to go.
Every year in September, I celebrate the entire month to honor and give thanks to every version of myself that brings me to the present. And those words have never been truer than in what the 40-year-old Katie accomplished. 40 is a Hall of Fame year.
I know there hasn’t been a more exhilarating, in-love, sense of belonging, more successful, more confidence-building, more purpose-driven, full year than this one.
There hasn’t been a more gut-wrenching, surrendering, blinding, miserable, and emotionally painful year than my 40th. I was 40 years of age when I realized I had become dehydrated because of crying too much.
My 40th-year summary is like the opening of that famous book I haven’t read but know the first line. I, like most people, only know that one line, like how most people recite the first sentence of Genesis,” In the beginning, God created the world and on the 7th day instead of rest he built a Trader Joe’s….” It was the best of times, the worst of times.
In the first part of my 40th, I have never been happier. I lived every minute as if it were my last, soaking up everything I could with enormous gratitude. I undertook heavier issues in therapy, discovering misplaced doubts and clarity on how to overcome my biggest hurdles. The amount of joy in my life felt too good to be true. The newfound freedom from the emotional blocks I had battled all my life made me feel as if I were flying above the earth, untouchable.
I am living out every minute of the second part of my 40th, trying not to make it my last. The amount of sadness, grief, and loss surpassed any pain I have ever personally known. I once had to give a child back after a failed adoption- that was painful. I underwent six years of infertility treatment that brought four miscarriages and seven outright failed IVF rounds. I was so distraught. I wanted my ex-husband, Jim, to have another child, and for Hazel to have a sibling. Infertility pains and perseverance were me fighting for more than myself.
I’ve never felt stronger, physically or mentally, than this year. This pain is different. I am fighting for only me, with the new motto: It’s all for one and one for me!
As we hit this level of emotional chaos, I call my 40s, the rocks start looking familiar as we pick ourselves off the ground. As we fall, we take more than bruises; we also gain awareness of patterns, pointing out specific behaviors and thoughts. We have failed repetitive practices that are causing us a lot of pain.
Every month, every day, and every week have led to development, insight, and advancement in my personal goals. If I don’t do anything, the bad moments will pass, and life will eventually return to a baseline of calm, but nothing changes in me to prevent future issues. I am committed to never going through this again, so come what may, ready or not, here I come. And as bitter as it is to read, there is one thing I am determined to do: keep my receipts and watch you collect your karma like a tax collector waiting on debt to accumulate. I am more determined than ever to live out my remaining years without reservation.
I am merely days away from turning 41, and where I am now is best described as a firefighter figuratively reaching the safe area of a hilltop after running uphill to escape the fire. I watch my world burn down around me like a forest fire that nothing can contain in time to salvage. The fire has gutted the old me. There isn’t one part of me now screaming on the inside to be set free. Every voice in my head, every pulse in my heart is all for one and one for me.
I had this imagery after infertility and the journey through divorce, that I was barely holding on to the version of myself that I only seemed to notice in my life. I remember crying at age 38, thinking I couldn’t save her. I sabotaged her because her ideas seemed too big, vague, and extreme.
Through my 39th year, she came back to me- like someone clapping to bring Tinkerbell back to life. I am purposeful, bold, and fearless; I can fly, and like Neverland, I have lots of candy in my house. A tiny flicker, illuminating like a sick lightning bug trying to fly again, has grown into a blinding ray of light when my attention is pointed at you.
At the end of 40, hard work restored my spirit. She no longer lives inside; she is fully present. She is the compilation of hard work, growing pains, slow lessons learned, and software upgrades.
This previous August was not a fun month. August was the last heartbeat of a painful breakup that sent me crashing to my knees on life support. I’m embarrassed to love so profoundly that it still leaves me looking like a fool for love. I’m tired of being on an emotional ventilator, fearing beeps to go off, signaling emergency alerts to those closest to me.
I’m tired of feeling stuck, of believing I have done something wrong because I see others’ actions as reflections of me. I’m tired of the energy it takes to not care about what people think who treated me as not even good enough to be recycled — I’m like that piece of cardboard I put in the bin that is more convenient than the one it belongs to because I’m too lazy to do the right thing and break down a box.
I hit rock bottom for the first time in overestimating relationships and closeness. At least life keeps mixing it up. The awareness of miscalculating people’s likeness was new to me, and it helped me describe how I felt. I may have misplaced many things under the wrong abandonment category when I was close to them; they weren’t close to me. I hate to admit it, but overestimating people’s connection with me is a growing pain I am tackling, because it is my most extraordinary love language: spending time with people and building relationships. How is what I consider the most significant asset of my personality an emotional hazard? Learning to find the balance to avoid this level of hurt again feels like it’s going to be clumsy and painful to watch as seeing a baby deer trying to run for the first time to escape the awaiting crocodiles, counting on that one slip and mistake.
I have two weaknesses that I can say are my Achilles’ heels, the ones I am closest to spending time loving. The first is silence. Emotional abandonment is accurate, and there is no more significant abuse in my eyes than to be ignored, reality denied, and dismissed. The second is I think I make a difference as a person. Let me explain what I mean by that one. I think people talk to me and want to be around me because they genuinely like me. I overestimated the kindness and attention for belonging rather than just fitting in and convenience. When these events unfold, they are dominoes in my life, and it takes a lot of energy not to let depression or self-worth issues control my reality and truth.
For example, my new, now ex-therapist of 4-5 sessions said she didn’t feel she was the best therapist for me because her practice focuses more on specific areas, and I didn’t have those concerns. The main point is I didn’t present a “case” that challenged her or made her feel useful. I struggled with this for a while and am still a bit sensitive about it because I find I am great to talk to, and why wouldn’t she want to talk to me? I am coming across as a narcissist in this blog – see, I already care what you think.
Let’s move on.
In a world that I see as burning all around me, the only positive is that the flames aren’t as intense as they were, and the explosions from the trees and shrieks of wildlife scrambling to find new shelter aren’t as loud. There are still smoky sparks of flames, but I can see the blackened suit and char marks on the brush and trees.
Fire is purposeful in many ways.
I can see how I used the fire at 40 to light the path ahead, provide warmth for others, and signal rescue as I surrendered. Whatever was once worth saving was no longer worth me suffocating and getting burned to try to suppress the fire over and over again. My abilities have reached their limits, forcing me to act and have intense conversations as I coached myself daily.
Now my fire is closer to smoldering.
It looks like this is a part of the fire I could suppress. It feels easy enough to think I could just walk off the safety of my hill through the forest to put out each flame– but it all has to finish burning to the ground before I rebuild a more vital world around me.
The forest is quiet, and I wait calmly and gratefully.
I know that whenever I walk back into the forest when all is safe, I will continue to thrive because of the one I am becoming by choosing to do the hard emotional work now. Transformational growth cannot be achieved through self-help books and podcasts alone; it arises when our soul challenges everything we know about ourselves. We must bravely tremble into that unknown, even an inch forward, and never stop until we build tolerance without fear to live our wildest dreams.
40, with the help of others, has performed a masterclass in surrendering.
41, will be whatever grows from this destruction.
As Rabbi Baal Shem Tov, a Jewish mystic and healer from Poland, wrote, “Let me fall if I must fall. The one I will become will catch me.”
I continue to choose every day to fall, if I must fall.
I keep choosing to trust that I will figure it out.
So, here comes 41.
Here comes the new, improved me.
Here awaits all that is before me unknown, and for once, I have no expectations – God, the universe, and my guardian angel Claire Underwood will take care of the rest.
As Sheryl Sandberg mentions in her book, Option B, she was feeling sad her husband had passed away, and her daughter didn’t have a dad to take to the dance- a friend told her, well, the other guy isn’t your Option A so its time to kick the shit out of Option B.
Whatever Option A-Z you are on, never stop!
I’m *that* friend in your corner, rooting for you always.