Author: Gail Shurtleff

Gail Shurtleff is a California-licensed marriage and family therapist residing in the Netherlands, where she is registered as a clinical psychologist. She also authors "The Gift of Being Heard" blog, where she explores trauma and grief (including the experience of losing her husband, Jon, to suicide from bipolar disorder), the spiritual journey, disability, and life.

Reflections, Part 8

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Soul Peace and Journeys, The Suicide and its Aftermath

The New Frontier

As I write this, I’m still doing a countdown to the anniversary of the suicide.

When I decided to do this series of posts, I had not thought them out, and I allowed my fingers to weave the tale of the last decade. I have no regrets in doing this, as the things that got said were what needed to be conveyed.

It is said that grief rearranges the address book. I’ve found this to be true. After Jon’s suicide, some of his friends struggled with what had happened, and people I knew distanced themselves for whatever reason. Most people, instead of saying something, failed to say anything. This was true of family as well. While they did help with the burial cost, there were no flowers—nothing that would have been an outward sign of being thought of. The unexpected surprise was the friend who sent money to help. We’d never met—that would happen in 2019 when I made a trip to the central US. “B,” you will always be in my heart.

The events of those first few days melt together, and I’m thankful for the therapy that I have done. My iceberg—you know, the one I’ve crushed on—kept me safe and allowed me to get to where I am today. She is now resting away.

That Monday I sat at my dining table and asked myself how I, as a disabled woman, would be able to navigate what was ahead. I found out later from someone who is now on the periphery of my life that I had been expected to fold up, board a flight, and move back to the US. I’m an eight on the Enneagram, and eights don’t run from stuff—even if it takes us decades to come out. We must ultimately face it: all of it.

Over the past ten years, I believe I’ve done a really good job of dealing with stuff.

While doing the hard work of recovering from the loss of Jon, I realized that yes, I still miss him at times, and I don’t miss him. As I read through old posts, the things I learned in that real time resurface like old friends reminding me that they still are present in my life. I honor my grief wisdom. I reflect on the Serenity Prayer and the wisdom it offers to all of us. There are things we can change, and things that we need to let be. We can’t change our feelings: we can do the work of acceptance, and that in turn might alter some of the feelings.

I think back to the night of the suicide, and how my friends took me in that night. They offered hospitality in an unexpected manner, and it came with a prayer that turned out to be helpful—well, what I remember of it.

I look at more posts and come across the one about fluffy towels, and I remember the joy. I still feel joy using them. The freedom of not having to deal with the crazy part of things with Jon is a good thing. There are no longer feelings of guilt or compassion fatigue. It is true that the quality of the tears changes in the process, and the first two years of crying jags were awful. And then, the tears changed. I’m a believer in this process. If a person allows the process to unfold naturally, the body and mind will make space for a gentle change. One day you wake up, and you notice that things are different. It’s kind of mind-blowingly wonderful. I can’t tell you exactly when it happened, just that it did, and it was sometime late in my second or early third year.

One huge happening in all of this is that I lost a village and discovered a new one. This village is filled with those that face life courageously and call me out when I need to be called out! They are friends who speak a new and better language than the one I once spoke so well.

I’ve often returned to the metaphor of crossing Styx. It wasn’t something that I read about in a book. Styx is that place we go in grief and loss to do some of the deepest work we must do to discover the new life.

The discovery I’m making on this new soul journey is that I will always revisit things I’ve learned in new ways. I used to joke with Jon about him having the “aha” moment after I’d said it ten times. The truth is that we often need to hear it many different ways until one of those ways sinks in and we sit up and take notice. The human mind is both amazing and goofy. If we can allow our minds to teach us, they will do just that. Once again, we’ll think we’re having a watershed moment when it is just our brains noticing things in a new way.

I started this blog years ago, and the title for the blog came about because of my husband’s psychiatrist. During a session he stopped Jon from talking and listened as I expressed some feelings that needed to be put out there. At the end of the session, I thanked him, and his response was: “You needed to be heard.” I knew I had the title for this blog.

The grieving need to be heard until they don’t need to be heard. We talk about our loss until we come to a point in time when the storms calm, the winds stop raging in our minds, and we can once again stand tall and breathe in the fresh air of life on the new shore and take our first secure steps forward.

Reflections, Part 7

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Musings and Insights, The Suicide and its Aftermath

The Deconstruction of a Marriage

Somewhere in my reading on grief, I read that in order to do honor to myself and to the relationship, I needed to deconstruct it before I could even consider moving forward and on to another relationship. This made complete sense to me.

Jon’s suicide came out of nowhere, even though I understood suicide to be a reality of being married to someone who had a diagnosis of bipolar 1.

With twenty-two years behind me, I’d been through it, raged over it in a raw form, wound up in my rose room, and found unstable peace.

Ultimately, if I was to do the honest work of moving forward, I had to take my marriage apart. I was about to make the mistake that so many people make: not fully examining the relationship before moving forward. How does someone look under the hood in this situation? You start with the facts that you know about, and then, as those facts are either confirmed of disconfirmed, you move forward with new information. You are boring through the mountain again, but this time the rock of the mountain isn’t placed on the conveyor belt and sent out to be used someplace else. This time you are examining it for content.

What I knew at the beginning was that, overall, we were friends first, and I had married a friend who would engage me in conversations that could go well into the early hours of the morning. Jon preferred sour candy, and I thrived on the sweet stuff of life. We were both adventurous and would try things, either doing them again or deciding against a repeat. He loved his pumpkin pie, and for me it was lemon meringue. It was pie, and we’d have pie instead of cake on birthdays, and it was a good thing.

I understood that he tried to cope with the bipolar as best he could and struggled with doing so in a dignified manner. I knew I was committed to caring for him as best I could, and that meant clearing the house of objects that could be used as weapons on the self. This was hard, and scary, and went along with some sleepless nights. I developed compassion fatigue. I don’t think you can understand how bad it is inside until you’re on the outside of the situation. I recall telling my mother before her death what it was really like. She asked why I hadn’t told her, and I replied that all you would have wanted me to do was to get out. I didn’t like the volatility that bipolar can bring, and yet, I knew leaving would need to be carefully orchestrated. I had sat with this thought and decision for some time. I had considered divorcing him that summer, but I made the choice to stay for the time being. I didn’t know his mind was moving towards a psychotic break that would decide things for him. He’d told me he would not endure that place again.

I came to understand that, while the marriage was not about his bipolar disorder, the mood swings, with their verbal abuse, were a part of the marriage.

In 2010 I made the decision to call him out on the anger and aggression he was showing towards me. Once he could hear it, he was able to work on it and commit to not behaving in that way anymore, and he didn’t go there again. When he began the DBT (dialectical behavior therapy) process, which includes acceptance for one’s actions, things began to level out in new ways.

What was my part in the marriage? As mentioned previously in the piece on exiting the Mormon Church, I was battling some demons of my own.

I needed to understand how everything I was dealing with affected the marriage. Being raised to be a good Mormon girl and woman had a great deal to do with a lot of who I was in the marriage. How did I enter into this relationship?

There was a great deal of suppression involved in the process.

In the first grade, it was the girl who had the pretty white and pink dress and the jump rope. She wore cute little Mary Jane shoes. I didn’t have Mary Janes, and I wanted some. They were so feminine. I thought it was normal to think that way. As an adolescent I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about boys. I glossed over it and, in doing so, sent it away to not be thought of for years.

Because of my disability and experience at church, I had written off the possibility of marriage.

I met Jon when he came to do a house call on my computer. A friendship developed, and after four years we married.

Being raised Mormon meant that I was supposed to grow up and marry a nice Mormon man. I’d hit the jackpot! I’d married a brilliant man who could have powered the world on a paper clip. It was his out-of-the-box thinking that I loved most about Jon, and he liked that I could go to that place as well.

Still, there was this thing hanging around, and it wasn’t spoken about, and I couldn’t utter the words while he was alive. I don’t get men. I’m supposed to understand men, and I’m supposed to feel attracted to them. I don’t. After his death, the guilt that I felt slowly surfaced. It took several years and didn’t surface in its full ugly form until I’d left the Mormon Church and moved on.

I felt guilty for marrying him, guilty for the sex that really didn’t work well. While thinking all of this, I was also well aware that this was not a one-sided issue. Bipolar disorders affect relationships, and in deconstructing all of this, I came to understand that I was a participant, and there was no blame to be had: just understanding. Blame and guilt are so often miscued in relationships. Looking at this with my own therapist caused me to rethink my thoughts and feelings around having married Jon. In safety, I could admit, actually, that there was no way around this: I like women.

Reflections, Part 6

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Discharging Trauma, Soul Peace and Journeys, The Suicide and its Aftermath

Read Part 5 here.

The Dissection

Giving that outfit I wore on the day of Jon’s death a send-off was hard, and it opened the door to other life changes. Like the outfit, I gave other changes time and sat with each one over a period of time. The first major life change was my exit from the Mormon Church. It had been brewing for years, and when I finally did leave, I left peacefully. No regrets or looking back: only looking forward now.

The spiritual direction program I became involved in was about my soul journey and being led to a new place in my life. That happened four years after I became a widow and took a full two years to complete. It opened up a new way of framing spirituality in my life. It taught me that “fixing” a perceived wrong in someone is not the only path to healing. Therapists fix; spiritual directors don’t, and whatever needs healing happens. Sometimes the healing comes from within, and spiritual direction facilitates changes in its own powerful way. Prior to 2016, I had not been aware of what power “direction” could hold. I had to be out from my former church for that to happen.

Covid-19 taught me about staying safe and challenged me to accept my own vulnerability. While we as a world sat isolated in our homes, we each came to grips in our own way that this thing could kill us. When I was told by a doctor to not risk going out, I listened, and that choice was a no-brainer for me. It also made me realize that this was one thing I was glad that Jon wasn’t around for. He’d have been unreasonably scared. Part of his bipolar pathology revolved around outside threats. We were all scared of something we couldn’t see, and watching friends and family get sick and die was hard. Knowing it could kill us was worse in many ways. And so, in 2023, when the doctors told me to not travel anywhere where I couldn’t get to a hospital fast, I listened, and I cancelled a planned trip. Four years into the process (2020), I listened because I was learning to make choices that kept me safe. This would serve me well when, in 2023, I listened to a friend, and then to myself. It saved my life—twice.

Walking this new path enabled me to admit to myself that it was time to do the personal therapy I needed to take on. I needed to stop stuffing it in and jettisoning the entire trauma. My captive iceberg needed to be freed.

Looking back on all of it now, I see the chain of events that led up to where I am now.

The freedom of exploring my life after I left Mormondom also allowed me to look at who I am as a woman. As women in the Mormon Church, we have a narrow field of options: sister, daughter, wife, and mother. Being raised in the 1960s and 1970s, the options in adult life were wife and mother.

I knew early on that marriage was not in the plans for me. I understood that I needed to follow a professional path. The problem in the Mormon Church is that you are taught from an early age to trust fifteen old white men. You are at their mercy, and if they are super conservative in their thinking, your options get quelled. In the 1960s and 1970s, women started finding jobs out of the home, and the war within raged as it did with me in the 2000s when I was married. With a prophet in the 1970s telling women to stay home, and a prophet in the 1980s telling women to leave jobs and to go back into the home, women were pulled and torn between what was best for them on a personal level and what church leadership was saying they should do.

I made the choice while in the Mormon Church to pursue my professional goals, and to work as a therapist. This was a personal choice, and one that only I could make. Like other women of my generation, I made the choice that would enable me to pursue the goal I’d set at sixteen: becoming a therapist.

When I married in 1998, the war waged on in my mind. Wife vs. wanting and needing to do what I loved doing: working in my profession. The good Mormon wife stayed home. We didn’t have children, and we’d never have children. I was torn between guilt and what I knew my personal truth to be. Whether it was volunteer work in the early 2000s, or paid work later on, I chose to work.

Once I left the Mormon Church, it all opened up! I didn’t have to play a role. I could enter into life not having to ask if I should walk a path that would allow me to be seen as Gail the woman, and not the wife, the woman who was not a mother, the woman who loves her profession, the woman who is even free to explore her sexuality—no matter who she is. This was just as liberating as the day in September of 2016 when I walked into the hair salon and announced that I wanted to go grey. Oh my, the women celebrated my newfound freedom from the bottle. That journey took six months and has been something I’ve enjoyed. Yes, Jon, I will never bottle my hair again.

And so, like the grey hair, I settled in to enjoying the real Gail.

I stand in my petiteness, and I claim myself as I am. I understand that who I am is mine alone to claim. I honor the process of releasing the trauma of my life—all of it had to go. I sit here and recall the mail I got right before the therapy session. My therapist sent it to me. It was the story of an iceberg. I crushed on the iceberg. “She” gave me courage. With her in my thoughts and at my side, I tore into the trauma, and I set it free. I owe my happy iceberg a huge thank you. I owe myself a thank you. Where will this journey head to next?

Reflections, Part 5

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in The Suicide and its Aftermath

What I Wore

If there is one thing my sister Beth and I agreed on, it was that Joyce got all the cute clothes. We took the issue to my mother when we were adults, and her response was that Joyce had the personality for cute and bold, and we were pretty and feminine with our clothes types, and so, while Beth could sew and make herself originals, I got pretty from my mother.

To be fair to my mother, she was right. Joyce got the doggie dress that Beth and I wouldn’t have known what to do with. Joyce, on the other hand, would react when someone said that her doggie dress was cute, and then she’d extend the dress to its fullness that revealed a wiener dog. She took delight in the surprise. No, her two older sisters would have failed miserably with that task. Mom just got clothes, and she understood that her two oldest daughters didn’t have the personalities for what Joyce could pull off.  

My mother’s side of the family was filled with women who could sew for themselves, and they all sat at machines and sewed their clothes. But cousin Gwen said it best: “Your mother sews circles around all of us.” She did. While my aunt could create tiny things with personality, my mother created what I came to call dresses with personality, or “dressenality.” She sewed lasting creations that would get stored in memory. I knew when I got it and when I first wore it, and it became hard to grow out of clothes. Well, that’s one good thing about adulthood. Unless I grow, I can wear it for… forever.

A trip to the fabric store was all about the right pattern and the right fabric to go with the wonderful new dress. It worked like this: first look at all the pattern books, find what I wanted, and then, and only then, could I move to the fabric. Rows, and rows of wonderful fabric. If I wanted stripes or pleats in the dress, the dress requirements were much different. Florals? Would it look right? Mom always understood. Sometimes I’d buy fabric and wait for the right dress or top to show itself.  

In first grade, it was the fall colors of the flowers, and the yellow trim, the pleated skirt, and the joy that dress brought me. It was mine, and I loved wearing it. When I was seven, Beth wanted to make the dress. Mom let her. It was a purple twirly dress with long sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. It also had a sash that tied into an incredible bow. I wore it for a “daddy–daughter” night. I also wore it for my school picture that year. Growing out of the purple dress was a sad thing.

As a teen it was the pantsuit. Dark pink pants, a seersucker top that was multicolored, and white slingback shoes that I purchased while working for my father. Working meant I could buy clothes, and I did buy fabric. Why wear what others might be wearing?

When I wasn’t living at home, I’d buy clothes from specialty shops that catered to petite-sized women. They were nice, and I had my sentimental favorite. But, once again, it was what my mother would create for me that made me happy. It was the gift of a skirt and top. The print was on this electric blue background, and the flowers were rich reds, greens, yellows, and purples. The neckline was scalloped, and I had a red belt to dress it up. It was Jon’s favorite. When we moved to Germany, and then to The Netherlands, I thought the sewing would stop. It didn’t. On a home visit, I went shopping at Vivian’s Fabrics. She had to clean out and send it all off to loving homes. Her grandchildren were the recipients of much of the stash. So was I. The last vestiges of my mother: a blue dress that is pure style. I love it. Hopefully, I’ll have it forever. I wear it on special occasions.

With all the happy memories of clothes, how I got them, and where I wore them, I had to tell myself that the one that hurt I could part with.

August 28, 2016. It was the day that turned out to be the worst day of my life. What I wore is burned into my memory. After I showered, I chose to put on a skirt with a black, brown, and white print, and a light tan tank top. Because of the minor stroke I’d had in 2014, there we days when wearing anything with a sleeve wasn’t possible. This was one of those days. It was hot and humid outside.

I wore this as I walked down the stairs to have the final conversation with Jon. I wore this as I binged on Law and Order, and I wore this on that fateful walk into my kitchen—the place I never made it to. I greeted the police in this outfit. I wore it to phone the two sides of the family.

The memory of what I wore on this awful day was pounding in my mind. I was already dealing with trauma: this was the cherry on top. An outfit of a skirt and top had been put into the trauma caldron. NO, not clothes. Gail’s rule number one about clothes is that they are sacred and can’t be damaged. This skirt and top had become tainted.

I tried to wear them separately and together, and even though I wanted to keep them, I finally knew that I’d have to send them off to a home where they could be loved.

When I think back on this series of events now, I realize that it is more complex than just parting with clothes. This is about how we handle parting with something, and also recognizing that there is damage to our souls, and coming to terms with setting it free. This is about doing the deep grief work that is often overlooked in the process of getting to the new place. This is the place where new outcomes and life paths become real.

Jon and I were together for twenty-two years and married for eighteen of them. When you’re with someone that long, it is vital to sort it all out.

At the beginning of the process, all I thought about was that I would never marry again. It just hurt to think about doing that or being in another marriage. By about year three or four, I realized that I needed to take the relationship apart to examine it with no restrictions on what I would not look at. I remember being here at my desk and seeing the sun hit the window on the other side of the street. I started to think that if I didn’t take it all apart, I wouldn’t be able to move forward in a healthy way. Like the skirt outfit and dress that had to go (I sent the pretty dress I wore to his cremation to the secondhand place as well), I needed to be honest about my marriage. I needed to give it a real look under the microscope.

The first big thing I had to come to terms with was that I was dealing with compassion fatigue. While I understood this earlier in the process, I had not allowed myself to step back, pull it out, and dissect it for what it was: trauma. If I ever got to a point in time where I’d want to explore something new, this was a biggie on the road to figuring out a part of my marriage that I needed to see clearly.

The fact of the matter is that many grief journeys omit this step. This isn’t about speaking ill of the dead—though some of that might need to happen. It is about giving the relationship an honest critique, and understanding what made it good, and where the bad points were.

Breakups happen in marriages and long-term friendships. We’d be wise to look under the hood to see where we went right and where we went wrong. In most situations there are always two sides. Being able to look at something and accept the responsibility for our part of the “wrong” is difficult and painful. It is brutal work that needs to happen, and the payoff is worth the pain we go through to get there. This work is not for wimps. Ultimately, when we get through the hard stuff, it brings clarity to everything. Examination also means that we won’t leap into another relationship before we’ve done whatever work we need to do on ourselves to fix what we can.

I think that many people confuse grieving with crying many tears and being ready to move on. NO, the tears and the mess are only a part of the process.

What if the grief process is also a call for a life redo? What if the life we build after a death or loss of a partnership is one that takes us on a new path? What if we’re on a life journey, and this is just one significant stop in the process?

Reflections, Part 4

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in The Suicide and its Aftermath

Note: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is also known as the Mormon Church. Therefore, I’ll use the name Mormon in this post. For definitions of terms included in bold type throughout this post, please see the Definitions section at the bottom.

In 2008, I knew I needed to listen to what Jon was learning about the Mormon Church (please read my previous post here), and so, my own journey down the rabbit hole began.

Ultimately, I began to realize that it wasn’t what I’d been taught that bothered me as much as what the church represented, and how people were treated by each other. Could I remain in an unsafe place? At this point in time, Jon wanted to quit church over academic issues. I wasn’t ready to quit yet. The struggle for me was values.

People of different races, LGBTQ people, the mentally ill, and the disabled were not treated well. Women weren’t treated well. It was a Jesus thing with me. Jesus the street preacher would not only be present—he’d be calling it all out. I’m big on calling it out. Jesus would be ministering to the people on the margins and expect that others would do the same. Where were the ministers? They were in the main crowd. I found myself thinking about how exclusive Mormonism was, and that Jesus wasn’t running a country club for the exclusive use of some. Church is a place for all who want to be present, and for those who need to be welcomed in as they are. This is when what I’d been taught really hit me: Mormonism was not the exclusive club I should live in. Jon had told me I had a privileged Mormon upbringing, and he was right. Despite the mistreatment, I had access to people most Mormons don’t have access to. My father had been one of them. OUCH.

With Jon’s suicide in 2016, I stayed put and didn’t make any major life decisions. Going to the US in 2017 would send me down a new path. I had not thought about leaving my faith of birth, and I wouldn’t for several more months. Sunstone altered my thinking. Sunstone US is the grandmother of all things that people of the restoration faiths can gather at, and several faiths come together there. Mormons, former polygamists, and Community of Christ all gather under one roof for a long weekend of exchange. I went to see friends and made some new ones. I returned home, and the events of the conference kept nagging at me in my petite mind. I had attended two sessions that touched me deeply, and one of them was being put on by Community of Christ. Finally, I wrote a letter to someone who belonged to another church. I told her, “I don’t normally do this, but I need to write this.” 

I started attending an online group for those in Europe, and I liked what I was hearing and learning. And no, don’t ask me to join your church or do anything like it. They didn’t ask me anything; they let me sit and explore to my heart’s content. Slowly, I wanted some involvement, and they were glad to have me participate.

In March of 2018, while sitting on my pretty blue bed, I realized that I’d have to leave the Mormon faith. I sobbed. It wasn’t all bad, was it? I’d learned the value of service, and that sometimes we’re stretched to do things, and doing so can causes us to grow in ways that we wouldn’t grow otherwise. I’d also learned the basics of public speaking as a very young child. I’d gotten to sing in the choir and enjoyed it. It was the culture that tore me apart, the good stuff and the negative all bundled up together, and I had to leave it behind.

What about my eternal marriage to Jon? As I thought this, the words came into my mind: “I have your back on this.” The words were clear, and I understood it was OK to leave for a new something. It still took me six months to make the move. In September of 2018, I was rebaptized as an adult, and then confirmed into my new faith. I flew home that Sunday evening and got online and resigned my Mormon membership.

At the time of the exit, I thought I understood why I needed to make the move out of the Mormon Church. Like so much in our grief and life journeys, we never see it all until we’re on the river and navigating something new, and then we turn around and gasp a “WOW! Did I really do all of that?” The answer is always a resounding yes. I’m still in the gasping place. It is a good place to be.

In 2026, I think back to the woman who sat at her dining table, who didn’t know how she’d do one year, let alone ten years.

Doing an exit from the Mormon Church was one very unexpected twist in my grief journey. I’m thankful for what I’ve learned, and thankful for how I’ve changed and grown over time.

The great thing about life is that it greets you with the unexpected, and that it teaches us, and molds us in new ways. The discoveries are the best, and the thrills are around all the corners. It’s just that sometimes we don’t fully appreciate the surprise until we’ve gotten through the hell that it takes to get to the wonderful center. Oh, and I do love my creamy centers.

I’m glad I said yes to this change. I’ve expanded in ways that have filled my life in new ways.

Definitions:

Mission: Women serve eighteen months and men serve two years, at the missionary’s expense. Missionaries are sent out to convert others to the faith. Presently, both women and men can go at age eighteen.

Leave: You can’t just leave the Mormon Church. You need to resign by writing a formal letter to Salt Lake City to have your name taken out of the Church database.

Marriage: The Church doctrine on marriage espouses the belief that a man and a woman can be married in this life and the next life. A marriage done in a Mormon temple is done for time and eternity. To leave the Church means you are no longer “sealed” together, and the bond is broken.

Baptism: Mormons baptize children at age eight. Children are not equipped to understand the commitment they are making at eight. Community of Christ offers the option of a redo, to show commitment to Jesus. It is not a requirement for membership but can be a step towards it. I had a redo as an adult and was then confirmed into Community of Christ.

Reflections, Part 3

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Living With Disability

Note: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is also known as the Mormon Church. Therefore, I’ll use the name Mormon in this post. For definitions of terms included in bold type throughout this post, please see the Definitions section at the bottom.

I’m nine years old, and I’m sitting in the middle of the chapel at the Irvington building in Fremont, California. I’m a Mormon girl with low vision and hearing loss. It’s a Wednesday afternoon in 1968, and the chorister is teaching the senior primary children a song about the earth, and how Heavenly Father created it for us, and there is all this nature being described in the song. All I can think of is, I’m not like the rest of the kids in this room. I don’t see and hear like they do. I think a seed got planted that day: my exit. For me, this was not an odd way for what played out in my Mormon membership to begin. It was such a simple and subtle act.

How, at the age of nine, might this have happened? Mormon doctrine on the disabled is, I think, something the church—like with race and the priesthood—would rather forget and bury deep. The problem with this is that once you see it, you can’t unsee it. It hits you in the face like a bold neon sign that reads: “It’s OK to hate these people.” Here is where you can focus your anger and hate, and here is where you are allowed to create the most vicious of theodicies: they got what they deserved for being fence-sitters in the previous life. If race doesn’t get you, being born with a disability will. In many ways I had to come to the second half of life (see Falling Upwards by Richard Rohr) rather early. I understood at age nine that something was terribly wrong: I didn’t have the words for it at the time, and yet I knew. It felt like the unscratchable itch. So it goes with those of us on the margins within the Mormon Church. We are placed in a situation where we must think through some essential life stuff before we should have to be thinking in second-half-of-life terms. It forces us to come to a mature world view earlier than normal. We have to sort out our values and thoughts, and then come to an understanding of how life works.

When I was between ten and eleven years of age, I was told by three girls who claimed to be friends that they were no longer going to be friends. I saw it for what it was: bullying, and wrong in the sight of God. That day, after our primary class, they got told by me that I understood it for what it was: wrong. I left the church building in tears and walked to the car where my mother waited. The damage they inflicted was done even before they began to inflict the large-scale damage that would happen until I was eighteen. BUT, it was OK because I was who I was: disabled, despite my father serving as the stake president at the time.

My adolescence was spent in loneliness, as any time I tried to make a friend, these girls made sure it didn’t happen. They carried their actions into the schools we all attended. Eventually, I reached a compromise with my parents around church: Sunday was mandatory, and nothing else was required.

Yes, the parents of the girls knew. One family condoned it, the second must have ignored it, and the third, well, when the parents of that girl met with my father, they spent too much time apologizing to my father. They said they couldn’t change her thinking. It didn’t matter; I knew how people felt about me. Very few adults took the time to get to know me. The person who did became a friend for life. 

The damage this did to me socially was that during the years I should have been developing peer relationships, they were non-existent. I thought leaving town would help—it didn’t. It made it worse.

At what is now known as BYU Idaho, certain things are required. Church attendance is mandatory. By my second year studying there out of state, I was overlooked for church participation. When I asked our bishop why I hadn’t been given anything to do, or what Mormons term a calling, he replied: “Nobody asked for you.” I moved that next semester and kept quiet with study and a service sorority, sleeping most of the weekend. By the time I graduated with an Associate of Arts in General Education, I was depressed, twenty pounds heavier, and miserable. I needed the sunny place of California once again. While Idaho created environmental depression, getting back to California and home didn’t help much. It would take a huge change to fix the depression.

Church wasn’t working for me even though I tried. I really tried to be a good Mormon. I wasn’t happy in my life. When you’re raised Mormon, that is all you know. It’s a high-demand religion. Back in the 1970s and 1980s, Mormon was thought of as weird. And I didn’t know enough to explain it to the therapist.

The problem with being an adult woman in the Mormon Church is that you’re supposed to get married and start having babies. This is the entrance ticket to being viewed as a real adult woman. And full admission happens when you pop out a child. I know, it is strange. And all this is traditionally done as early as eighteen, and well before twenty-five.

Moving into my twenties and seeing family and others marry, I knew that marriage wasn’t in the cards. Not being wanted for service told me a great deal. Not being considered dating material also could be seen as “not good breeding stock.” This is a view accepted by many in society. However, disabled doesn’t mean defective. I knew it at the age of sixteen and had it confirmed to me as I moved into full adulthood.

I did serve a Mormon mission, returned, and found employment in Provo, Utah. I didn’t last a full year in Provo. I went back to California, and on to grad school for a master’s in clinical psychology. I knew from a young age that I needed to work, as I wouldn’t be baking bread and popping out kids. I’d wanted to pursue a degree in clinical psychology in my teens. I was drawn to the work of doing therapy.

After graduating, I met Jon, and we married five years later. In January of 1999, he made the official move to Germany, and I followed in February of that same year. We settled into church and life in Europe. The Germans in Bavaria are surrounded by lovely mountains, and we lived in them. Jon set up a little website that we called An alp of our own, and we maintained the site while we lived there. I loved the stars and the night sky. It was, as one church member said, “Heidi country.”

We moved to The Netherlands in April of 2000 and settled in the eastern part of the country. Good-bye, stars—and hello, flat land. It was six years later that things began to change for us churchwise.

All this time, little seeds were dropping in my life. It was time to realize that things were changing.

Jon began reading and learning about what we’d been taught our entire lives, discovering that what we were told was wrong. He struggled with what had been withheld. I put off listening at first, until I heard another woman say that to support the marriage, she needed to stand by her husband and understand what he was saying. That comment made me think about how not learning could hurt our relationship. There is no harm in learning what one’s partner is learning. In 2008, I knew I needed to listen to what Jon was learning, and so, my own journey began while talking with him and doing laundry up on the top floor of our home. I remember looking out the window and hearing him talk. I realized the truth of the words made me more sad then angry. Down the dark rabbit hole on the slippery slide I went.

Next week, I will explore what I found inside that rabbit hole.

Definitions:

Primary: The Mormon organization for children, split into junior (ages three to seven) and senior (ages eight to eleven).

Mormon doctrine: Mormons believe that we came from a previous life known as the pre-existence, where we had to choose to follow Jesus or Satan. Whites were valiant and born white; blacks were fence-sitters and did not take a side readily but were allowed to come to earth and get a cursed body. This doctrine changed in 1978. The disabled were lower than the blacks and begged for a body—even a disabled one—so that they could get to earth. The exception to this is Down’s syndrome children: they were the spirits that kicked Satan out of heaven, and so to protect them, God made them Down’s children.

Fence-sitters: See the above note on Mormon doctrine.

Stake president: Comparable to a diocese, a stake consists of eight or more congregations called wards. The stake president presides over all the wards in his stake.

Calling: An assignment of service that is given to adult members. You can serve anywhere in a ward or stake to help the organization run smoothly.

Environmental depression: This was discovered in 2010. It wasn’t dealt with as such before then.

Reflections, Part 2

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in The Suicide and its Aftermath

Read Part 1 here.

The Healing Journey

In July of 2023, I got sick. I wound up in the emergency room of the local hospital, and my kidneys were shutting down. They were at twenty percent function. I was disoriented, scared, and really not understanding how bad it was. At one point in the process leading up to my hospitalization, I became so confused that I couldn’t figure out how to get out of the bed. I couldn’t even think to turn the light on. That is sick, and that is scary. I found out after things settled that this is common for people facing this type of shutdown. Back to the narrative. A friend finally convinced me to call the doctor, who came and had me admitted, and by then it wasn’t good at all.

I was in the hospital for a week, and then a taxi took me home. I was disoriented coming out of the place because the hospital I was in was new, and I hadn’t seen it before. With low vision, this is a real issue.

I walked into my house, sat down my bag, walked to the sofa, and let out the tears. I sobbed, and then listened as my body and mind told me it was time to heal. It was time to do the work that led to healing all of it. All the trauma I’d stuffed. I had some therapy of my own to do, and it was time to find the therapist who would travel with me as I called the people to the encampment of the battleground. Funny how it works. It took another ten months to get to May of 2024, and to begin the intense work of cleaning out my mind and moving forward.

The healing process is an interesting thing. I’ve seen people who come to me and aren’t ready to do the work, and so they run away rather than to what can help. Others believe that grief and loss can be worked through in six easy sessions, and that there is a magic formula that the therapist can dispense. The fact is that this is a soul journey. It is a journey of the mind, the heart, and the spirit, if you will. It leads us to someplace else, and that someplace is the place of wonder and, ultimately, healing, such as it is.

On August 29, 2016, I sat at my dining table and looked at the lights that had been installed so that I would be able to see in my home. I wondered just how I, a woman with low vision, would be able to survive in a country where my limited Dutch would only get me so far. The only thing I knew at that time was that I couldn’t and shouldn’t make any major life decisions for a year. That is something my father had told me, and it was wise counsel.

And so, the journey of healing and discovery began that day, and in many ways it will never end. We may work through our grief and loss: we’re changed by it all.

The social system here set me up with someone to clean the house. At first, my then church came with meals until I realized I needed to cook for myself. If I needed to not work because I was compromised, I needed to do something for myself. I needed to let the process of grieving take place.

On Friday the thirteenth of January 2017, my mother died of a heart attack. We’d giggled, grown together, and experienced the death of my younger sister Joyce together. My mother was also an eight on the Enneagram. We understood this shared experience in life, and she taught me things despite not knowing about her beloved number. She just did life well in many ways. Because of where I was in the process of grieving Jon, I didn’t see and get fully the fact that my siblings telling me not to fly over for the memorial service was really bad advice. I’ve regretted that, and would do that one differently if I could.

By June of 2017, I felt ready to plan a trip to the US to see family and a friend. What I didn’t know then was that the trip would change the course of my life.

In late July of 2017, I flew to Salt Lake City to see some friends of Jon’s and attend a conference called Sunstone. At the conference I ran into people who were not Mormon, and it flipped a switch. I felt, and knew, that I had to check this other church out.

I then went to Oregon to visit another friend, and travelled on to California to see my family and visit the beach.

Staying at my brother’s place first and then moving on to my sister’s place was interesting. At the time I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see both of them alive.

We made some good memories, and my sister and sister-in-law insisted I take my mother’s green quilt home. Now, they know of my love affair with blue. That green quilt would cause me to do a total room makeover. I painted the room blue, purchased a new bed that was blue and that the quilt would fit on, and realized that I had the piece of my mother that loved green. It has turned out to be one of the things I enjoy seeing, and it serves as a link to her and the love she had for me.

That trip also created a memory of my sis that I could never have done without her help. She got me on the flight with five boxes for less than the price of five extra boxes. I stood there at the airline counter, shut my mouth, and watched in amazement as she talked to the guy. I know when to shut my mouth. So, that quilt and other things came with me to be with me here in my new life.

The trip to the US changed my ability to sleep. In that first year, everything sleepwise changed. I didn’t sleep at normal hours, and family would question me as I called in the wee hours of my Netherlands morning. “Gail, what are you doing?” Well, when I can’t sleep, I call you.

Planning for the anniversary of his death had taught me that if I thought about it in advance, I could maybe, just maybe, control the tears and what would happen. It worked well for year one and failed for year two. What I really learned was that with the body, what we’re grieving will push its way to the surface and force itself on us in ugly ways. The life lesson: let go and don’t try to control what needs to happen. Healthy grief lets grief drive the process so it can heal. Even if grief must be put off because of life that must be done, it will surface, and when it does, embrace it!

What I’ve learned about the first two years of loss are that the tears change in quality and quantity. Looking back eight years, I can see all of the journey better now. How different it was and now is. In letting it all go, I freed myself to trust the grief process in ways that opened my heart and mind to healing, and because of that, I was carried to where I am now. July of 2023 had to happen so that I could write this in July of 2026. I see that now, and that is one of the huge things this journey has gifted me with. Wow, what an amazing place I’ve gotten to!

Reflections, Part 1

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in The Suicide and its Aftermath

Note: This post contains details related to suicide.

This last Tuesday, I made a call to a friend and asked if he could drive up north and help me empty out the shed—the shed where Jon ended it. I wasn’t expecting him to come up as fast as he did. He said he could come Thursday morning. I was stunned.

I contacted him at eight, and he told me that he had been talking to a friend and mentioned what he was going to do for me. The friend asked if he could help! So, two nice guys came to call on me to clean out, or clean up, a space that has been nothing but dread for me. Not a bad gesture at all.

Then they offered to buy me lunch! This is radical hospitality on their part.

The last ten years have been spent avoiding the place where Jon ended it: the shed. The shed has been a place I unlock, enter quickly, and then lock up again. There is still a place where they couldn’t get the blood out of the concrete despite the deep cleaning they did. They removed what they had to and left the rest.

Several years ago this same friend came, and we sent things off to the trash. I wasn’t ready to do the final clean-out. That took me doing the work of discharging some loyal soldiers.

Mind-cleaning takes time, and it has taken me ten years to be able to deal with the fallout. Now, I was able to make the call to have the rest of it hauled off to a garbage grave.

These two guys told me to go back to the house, and they’d take care of it. When they needed me to get in the car and drive to the disposal site for the first round, they came and got me. It all takes me back to that August Sunday.

Jon came in and woke me up and told me he needed to talk to me. It had been a difficult weekend filled with our last night out on Friday, and a very lazy Saturday. My gut told me to pull back and to let him be. He was on the computer the entire day. I can’t recall what I did most of the day; I do recall that I was quiet.

We went to bed at a decent hour, and I was tired, so it felt good. Then he woke me up that morning to talk. What I didn’t know then was that this would be the pivotal conversation that would alter my life as I understood it.

We sat on the bed because he had this thing about talking to me and looking into the mirror. I didn’t understand it but I honored it.

Jon was enrolled in a DBT (Dialectical Behavioral Therapy) process. It is commonly used for those who are dealing with bipolar disorders and borderline personality disorder. DBT teaches some great life skill techniques, as well as advocating that the person receiving treatment take full responsibility for their life and actions within that life (see An Impossible Life for details on DBT and an amazing story of one woman’s journey). We sat on the bed and he asked me how long he thought it would take for him to complete the treatment. I hesitated just a second, and he then said, “You don’t know, and my doctors don’t know.” He’d been in treatment for two years at that point, and the psychologist was working with him, and being conservative. He got up and left the room.

What I discovered was that in that one second delay he’d made up his mind.

I got up and ate breakfast. It would be the only meal I ate that day. At 1:00 pm he came to where I was and said that he needed to talk to me. The conversation lasted less than five minutes, with him having his back to me. In that short time, he tore open my soul, announced that “this isn’t going to work,” and left the room. I followed him. I was angry and stunned as I watched him empty his pockets, and then announce that he was going on a walk.

At that moment I thought: That does it. I’m done. I’m getting a divorce. That was one step too far. I’d been a caregiver and was at that point in time suffering from compassion fatigue. I let him go, and I went and began to binge-watch old Law and Order episodes. As I watched, I was able to calm myself, bring myself to a logical place, and finally realize that it had been two hours, and he had not come back. I realized he could be very suicidal.

I called a friend to confirm the process for getting the police involved; he confirmed what I knew, and then called the 112 number to get the local neighborhood police to go looking so I could get him committed.

I now realized I felt hungry. It was going on 4:00 pm, and so I walked downstairs to head into the kitchen. I never made it into that space. On the table was a note. I can’t tell you how it all happened. I know I called my friend back, told him, grabbed the key to the shed, and I couldn’t open it. I went back inside, and not more than a minute or two later the police came to my door. I led them to the shed; they broke in, and they saw the body. They told me to go back to the house. I never saw the body in the shed.

Dutch police don’t put the yellow crime scene tape up. They did what they needed to do to remove the body from the shed and came into the house to talk to me. The mortician came and took him away. They put hard paper up to cover the broken glass, and that next morning it was all cleaned up.

Meanwhile, I’m in shock, having to call family on both sides, and my friend arrives to be with me. By now it is time to start calling the US. This will take several hours. It is now dark. I end the Skype calls, walk back downstairs, and get told: “You aren’t staying here alone tonight. I’m taking you to our house.” I complied. It was the first kind gesture in my experience that I’ll place in the “please do” thoughts. The last week, he came with another kind person to clean out the rest of the shed. It is done, and my reflection can continue in a new way.

The last ten years have been difficult, an education in new life lessons, and at times both horrifying and joyous. For the most part, I’m thankful for what I’ve learned. What have I learned?

Wow, everything on this blog!

I’ve learned that grief is not about stages. Grief has seasons, and we’ll loop through them many times. It isn’t about getting there, because there is no destination to arrive at. It isn’t that the tears stop: they change, and I’m sure I’m in for some as the fateful date approaches. Ten years. I hope it can be said that I’ve become a better person for living through it.

I think one of the biggest things I’ve learned is that grief is a teacher, and it shows us ourselves in new ways if we become open to letting it. We get a nice peek into ourselves at our worst, and our best. We get called out on the difficult stuff, and at the same time discover strengths that we never would have found if we had not gone down this path.

I’ve done horrible stormy nights and bright, sunny days, and both have taught me to stand up and be me.

I’ve grown in all ways: mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and maybe even physically.

Here I sit on this cool day, celebrating a post I knew would be written before the day it happened.

Would I do it over again? Would I marry Jon and end up a widow? I can’t say what I’d do, because once you go down a path, it changes who you become. I like where I am now. This becomes about learning from a mistake and learning to find the good in it all. And for me it has been a challenge. I can be hard on myself. OK, I’ve learned that I can really be overly critical of myself at times while telling others to cut themselves some slack. I’m working on it.

I think back to the days when I was so raw, and what that felt like, and how forward movement has happened. I think back to when I wrote “Navigation,” and how it blew my mind. I think right now I’ve cycled though some fancy boats, and maybe I’m in a small boat on a new stretch of river that I don’t fully understand now.

We get to new places and must face new lessons in new ways. My new lessons are about being able to learn the value of new relationships. For the first time in ten years, I’m thinking I might want to open up to such a thing. Considering the hurt I’d gone through ten years ago, this is remarkable.

We can’t put life on hold as we grieve. I think that is a good thing. What does happen is that we fall apart. We can’t concentrate or think straight, and sometimes we can’t even do simple tasks. Our dysfunction shows up in the fact that something is terribly wrong in our lives. If we were totally functional, that would be off, and we’re not OK, are we?

So, shed the tears. If you can’t do the trash, maybe a friend can do that for you. The laundry might get scary for a few loads, and the kitchen might need help. Your friends and family need to check to do the things you can’t.

No time limits: it just is, and it will move forward when you’ve done what you need to do to move forward on your own path.

All the above being mentioned, you are not alone, and if you need to find a serious support group or a great therapist, we’re here. Grief is serious, and there are times when you need to bring someone into your space to care for you.

I know asking for help can be difficult, and that it can feel as if a burden is being placed on someone. Real friends can and will step up to the plate on your behalf. There are also times when old friends don’t get it, and new and unexpected people come into your life to show that they care and understand what you need during this time in your life.

I’ve witnessed this in my own life, and it has been a true gift. Thank you for the giving, as it’s made the hard times seem worthwhile.

A Child’s Work Is About Play

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Everything Mental Health

When I was in grad school, I took several courses on child therapy. For younger kids, it was all about play. As I began to see children, I discovered that the kids didn’t really understand how to play.

This was in the mid 1990s, and it only got worse. Jonathan Haidt has gotten it correct. By the time the 2010s rolled around, the phone and the iPad were king. Where were children’s minds going?

Freud was right about dreaming being the royal road to our unconscious. It is how we process the stuff of that day, turn it over, and make sense of what might not make sense to us. Child therapists are correct about kids needing to work things out in free play. Play is the language of childhood, and it is understood by engaging in a free flight of thoughts. Kids don’t learn to think by being told what they need to know! Kids learn by doing, and by having parents who can honor the language of childhood: play. We’re coming back to this vital concept in 2026.

This is now happening in the schools, where tech is slowly being reframed and pulled out of spaces so that children learn to have a childhood, create, and do the work of childhood: play.

When I was seeing children in the San Francisco Bay Area, I was stunned by the lack of creative play. This was before the age of the phone. No, you can’t bring your pet rock into the session, but yes, I want to see you imagine, play school, and work out your struggles. And, as children played and allowed me to interact with them, they resolved the tricky issues of life. I’ll say it again: you can’t do it with a phone or tablet, and in 2026 we’re seeing the results. Depression and anxiety are on the rise. Kids aren’t able to cope with the basic things of life.

Playing away from the computer may also be a good prescription for adults. We discover things during our creative times that tend to open us up to new insights. The kids I saw in the 1990s are now adults and are struggling to work it all out—again. They’re turning to new methods. They’re discovering the adult versions of what needed to happen in childhood: prayer, meditation, and play.

Meditation and prayer can cause us to discover ourselves in new ways; play allows for us to create, to imagine, and to discover what is bothering us. Physical play allows us to explore our minds in different ways than engaging with someone else’s idea of our universe.

An example of this is George Lucas. Lucas has a fertile imagination. He imagined a planet with two suns; we saw it in Star Wars on the planet of Tatooine. Now, we know it exists in space. Imagination comes from developing our play skills. Play enables us to dream and to learn about ourselves in different ways than books allow us to do.

I’m an avid reader. I finish a book and face serious story withdrawal. While books allow my mind to create good things, play allows us to make it come to life. Adult coloring books are fun.

Play allows a child to explore building foundations of life, fixing the problem when the “stuck” moment arises. Play builds confidence that allows a child to see if they can fix something. Physical play allows for setting rules on our own terms, and we learn that no, we can’t defy the laws of nature—but maybe we can explore new ways of engaging with them.

Play is the basis of imagination and of thinking outside the box. Without play, would we have gone to the moon? Would we have all the things we have today if, throughout history, kids playing with other kids had never asked why something couldn’t be done, and then gone and done it?

Play challenges the child and the adult to challenge the norms and go outside of the box. Why not? For those who can color outside of the lines, it is an essential part of becoming a creative adult, and for those who need more of a structured existence, it can serve to teach us to understand our limitations and accept those that want to fly.

Play teaches children to make fair rules and to work things out for themselves.

Play is about finding solutions that are creative and respectful. It is about creating memories and stories that support growth. Play in the simpler days was about staying out until the streetlights came on and being with the kids in the neighborhood. It was about bonding and exploration. How do we get back to that and give kids a chance to explore?

A line in a piece of music from days gone by—“Bookends” by Simon and Garfunkel—keeps returning to my mind. While we must move forward, can we have this thought return for our children?

Time it was and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, A time of confidences

Maybe the welder and the scientist will join forces as children to pursue new memories. Maybe parents will learn that free, unstructured play is a great thing, and it keeps the mind young. Maybe in our brave new frontier, the geeky kid and the builder will learn to join creatively to spark imaginations. Where could play take us? To Saturn and beyond?

Where Is Our New Frontier?

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Everything Mental Health

I’m fighting a war in my head, and the war is about AI and its perils versus a slow, measured approach to progress that balances technology, science, and some of the basics that our society needs to address so that those who aren’t wanting to deal with tech in the workplace are held in high esteem. This is more on what I wrote earlier in June.

Just before I yell at my garden dude, he finally gets around to scheduling a crew for my sorry garden. I’ve been waiting since April. Now, he’s out on a holiday break while Europe is once again in the frying pan. The truth is, there is a shortage of men and women working in the trades, and while I’ve focused on AI for the last two weeks, I need to muse on how AI and soft skills are affecting the reality of finding tradespersons. 

In the 1960s and 1970s, the trades were still alive and doing well. A journeyman could earn a good living. If you had good skills, you could shelter, feed, and clothe yourself and a family. A plumber was paid well for fixing the crazy in your sink because you needed a functioning drain, and the plumber could keep it functional. When I was growing up, our plumber was a guy who was an anesthesiologist, and on the days he was not doing that, he worked with his hands fixing household sinks. He said he liked to “tinker.” He was good at it.

There were skilled workers who could weld, pound nails, and understand the mechanics of repair. Going into the trades was a good thing to do. Back then, high schools had a track system. The problem with that is that an A-track student who got stellar grades might have been better off working with their hands versus heading off to a university to work in a “profession.” The person in the C-track who is thought to be fit to do trade might be the genius who discovers new ways of envisioning space; an engineer may be happiest with plants instead of a computer. I think we got it wrong then. And maybe we’re still getting it wrong today.

When I put my garden in, I was able to find a gardener and have an ease-in scheduling service to maintain it. A year later when I wanted to run water outside, it became clear that finding someone would take some time. I was told there was a shortage of people to do what I needed. Now, the garden folk are busy as they can be with more work than they can handle. I’m told it’s like that in all the trades. It is the trades that keep society functioning!

When your sink needs to be fixed or you need to tune a piano, a geek can’t do that work. A tradesperson can. It’s a different skill, and it requires a different type of knowledge, and I’m concerned that it’s fading away. The people that would have considered a trade are being seduced by tech. You don’t start asking the question of who is out there doing skilled labor until you need skilled labor. It is only then that you find out the reality of the trades.

Why?

This is my own opinion: Society has shifted to a belief that skilled labor is for the less capable. I don’t believe this to be true at all. Someone who works with wood and uses a machine to create the right cut needs algebra and geometry in order to understand angles. This person visualizes things in a way that others may not. The craftsperson turns out works of practicality and beauty. I want that person boiling things! I don’t want them sitting at a desk or stuck indoors. The skilled builder sees a piece of wood differently than you might see its potential. They are intelligent in ways others are not. There was a time when it was valued in a different way.

Make a jump in time travel back with me to the days of the US frontier. It was the restless soul who left the cities to explore the wild. Somehow, civility was too much for someone who didn’t fit the mold or have the ability to have a skill set that allowed them to blend into proper society. Heading west was an option. The person heading west wasn’t the professional or the highly educated soul. Misfits laid the groundwork for new settlements. And with this movement came arrogance, intolerance, and a justification for genocide of the Native American.

What does any of this have to do with mental health? Everything.

Who we are as a person is a sum of those who came before us, raised us, and may have forced us to flee our past environments, embrace them, or challenge them. If we challenge and question things, we must turn inside. I believe that this is what is happening now, in our time. In the past, we acted and didn’t stop to think if what we were doing in moving things forward was good for ourselves, society, and our planet—we just made the move.

We’re on the cusp of a new leap into how we think, behave, and work. Are we thinking it through? Are we reworking society without fully understanding the why of it all?

As humans, we have a need to grow, survive, belong, and thrive. We can’t thrive in fullness without understanding the why and how of it all. And so, I look back several paragraphs to ask myself this: Are we pushing out the tradesperson because the few are dictating what this brave new world is or will look like? Will there be respect for the person who desires to not sit at a desk? Is there belonging for them? If so, where will it be, and will it be respected?

The issues for the worker who is a tradesperson/craftsperson at heart have changed. The person who needs to leave the mainstream work life for parts unknown to find something that works for them is looking different today than it looked fifty years ago. Where is our new frontier? Maybe the new is found in the old ways and recognizing that a person who wants to plant seeds is doing a good thing. Maybe a woman who can fix a bike or a washing machine and keep it going so that it is functional and doesn’t add to the massive landfill is healthy for our society. We need to be questioning our consumerism.

What if we slowed progress down just enough to ask questions, and to listen to our personal responses? This is what mental health is about. We need to expand awareness within and set personal boundaries that allow us to not be pushed too fast into changes we aren’t fully understanding. It’s about being prepared for the future before we allow the future to impact our lives.

While the engineer might design the pipeline, the builders have to overcome what is on paper. They need to design new tools and new ways of working with the science, and it is skilled tradespersons that will develop the new tools for a new job.

Here’s hoping that when the garden crew comes later this week, there will be a new kid on the crew: a young person who likes making gardens grow, and who wants to understand soil and what makes a garden attract the butterflies and the bees.

The AI Utopia, Part 2: Only a Human Can Live a Human Life

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Everything Mental Health

This is Part 2 in a series. Read Part 1 here.

While it is true that there are no barriers to accessing AI online, and finding answers is part of what psychotherapy is meant to do, therapy should also help you explore the relationship you create with another human. In today’s climate, this exploration is needed. We need to explore things with another person.

The fact is that social media and too much screen time are causing people to look at their phones and not other people. The ability to pick up on social cues is fading.

Too much screen time is causing depression, poor social skills, poor concentration, and the inability to learn some essential life skills.

A chatbot can’t really interact with you in this way. It takes another human!

A chatbot can’t read the room. A chatbot can be programmed to meet certain parameters, but you are the one setting this up, and are you really going to want to be fully challenged? What if you need to be challenged in a way you don’t recognize? Getting called out on your reality testing is a tricky thing. Physicians should never heal themselves. We need that objective human to push us in a better direction.

A chatbot can’t be completely erased. Once there is a history, it is out there—forever. Don’t forget the “Wayback Machine” and its ability to find stuff that has supposedly been removed from the annals of the internet. Do you want your life questions to be permanently stored in that way?

The more I think about all of this, the more the answers I get are no, no, and no.

The uses of AI for mental health are being discussed. AI as a research tool will be a helpful way of using this technology. Could AI help on the medical end of things? Yes. It would be wonderful to see a “cure” for schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, and depression. Relieving someone of severe anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorders would be life changing for so many in the human population. The research applications are wonderful to think about.

On the other hand, AI will not be able to sit with someone who is grieving or mourning a lost relationship. It can’t look a person in the eyes, witness the tears and the trauma, and offer comfort and reassurance that they are being understood. AI can “speak” the words: it fails in the human life-experience portion of things. AI can’t live a human life—only a human can.

As I write this, I’m taken back to another experience of grad school. In one of my courses, we were asked to create a utopian society where peace reigned and equality for everyone in the world existed, and oh, by the way, no Star Trek Next Generation models. Our group met, and we couldn’t do it. We may have come close in some ways, but the realization that we, as humans, were faced with diversity and the dilemma of how to give everyone a piece of the pie… Well, let’s just say it didn’t happen. I return to the question of who will live in this AI utopia that is being touted. 

Emotions are what cause us to be who we are. The ability to resolve conflict and work out differences is what creates successful outcomes in our lives.

We need diverse communities and everything that comes with them to challenge and cause us to think and move forward. An example of how this is not happening right now is when people are not allowing conflicting views to be expressed and banning them from the discussion. This creates an echo chamber. Progress will not occur in an echo chamber: stagnation is born in such places. I recently heard someone describe their version of a utopia, and as I was hearing them speak, I thought to myself: But do you understand how hard everyone would need to work to make this happen? Having grown up with “flower power,” and then seeing it fade away for something else, I’m aware of how the climate changed. I’m also hopeful that the lessons of that period of time can be worked with. I hold onto hope that we can do better.

I’m not hopeful that society is wise enough or ready for what AI presents. I’m willing to embrace the use of AI for assisting us with science and related areas of study. I’m not willing to turn my life over to AI in other ways.

I believe in humanity, and I want to see it thrive. Just like you, I want to see people heal, grow stronger, and build solid relationships that will support us as human beings. I also want to be realistic. I want to see greed wiped off the face of the planet. Doing that would be very helpful to humanity. It we could wipe out greed, we could wipe out poverty. If greed and poverty were wiped out, there would be no war. That would be a type of utopia many of us could live in.

Maybe if we turn AI loose on medical issues, world hunger, and have it do some serious thinking there, we can focus on enabling each of us to deal with relating to each other on a more functional level. First, we need to fully deal with the question of being able to create such tools and taking a hard look at the ethics surrounding their usage. Yes, I can. But should I? This needs to become the question we must ask ourselves.

If we were to slow ourselves down in this way, what types of changes might we open ourselves up to exploring? Yes, I can. Should I? Yes.

The AI Utopia, Part 1: Where Will Our Minds Carry Us?

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Everything Mental Health

I spent the weekend listening to podcasts about AI. It caused me to reflect on some thoughts that I had in the past about the wisdom of what we as humans can create—but should we be creating it? 

Have you ever watched the AI, Terminator, or Jurassic Park movies? Or, better still, did you read the Michael Crichton book Jurassic Park? That book broaches the question: Just because we can do something, should we do it? In this case they had the ability to possess prehistoric DNA from dinosaurs, but should they be brought to life? The book had a tragic ending. Crichton nailed it.

In the film AI, they have the ability to create a humanlike child, but can humans be trusted to respect the creation and not get out of control in using it? The scene where the scientists gather to discuss the issue challenges us to think about whether we’re really wise enough to create beyond ourselves.

The Terminator series of films, with all its action-packed sequences, poses the same question in deadly form: Can we really control what we create, and should we be creating such things? What if something we can’t control takes over? What would we need to do to get control of things back?

What does any of this have to do with me? What does any of this science fiction have to do with therapy? Everything. I’m human and, as such, limited in my functioning.

If human intelligence has the ability to create artificial intelligence, should we be doing it at the speedy rate it is being done? Why is consumerism driving AI? Have we really asked all the questions we need to ask about the risks and benefits of where we’re allowing ourselves to be taken in 2026? What if we continue to allow AI to do more and more for us? 

When I was younger, and even today, I struggle with the inconvenience of low vision. I can’t get out the way a sighted person can. I’m restricted to public transportation and safe sidewalks. There are a great many unsafe sidewalks out there. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a self-driving car that could drive me safely to where I needed to go? How would my life change if I could live anywhere and go anywhere, day or night? What would it be like to not have to depend on others for transportation? What would it be like to be able to have a life where I didn’t need to ask another person to help with something I can’t see? It would be wonderful, and in a tiny way a form of utopia. Would it be possible to live such a life? Maybe. BUT. Would I be able to deal with the outcome of it all, and what are the negatives?

There are many negatives, and the largest and most obvious one I need to ask, and we as a society need to strongly consider, is this: Is it wise to create something, and to give it the ability to roam free and surpass us humans in intelligence? This is no longer science fiction: this is present in 2026. Alexa, Siri, and chatbots (which I just used Google to check on the correct way to write it) are all a part of this. I don’t want to “chat” with a bot when I have a question that needs a human. I want to speak with a person that can help me solve the issue that is unique to my situation, and being disabled, no bot will be able to do that for me. And yet, companies want free labor, and so they use the chatbot.

This brings me to the point of thinking about how a living, breathing person can be replaced. There is dignity in working. There is dignity in providing a service or product that can be looked at as benefitting others. Getting up knowing that you can bring in a source of income is a good thing. While you can ask ChatGPT to tell you about the value of work, the AI will never be able to convey to you or create the feelings and emotions associated with having done a great job of something. Society needs to reinforce productive participation in meaningful existence, and also meaningful quality of life. Ultimately, it’s about a village.

The idea that AI will allow us to create a utopia is frightening. First off, who gets to live in this utopia? And, secondly, who is excluded? What happens when the dignity of work disappears because the new skill sets are not present in some people? Sure, it might be fun to do not much of anything for a few days, or even weeks, but what about when the novelty wears off? Where will our minds carry us?

When I was in graduate school we’d have discussions about managed health care, and many thought it would lead to more access to treatment for those with mental health issues. I argued that what it would really mean was short treatment for serious issues, unqualified employees making decisions about someone’s life, and lack of dignity in how records are kept. For the latter, you might argue that HIPAA solves the privacy issue. Once a treatment diagnosis is made, it remains on the record for the rest of someone’s life. It becomes a pre-existing condition. Using insurance to pay for psychotherapy, while useful, may not be the best life choice. There are two ways of getting help: one involves a DSM label, and the other does not. Insurance is going to require that the mental health practitioner provide an accurate diagnosis for what ails you. It goes into your file for life. The other version, and the one I use, is to keep pricing lower, and to work with people without a formal diagnosis. I might have an idea and will talk with my clients about it. I don’t need to put it into an institution’s database.

This brings me to chatbots. There is a trend to seek out psychotherapy via a chatbot. I will explore this topic next week in Part 2.

Meet Your Head

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Everything Mental Health

My first foray into psychotherapy happened when I was twenty years old, and three years after my sister’s death. I didn’t know which end was up. Young and naïve, I only knew that I needed to fix what was going on in my head. What was going on in my head was a depression that would take time to unravel and understand in its fullness.

My first therapist was just who—and what—I needed to help me start the process of looking into my head. No drugs: just a great deal of talking. While my mother and my paternal grandmother showed some signs of depression, it wasn’t severe enough to put them in bed or hospitalize them. They were just depressed at times. And so, I talked to the nice therapist, and slowly I began to get to a better place. I’d move on and do some less intense work around specific issues with other therapists. I’d do the therapy that the state of California required me to do for my license—but by then I knew the value of what insight-oriented therapy could deliver.

I’ve always been one to think and to hold self-improvement as a value in my life. Therapy is for looking under the hood and making sure it’s all working well. Therapy is about making changes that will make what is under the hood function better. Solving a crisis is not therapy. While a therapist can help you locate the right resources for the crisis, after the crisis is over is when you need to stay in the process and look at what the crisis taught you, and how you can learn to avoid other crisis situations. OR how to deal with similar situations in the future.

For example: if you’ve had two failed marriages and you’re the common denominator, the question becomes: Did I play a part in things, and how did things get to where they are now? The reader might ask about abuse. Abuse is a different post.

Psychotherapy is about knowing yourself in new and wonderful ways. It can be served up as a bowl of warm and flavorful soup that has loads of good things for you to enjoy. OK, it can also be hard emotional work. Hard emotional work is also good for us as we explore what is in our heads.

Over the past two years I’ve been in the process of discharging trauma. I’ve learned that trauma can be a difficult thing to sit with alone, and there are times when you, alone, must face the truths of trauma and its creation. The end result is that I can say I know myself better, and I am glad I’ve been on the soul journey. I went into this round of self-exploration because of two “I almost died” experiences in 2023. When you are alone in a hospital room, and you don’t find out until after the crisis just how bad it was, you start to re-evaluate things.

I’d been putting off the work that I knew needed to be done. I, like so many others who deal with trauma, stuffed it away and said to myself that I’ll do it when the time is right. News flash: it’s never the right time!

In my case it took too much of one medication to send my body into a place it really didn’t need to go, and once I got out of the hospital, I had the epiphany that maybe, just maybe, I should do the work on my head that I’d put off. And so, I took my own advice that I gave to others and researched into someone who I felt I could work with. I began to meet my head in new ways. I decided to exit the stuff-it club.

While a crisis caused me to head back to a therapist, I wasn’t in crisis. What I was in was a realization that I didn’t want to go on like I was going on. I told the therapist I wanted to not be seen as a therapist, and to allow them to make the clinical calls that needed to happen.

Psychotherapy isn’t about fixing: in most situations it’s about coming to an understanding of ourselves. My job as a therapist is to ask good questions that will make you think and cause you to search within yourself and grow. The part you play as a client is to show up with an agenda, to do homework if that is something you agree to, and to gain the insights you need so that you can move forward and, if needed, return for other reasons.

While it is true that some forms of therapy such as Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) can enable you to conquer a fear or phobia, and enable you to move on in life with that new skill, insight therapy is all about knowing yourself better.

Therapy might start due to a crisis and might continue on beyond that, because once out of the crisis, the discovery is made that “WOW, I could learn more about myself.” Getting inside your head is useful.

Way back when I got into therapy in the 1970s, it was all psychodynamic and process oriented, and I found something useful. Decades later, I’m finding that the art of asking useful questions and building a relationship based on respect and trust is what this thing called therapy is all about. In the process of the asking and the answering of questions, hopefully both of us, as therapist and client, will be meeting our heads in new and wonderful ways.

Doing it Better (Revisit)

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Life and Death

This post was originally published on April 29, 2022.

Take the “dys” out of the function. 

When I began doing the work I now do within the realm of the grief community, I began to notice how many families used the funeral/memorial service as a weapon against those they did not like or wanted to exclude.

While families can hide dysfunction during life, it seems to jump out at you after the death. The dysfunction takes on many forms ranging from dictating who can attend the service, attending and disrupting the service and showing disrespect for others, stealing items from a home, denying items to someone who requests them for sentimental reasons, requesting something for vengeful reasons, challenging what the dead person would have wanted, and even denying the live-in partner the right to access the body!

I understand that death is difficult and that emotions can run high. I understand that sometimes the most mature people present are the ones that are excluded in some way, shape, or form. Sometimes they choose to be the adult in the situation and withdraw a request, not attend a service that they want to be at, or construct a means to mourning the death that will bring them closure even though they’ve been barred from a funeral or memorial service.

Sometimes it is the deceased one’s wishes that are being honored despite the fact that there is dysfunction present.

I find myself facing the question and asking: How do I honor everyone? How can families do the real right thing? I’d like for there to be one simple solution for this question and there isn’t one. Here are some suggestions that I hope will help smoothen the way and remove some of the “dys” from the functions that lay ahead.

Recognize that emotions run high. When you want to fight and be right, step away and remember that the person you’re fighting with is someone who has feelings as well.

This is a time for sharing and taking turns.  

Think about the real reason from barring someone from seeing a body, from an end-of-life service, and from having something they treasure. Ask yourself why claiming a beloved object is so vital.

The memorial or funeral is not the end of grief: it is a way point in the process. The real hard work is left for after. The Jewish tradition does grief really well.

When You Must Exclude Someone

It is true that there are times in life when a relationship must be severed. Examples are:

·    A person who has abused children and is barred from being around them

·    A family member who is disruptive and cannot be reasoned with

·    Someone who will not show up sober to a service

·    Someone who has done irreparable damage to the deceased or the living 

When to Record the Service and Send it to Someone

Technology is great! We can now record high-quality video on a good phone and send it off to those who can’t attend the service for reasons beyond their control. There are other reasons to send a video and these may include sending it to those on the exclude list. While there are legitimate reasons for barring someone entrance to a service, there may also be legitimate reasons to send a video of the service to the excluded soul so that they can attend from a distance. Remember that funerals and memorials are for the living.

When the living make poor decisions and do awful, inhumane things, it is difficult to make things right. My rule: if it’s in a legal document, you need to honor it. If it isn’t written down and it can be negotiated, come to a compromise. Sometimes we’re placed in a position of doing the right thing for both the living and the dead.

This is about making responsible choices and sometimes the best, most responsible choice for all can be difficult for some. Lead with love, compassion, and reason.

If there are religious reasons that a person must be buried rapidly, honor that. Can those who may not be present at the burial be present for other aspects of the grief process?

Some countries have laws. While I had to have my husband’s cremation on a deadline, countries may have laws that dictate a period for a service. These laws must be honored.

The last three services I’ve been involved in have all been by distance. They’ve also all been delayed. The delays have been from three to six weeks. Sometimes honoring others means being very flexible.

The biggies to remember are why, what, how, and who:

Why am I doing this?

Why am I behaving in this manner?

Why do I have to do it this way? 

Why can’t it be done in a new way? 

Why must I exclude…?

What would happen if we were to take a new approach? 

What are the consequences of…?

How is this going to affect the future?  

How can I/we make this situation best for everyone?

Who is best suited to handle…?

Who can bring balance to this situation?

Who needs to be honored in this process?

I understand that this is a difficult process no matter when it happens. I also understand that life isn’t easy and we all get rolled over at times. I’m hoping that this piece might offer the reader a chance to rethink the future. We all need to do it better so that we’re not in a squabble when we need to plan a functional grief process from the beginning and move it forward.

A Window Inside (Revisit)

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Beyond Grief

This post was originally published on February 28, 2022.

Six years out and I’m still amazed at this process of walking out of grief. I’ll confess that on the 28th of August, 2016, when I went downstairs to get a late lunch and found the note, my concept of grief was in for a radical change.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know about people who grieved the loss of other things; it was the reality that the loss meant something different to me now. This was my husband—my marriage—and it was different. I’d mourned the loss of a parent, grandparents, a sister, our four cats that we’d had to put down, another graduate degree, a home, not having biological children, and friendship. I thought I understood what grief was about. I wasn’t wrong, and I wasn’t right either. I needed to learn some new things.

My father’s death was the one time I was prepared for to death enter my life. I was privileged to serve as one of his caretakers until he entered the hospice unit to stabilize and to allow his body to shut down gracefully. Even that final week was amazing. He’d lived a good life and was ready to die. It was, for me, both difficult and celebratory. The feelings of loss came about five years later when my husband entered my life. I learned for the first time that grief and mourning may enter our lives years or even decades later. I worked through the sadness that my father would not know Jon. This time—and this death—was radically different. This wasn’t easy at all: this felt like grief on steroids.

Five months later my mother died of a heart attack, and I’m thankful that our relationship was one of friendship, giggles, honesty, understanding, and mutual respect. The family had to laugh that she died on Friday the thirteenth. Her death was overshadowed by Jon’s death.

My understanding of my own process now is that it took two years of dealing with the trauma to be able to adjust to a new life alone. Stuff sets you off after a suicide, and stuff set me off! I was in no shape to work. I wasn’t ready to socialize because things got triggered and I’d start crying. It took year three to begin to stabilize. There was so much to do, to understand, and to discover. While time is an ingredient in grief journeys—mourning and doing the work that needs to be done—time itself is not the healing ingredient. Our inner strength and reserves are the healing factors.

Somewhere along the path we walk, the existential crisis rears its ugly head. You may or may not be a person of faith, and that doesn’t matter. Sooner or later we all question our known reality and wonder if our certainty or uncertainty will stand up in our grief process.

One of the huge lessons most of us learn about ourselves is that questioning is normal and healthy. Questioning can make for a robust inner dialogue! Asking ourselves both simple and deep questions propels us towards resolution in our process. This didn’t occur for me until I was in year five of this process. I wasn’t able to think clearly enough about some of the questions I needed to ask myself about our marriage, relationship, and where we were headed in the future. I realized that the questions I was able to ask myself five years out were only possible because I was stable, had done some basic work, and had returned to the work I loved. It wasn’t time that had carried me here: it was my personal stability and the work I had done up until that point that opened up this new avenue of questioning myself.

Looking In, Calling it Out

The universal cry of most who find themselves in the grief process during the early days is “When will this ever end?” The pain is unbearable, raw, unsettling, and triggering. In the beginning we might be triggered hourly or daily. It is true that with time things change, and with time we eventually arrive at a place where the grief is still present, but the texture of the grief softens and allows us to relax with it.

What I’ve noticed over time is that most friends and family forget the “Please Do” items that most of us may still need a year—or four years—out. It is as if the funeral/memorial and dinner afterwards are over, and so is the requirement to show up and offer comfort. Is it any wonder that down the road there is a collective cry of rage from the grief camp? What, do people think this is a simple process where, once our beloveds are buried, cremated, and the ashes sprinkled, it all goes magically away?! That type of closure is overrated.

There is no grief formula. Grief is as unique as we are. How we feel, think, and behave are all part of our personality constructs. What we each do with loss—whether it be loss of vision, a faith transition, or loss of a life partner—will be different from each other.

When we peer into the window of another’s existence, we gaze on them with our life’s prejudices and experiences. As we do this, we’re often tempted to offer up what we want or need rather than what the person who is in a state of grief and loss is needing. Please, no more “I’m sorry for your loss.” Every time I hear that, even on a TV show or somewhere else, I cringe with the thought of “Can’t you think of something more authentic to say?” Have you ever thought that the person, while grieving, may not be sorry? Sometimes death, divorce, loss of a job, or something else might turn out to be the gift we needed in our lives, and it may have been a gift for them as well.

The Window Inside

What people need to know about looking in is that you are offered a glimpse—and only a glimpse—into our passing along the path we walk. At any moment it may change, because at any moment we might discover some piece of life-altering thought that sends us sailing into new territory. It will never fully be over. How do you move on without holding the memory of the one you dearly love? We mourn the loss of what was and could have been. We anguish over the fact that we might have made a really lousy life decision and it brought more pain than happiness into our lives. We hold the memory of our beloved pets in our hearts. We speculate about what our child’s life would have been had they lived into adulthood.

You look in and ask, “Aren’t you over it yet?” We must reply that “No, I’ll never be over it because it all involves love, and love is something precious.”

We’ll draw the curtains closed and continue forward. Ultimately, grief is a thing of the heart and soul. We’ll let you in when it is safe and we’re strong enough to hold you in our presence once again.

Crossing Styx (Revisit)

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Beyond Grief

This post was originally published on October 4, 2023.

I remember a moment in my office when I realized that the journey of grief was about the past and the future. A new life could spring forth. It was the thought that I could plan how my life beyond would look. I got that idea from a book I’d read on grief. The trouble with that type of thinking is that it feels certain, and life is not anywhere near certain. The illusion of control is what would vanish during the next years of my life. While I can plan for some things, where I was led was, in ways, completely unexpected.

I sat looking out the window at the other houses, and I thought I knew where I was headed. I could have drawn up a plan of sorts. Wrong. While we can think about what we want, it is an illusion. Once again, certainty called me out.

There is something about this process that, if we allow it to do so, leads to wonderful and mystical surprises. Around each bend, things that we can’t imagine for ourselves appear, and disappear. Life has a way of doing that to us. Call it what you want: listening to your inner voice, your own knowing; or just letting go, and letting it happen. If we’re able to engage beyond our control, delightful things happen.

In my case I listen, and I have been doing the listening since early childhood. Whatever it is for you, it affects our footsteps as we walk on our path exiting out of the loss we’ve had to face. That day in my office a few years ago has come and gone, and it has proven me wrong. I had no way of making the connection that leads to a transition, because when you’re in it you can’t see it. When you’re in whatever you’re in, you don’t know what you’ve been sucked into.

The real work of grief and loss is found in the liminal spaces, and the times when we can enter back into that “funeral bubble” where life stops for us and we pause to collect the new understandings. We see old relationships in new ways and call them out for what they were. We allow their existence to come to new places within us. It took me somewhere between three and four years to get to this point in the process. Some of it is good, and some of it can be heart crushing. Like a river surging forward, it affects how we understand ourselves, as we leave a sheltered space to travel to a new destination within our personal knowing. Once again, we board a new boat. We’ve been on this boat since the loss happened. We don’t know we’re there because, their nature, death and other losses are traumatic.

During the past few weeks, I’ve begun researching for a book. The research involves reading memoirs involving grief journeys, and I’ve been taken to sadness, visiting old haunts, and a new understanding of where I was, what I could have done better, and ultimately seeing that I’m at yet another place on the river. While my eyes are wide open, I’m scared, and I have questions for myself. Can I navigate this? What is my new soul work? I think this is that space beyond grief where you know you’re someplace else, and once again you find yourself looking back, and this time knowing how you got to this new shore. For me this new place is an intersection that has involved the spiritual, my sexuality, and coming to terms with where I was in my young adult life. It is scary.

I’ve arrived in this liminal place with new skills, and yet, it’s so fresh to me that I wonder if I’m ready for it all. Arriving at a new point in time is more of a recognition than anything else. It is humbling. Once again, I faced a new set of demons down, and moved myself to the new beyond.

In realizing I’m on a new shore, I pause to shed fresh tears. This new set of questions is so different from that August 2016 day when I cried and wondered how I’d do any of this.

I think that in the beginning of the grief process, our knowing and certainty get ripped from us. While we’re busy having ourselves torn apart in the first days, months, and two years, we can’t fully understand the stirrings within. We get grabbed and taken to an underground we didn’t know was present. The underground is a dicey place for several reasons: 1) you don’t know you’re there; 2) you’re still moving along to someplace; and 3) the more inner work you do, the more you discover. The catch to all of this is that we’re underground, and we don’t realize it.

If I could go back and advise the woman of the past—the one that was scared and questioning the “how” of it all—I’d tell her to trust her footsteps. I’d tell her to honor the trauma that the suicide brought into her life, and to understand that this new journey of learning will bring a new calm, along with new acceptance of the essential things. I’d also let her know that grief is like the River Styx.

In a weird way, the living are the ones crossing the River Styx. We cross an underground river to make a grounded connection. Each living journey is unique to itself, and what we begin our crossing with is not what we’ll emerge with. We enter an underground that will propel us to a new, above-ground life. The living work of grief is to cross the River Styx to find ourselves alive in new ways, and on a new shore. At some point in time, we noticed that whatever needed to happen spit us out on this new shore. We’ve lived through our hard work to discover life post whatever tossed us into the boat and sent us shooting onto the waters of darkness. In places the current was strong, and we survived the journey.

There is no way of knowing that the living also traverse the waters of Styx. Maybe this is why grief, and the journey out from it, is so elusive for so many. We fail to understand that where we are is not anything that anyone can warn us about. We are underground, yet seeing light. Our support systems are what provide the lanterns that shine in this underground of Styx. In this place the light dances, dims, and shines brighter until suddenly we’re out!

The work of grief is dark. Grief challenges us to look deep within ourselves, admitting all things and standing as a witness to our own life, and the life of the deceased. We must honor the truth of each life. Like in Speaker For The Dead by Orson Scott Card, we must recognize the truth of our life, and the lives of those gone from us. We find our truth while traveling in the darkness of the River Styx. The work of grief requires this.

I pause with this realization of the journey well-traveled: WOWZA!!!! I dig my feet into the warm sand on the new shore. This is the afterlife! Post Styx. Goodbye, Styx, and thank you for the boat that served me so well.

Soul Work (Revisit)

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Soul Peace and Journeys

In the next few weeks, this blog will do some revisiting of earlier posts. This first one is an author’s pick. I’ve selected it because I’d like to have people think not only about therapy but also about doing the work that goes along with it: soul work.

This post was originally published on February 14, 2023.

-Gail

During my early years of working through grief and loss, I was in survival mode. That is where we all go in the beginning. We revert to the lower levels of survival. We go to the base where we can best survive. Hopefully the house gets cleaned, food gets eaten, and we manage to stay somewhat healthy, both physically and mentally. That is baseline grief. Baseline grief looks ugly. It isn’t a place that most would willingly go to, and when we’re there we want out. 

As time moved me forward, I began to change, to grow, to search for something deep inside. None of this made sense, but then what I was living no longer worked for me. I’d grown into a new place, and it required a new beginning—a new base level to grow from. 

I’ve discovered my mystical side. I fell into the mystical in a most unexpected manner: a former nun and clinical psychologist who led a spiritual life and showed up just when I needed her to do so. She entered my life at a time when I was exploring new things and new options. She walked with me as I engaged in the Ignatian Prayer Exercises. Through his process, I found something that I needed: the ability to sit in silence and contemplate. It was grounded, and it opened up avenues of new understanding, leading me to do the deeper inner work of the soul. This is where East meets West. 

This is where I found out that I needed to chuck what didn’t work because it would never work. I’d been trying to use someone else’s idea of what a spiritual life was. What did I think my spiritual life should look like? It would be unique to me. 

As I engaged in new forms of being in a spiritual way, I began searching for other places of learning. I’d heard about the Enneagram, and hearing my first podcast about it made it seem complex. There was something about this Enneagram thing that drew me to it. I began to look for a book that would explain things in simple terms. I found one called The Road Back to You and digested it. It’s a very basic primer, and what it does very well is enable the reader to get a sense for the number where they might fit. Its downside is that it doesn’t go deep enough. Soon I discovered that there were better ways, and there was more to this thing than nine numbers on a weird-shaped, nine-pointed thing. 

With all the therapy I’d done, and now spiritual direction, I was looking for a spiritual growth tool that I could use for myself, and that I could use to work with clients and directees. If someone is interested in this growth tool, I’ll use it. If not, I don’t pursue it. 

When I first began therapy, I did a great deal of talking. I needed to talk. While the talking helped, and worked for me during that time of my life, deep down I knew I needed more. How does one fully engage with the shadows of a life? How could I deepen and find a path into personal growth that would work for my entire life? I needed to find an Enneagram teacher. There was something in this spiritual growth tool that I wanted. I began to plan and to engage in course work. Good stuff, this Enneagram! I was finding a way to engage the deeper shadows and discovered its power. 

Growth, and the inner work of growth, is never easy. If it is easy, I’ve found that I’m not going deep enough. I’m not being fully honest with myself. Looking into mirrors can be difficult, terrifying, and the greatest gift we can give our souls. It is also tricky. 

I’ve noticed that while people want to change, want answers, and will even tell themselves they can do the changes needed, sometimes the past fouls it up. Sometimes past traumas, letdowns, or the reality of what we must give up to get what we seek traps us. We think it will be easy; we think it won’t hurt; we can’t sit with ourselves for the length of time it will take for the process to affect us and move us into change. We sprint out of the awful, find safety in old ways or a new distraction, and slam the door just when we need to keep it open. Hiding in bubbles doesn’t work. 

It Sounds Scary, but in the End, it Frees You

How do I know if I’m ready? The answer to this question is complex. We don’t find relief in catharsis—that is a temporary fix. Relief is found when you can sit the monster down and engage in a conversation and decide two things: the first thing is that you want to understand the monster, and the second is that you will entertain the monster in conversation so that you can learn from it. 

This is not easy to do, because we delude ourselves by thinking that we can win our monsters over with one simple chat and a table of cookies and tea or coffee. This is not high tea: this is plowing the field and finding the huge clods of earth that need to be broken up and put to use in healthy ways. 

Our monsters want all our tea, coffee, and our cookies. Our monsters lie to us. They tell us that we don’t deserve the good stuff of life. Sometimes our monsters deceive us into believing that there are shortcuts. As much as I love a short route to places, I’ve discovered that I might miss some essential scenery if I don’t stop along the way to engage the process. This brings me back to mirrors and the Enneagram. 

I have found that I can use the Enneagram to understand my monsters. I can meet them in a place where they feel respected by me, and I can converse with them in ways that are generous and insightful. I am taught and moved to new places. I don’t always like my teachers, and that is OK, as long as I hold space for the learning that comes because of the conversations. 

This trip through grief has taught me that there are better paths to follow and better ways of seeing myself and others. This trip through grief has also taught me to question and to find new ideas, and that taking the leap into the unknown can be scary, challenging, and just the thing we need to do to change in unexpected ways. This soul journey is going to last the rest of my life, and that is good.

Facing the Storm Head-On

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Discharging Trauma

When I wrote “Psychotherapy Soup,” I failed to mention one thing: showing up authentically to the therapy session. This might sound like a strange statement that I just made, and it was an omission on my part. So, I’m making up for it now.

I’m finding in screening clients who call me that those being referred from a list produced by a third party might be sent to the wrong therapist, or the right therapist at the wrong time!

It is my job to understand when you are ready for me, and when there might be a step before you begin work with me. You may not know, until you talk with a therapist, the path you need to take. This is why we offer consultations, and the chance to figure out if it is the right time for the fit, and the right fit for both of us.

For example: you might want to avail yourself of the hospice chaplain before the person dies. Then you might want to give it a while to see IF you really need to do more work around your loss. In this age of the “instant” fix, waiting is a good thing, and it is becoming a lost skill. On the other hand, when you are a year out, and you or someone else notices your lack of functioning, it might be time to give yourself the opportunity to get connected with the right therapist for you. This means that you may have to vet some people.

How can you vet a therapist when your brain isn’t fully functioning? Take the time to ask friends. I say this because in this period of your grief, your concentration, sleeping, and moods may all be out of sync. It can take time to get back into a synced space. In 2026 we’re still in that place of the instant everything. People want to move on to the next relationship, but they might not want to walk the path of the journey, and it is a path that does serve a purpose. People are avoiding the work of going through it to get to the place of being raw and sitting with some super uncomfortable stuff. Some people want to get to the other shore before they’ve done the work of crossing Styx.

The catch in all of this is that you need to be able to show up authentically so that you can do the real work of healing.

Healing is really hard work. Grief is not for wimps! It takes major guts to sit in a session, and to let it all hang out, and then to claim the pain, the loss, the sorrow, and to face the truth in the relationship that has been lost. The fact is that even good or great relationships need a good sorting out! Fear is one of the reasons people may be quick to find someone new and not go through all the grieving process that they need to complete before moving forward in a healthy manner.

I recall at somewhere between year three and four, when the ugly crying was all cried out and the new tears came into being, that I realized I could finally face the sorting of this marriage I’d been in. Here I was, and then, and only then, was I able to do the work of facing the caregiving, and the fact that his bipolar disorder had put me into a place of compassion fatigue. This was close to the four-year mark of his death! He’d done the deed in 2016, and now, smack, in the middle of the pandemic, I’m coming to terms with having to face the truth about what I’d lived through, and what I’d done. 

It is known that people who have to settle complicated estates may not begin to grieve until the last meetings with lawyers and the courts are finally behind them. It is then that the real tears come, and people in their lives think to themselves, “Why are they falling apart now? They’ve been so strong.” NO, they were in survival mode. Now, two or three years out, they can finally let loose with the grief.

Grief takes the form it needs to take until the body and the mind can let it all out.

And so, showing up to a therapist’s office in an authentic way might take time because while you know you may need to do the work of healing, you aren’t ready to do the work because the time isn’t right.

Therapists lack crystal balls. While some of us might possess a gut sense for things because we’ve hung out in this space for some time, our knowing is limited.

I’m pretty good at sensing in a call or a first session if this is a good fit. I’m also not afraid to tell you I’m not the right person for you. I think that some people view finding a therapist as a shopping excursion. You go into the shop and see something you like. You figure that it will do just fine. Then, you get it home, and you find that it is all wrong. Now, can you take it back? Maybe, and maybe not.

What would the experience of shopping be like if you did some research before you purchased something? In March I was looking for a new dress, and my usual online sources were not working for me, and so, like the intelligent soul I was, I put out feelers on Facebook. Two friends responded, and they told me about an online source I didn’t know about. It solved my desire for dots, and it allowed me to discover a place that had dresses I like. It also answered the question of how I will rebuild my wardrobe for the spring and summer.

The fact is that it is OK to research until the right person is found. That being said, don’t be so selective that you pass over a good therapist.

I’ve spoken about my own journey of healing with grief and trauma. It took me about four months of meeting therapists and screening them out to know that I needed to see if a therapist I knew would be willing to work with me. I knew after shopping around that I’d found the person. The question for me was: Am I willing to give up one relationship to benefit the relationship of healing? Was I also ready to do some intense work, and take the time it would take to do that work? I realized that there would be no perfect time to do what needed to be done. I wrote a mail, and we met. I told him that I expected him to treat me as a client/patient and not like a therapist who knew about therapy. I would show up as myself, do the work in an authentic manner, and I was enabled to clear the battlement and the iceberg out in the ocean. The deal was that I had to be willing to show up and not mess around.

The other part of the deal was that I had to be willing to go through some scary stuff, and do it alone. I say that because the stuff I cleared isn’t stuff you really should put on friends.

Doing the work of healing is all about courage. Facing the work in the moment it happens takes guts, and it isn’t for wimps. It’s about facing the storm head-on and believing that you can get past it by going through it, because on the other side there is a better way of being. Well, in 2026 the storm has blown out.

Exiting the Stuff-It Club

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Discharging Trauma

The battlement is empty, the communication office has shut down, and unemployment has been granted to all. I think they are sipping drinks on the warm beaches of their dreams. Hmm, did those imaginary souls have imaginary bucket lists? Oh, before I get too silly, I’ll move forward.

I want to note here that it is somewhat risky to admit that I sought treatment for trauma. I have done the writing I have to inform people, and to normalize what I have done. I’m exiting the “stuffing-it club.”

If you had asked this former professional “stuff-it” expert at any age if I’d be writing these words, I’d have laughed you out of the space we were both in. I flash back in my mind to the young Gail in her twenties, and the therapist that should have been able to see a wee bit more than she did. I give her grace and grant her a pass. She walked me out of one mess, and it was good.

The fact of psychotherapy is that in the 1970s we didn’t know enough about PTSD or any form of trauma to treat it effectively. Some of what is now listed in the Diagnostic and Statical Manual (DSM) wasn’t there, and is only present now because of what we know now, and have learned, and will continue to learn. Cut us some slack.

In the late 1980s it was a short encounter with a therapist who enabled me to ask myself one or two vital questions. The guy served his purpose well.  

In the 1990s two therapists taught me about approaches to healing that I needed to experience. I was able to count those hours as part of the state requirement for therapy. However, I’d stuffed childhood into the deep reaches of my mind. It lived there until in 2023. I knew I’d need to pull it out and finally take it all apart. You’ve read the posts about the journey. A few hundred words into this post, I want to talk about what is happening to me now.

About two weeks ago the end of the process happened. OK, not the full end, but the end of the process of working through all the trauma.

As the dust settles and I sit with myself, the things I notice are good, and at the same time I understand that I’m going to need to grieve some things that could have been different: things that could have been and never will be. Saying goodbye to the past in a healthy way also means greeting the present in the spirit of grace and mercy for myself. Saying hello to the present means facing what has been missed out on and making peace with it. I did the stuffing, and I’ll claim it.

Well now, this is a new type of grief. I can do this!

I started to notice the changes in my responses to everyday things shortly after the end of the process came. This first one is huge: I don’t say shit and fuck the way I once did. Swearing is shorthand for getting what we’re feeling out fast. Fine, go ahead and let it rip, and then after the shorthand try to do the long response. I believe that because the calm has come into my life. I’m in a place to react to the nutty things in a calm manner. Here’s an example: I got a mail informing me that the government wants a crazy amount of money from me. I did what many would do: I let a few choice words rip. Then, I pulled back for an entire weekend and thought about how to do this ugly thing. Both responses were needed, and I was able to work through possible solutions. Am I happy about what I’ll have to do? NO. However, getting there in a calm fashion is a great outcome. I’m also liking myself better for what doesn’t happen to me now. The anger was not who I am.

Another positive outcome from doing this kind of work is that I see things in a new way. I’m a good therapist: this I know due to client feedback, and being in touch with myself. Because of what I’ve done for myself, I’m an even better therapist. The reason why I can hold out with grace for my past therapists and myself is that I get that they can’t be judged for what they couldn’t and didn’t know. I wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened to me.

In 2026 we now understand how trauma affects the body and the mind. We understand about feedback loops and responses to things, and we get how the brain and body learn to respond to trauma. I can also send someone to a psychiatrist to see if medication is indicated. At the appropriate time I might also refer someone to needed allied specialists that are out of my scope of practise. Now, within mental health, we’ve got options that your parents didn’t have!

I want to mention that all therapists should keep a supervisor on the payroll. We also need to have the ability to take things to our own therapists. A second pair of eyeballs on our own issues is a must. I’m thankful that I have the needed eyeballs.

Free Yourself

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Soul Peace and Journeys

This past week as the session with the therapist unfolded, I found that I’d come to the end of the journey, and a sense of completion entered my soul. I’d done it! I’d faced it all down: the process of not only ten years but beyond that. I’m pretty sure there was a celebration out at sea where my beautiful iceberg resides. These days she floats majestically on the water. I like to envision her that way. I don’t need her anymore, and that is a good and celebratory thing.

So, that day and the next I spent twirling, and allowed for the happy to be present as it should. My only complaint was the lack of good, wholesome American junk food to splurge on.

The weekend allowed me to just be, and to do nothing, which is what I did. I think I finally let the entire energy of the journey I’d been on hit. Now, as I sit at my desk, I realize that I have little to say as the process of debriefing and grieving can now enter the work. I suspect that whatever words I don’t have now will come in time and, as they need to, emerge.

As I’ve gone through the process, I’ve let the therapist be my therapist, and I’ve tried to just be the person seeking the help. It has been a real exercise in letting it all go, and I’m glad I did it this way.

I’m now cleaning things up as I enter this final stage of the process. I think I’m going to find both good and hard in this process as I step back and take a good hard look at what has gone down. You turn around and look behind you, and this time, instead of carnage, you can see the WOW in clear light. Once again, the river has been navigated with skill.

As I sit here, I realize that I’ve really healed, and while it has been hard, it’s been a good process.

What I’ll face next will be a different type of work, and hard in its own way. It is the doing of the hard work that enables us to move forward in peace.

I celebrated another year around the sun this weekend. It was anticlimactic. I was in a place of letting the therapy that had been done do its thing. So, I had not shopped for the day, and I don’t think there will be any treats until I get to my favorite chocolate shoppe, and there I’ll select some joyous treats. I’ll have to wash everything down with loads of water. This is an argument for chocolate first and meals after!

My own holiday has happened. I purchased two new dresses and have enjoyed wearing both. Which is one of the pluses of doing the work I’ve done. I’ve opened the gate to Gail-things back into my life. I must say that this is a happy thing to do—it has been colorful as well!

As my mother once said when asked what to buy me for a gift: “Just give her clothes and she’ll be happy.” True, I gave myself dresses, and I’m happy.

I think the celebration is one of being content in both my age and my psychological state. As the week moves on, I’m finding that this isn’t a giddy happy: it’s the state of a job well done, and a pride of knowing that I listened to what was going on inside, felt it, heard it, and then decided to boldly go where I needed to go: to face the frontier of allowing myself to be healed. This journey has been worth all of it! It’s been worth the painful nights of tears and loneliness when, at times, I had to give all to my higher power. I had to trust that in letting go, the damage that had been done could be jettisoned. It worked as it should have. I had to let the words and the work I was doing stand.

I’m not sure if I can do this justice. I’m going to give it my best shot here. This type of healing takes courage, brutal honesty with one’s self, and the guts to speak the unspeakable to another, and to allow yourself to hear the ugly of it all. It is about throwing down the gauntlet and being wise enough to know that you, and only you, are the one who can cross it. To complicate matters, only you can sense within yourself when it is safe to do the “within” work. Don’t let yourself be deceived by the fact that you need to have everything in place. There is never a time when all the stars in the universe will align enough for you to get the cosmic green light. This type of work is stuff that you push yourself into for whatever the reason is. You realize that if you don’t do it, you will add more to what is present. Do it now or you will be living with it for the rest of your life, and that is not an option.

What pushed me to really do my own work? In one year, I was hospitalized and could have died twice. Both experiences were traumatic in different ways. Both sent me into the “I’ve got to find the right therapist” mode. Both experiences let me know I couldn’t do what I needed to do alone. “Therapist, heal thyself” is not an intelligent thing to engage in. If I had tried to do that, I would have needed to declare myself a fool. You know the saying about how lawyers who defend themselves have fools for clients. There is a point in time when you must gather your courage and walk out to the dock and send a message to the captain: I’m going to give you the relief you deserve. It is my time to take this all on. The captain who resides out there at sea may or may not understand what will happen. The stuff trapped in the iceberg does understand, and that is how you become resistant to the big change that is coming. The stuff in the iceberg may like being in there, all safe and comfy in its own space. The stuff might tell you not to disturb it. The stuff is a liar. Your unconscious likes the status quo despite the fact that even deeper down it is begging and pleading to be freed of the ugly junk. Allow yourself to search for the right person to help you heal.

I could say more. I won’t. I’m going to let this stand and come back to it all at some other time. Give yourself a gift: free the iceberg, and free yourself.

Table Time

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Musings and Insights

It’s starting to be a thing again: families are gathering around a table at mealtime to talk and to find out what is going on in life. Now, this meal activity proceeds everyone placing electronic devices in a basket. It seems as if, slowly and quietly, society might be heeding the call of researchers such as Jonathan Haidt and rethinking how media is playing out in a family’s daily life.

I grew up with family dinners. We knew that at 5:30 the family had to gather, and we sat around the table. We talked; my father displayed humor by making faces, and it was funny. He was a serious man. I couldn’t do what he did with his face. After the meal we’d go outside until dark and play with the neighborhood kids. We made our own rules, and we worked out our differences with no adults present.

When my friend’s brother fell out of our tree at my house, she and I stayed put, and our mothers took care of it. We were scared because broken bones are scary things. Life went on, and it became an event that had happened. When I broke a bone while riding my bike at a friend’s house, her mother didn’t panic: she checked me out, and when my parents came to get me, they took me to the ER. Broken bones happen when kids learn and explore their universe. Her family had dinner around the table too. I think it made a difference in how some things got handled.

There were phones only in the family spaces, and maybe as we got older, we might have a phone in our room.

I think one of the things that happens as we converse as families and parents is that they know who their children are spending time with. Both sides learn to build trust, and that trust builds with each experience and, slowly, more freedom is given. Friendships are strengthened and, relationship by relationship, goodwill builds in homes, schools, and neighborhoods, and it can spread out from there.

We learn about holding differing views in our homes. When healthy family structures exist, differences are accepted and respected. Lively discussion can happen, and children can learn to test voicing opinions in a safe environment. I was fortunate to understand that my parents had differing political views, and they could discuss them and understand each other, and it was normalized. This was part of the conversation in my household. I can’t say the same thing for my paternal grandparents. Politics was off-limits. It wasn’t a healthy place to discuss many things.

I grew up without tech. We made tin-can phones with wire. We learned to type on a manual typewriter that operated on finger power. Stranger danger wasn’t a thing back then. Now, states pass “free-range laws,” and the kids need to know about safety and their communities. I knew all of that growing up: it was expected that I’d know how to navigate on my bike.  

You might want to argue that it isn’t as safe now. Really? Could there be media hype about stranger danger? Could parents be sheltering children too much? Are we stressing children with lessons and other activities to the point of it being a bad thing? Children need to have time to explore and to play! The fact is, most kids don’t really understand free play because it’s all scheduled.

I’ve seen a child in a therapy session not understand how to imagine or create. When I give them tools to create, they grasp onto it. They aren’t acting out what they see on a screen: they’re working through things in their own way and on their own terms.

I’ll also state that when there are healthy boundaries in a household, this can work really well. So, the question becomes, how do I enable healthy boundaries to happen in a dysfunctional situation? Let’s say you live in a place where the furnace is set to come on at 70° Fahrenheit, and it is to shut off at 75°. As long as things work, everything is normal. Peace and happiness are present. It works like this in families. The degree variance is like the rules, and as long as everyone holds to the rules, there is homeostasis. Go outside of the rules, and things can get bumpy. Bumpy isn’t pleasant. So, in a family, the more flexibility there is, the better things can be. A five-degree variance is much too narrow, and while it might work for heating, it won’t work in a healthy family. A family therapist can guide a family to reset the family thermostat, because sometimes you didn’t learn it in your own family, and it is never too late to make a change. Once you can have skills, healthy conversations happen. It is a learning process, and you will fail into success. Learning is all about making mistakes and getting up again.

So, there is one other thing about families I want to mention. Your family may not look like someone else’s. People live in different situations, and things like work schedules creep into things. Tech might not be an issue because you can’t afford tech in the home. Schedule a time to engage and check in. Whether it is low-income housing or a mansion, it’s all about committing to learn to talk to each other. It all boils down to flexibility and commitment.  

I now tell parents that I work with to restrict their media time and their children’s media intake. I suggest sit-down meals. These two things help in a few ways:

  1. It gets everyone talking to each other because you become focused on the conversation.
  2. It provides a structured place to learn proper table manners, and it serves as a teaching tool for real-world dining-out experiences.
  3. You have to ask to be excused after finishing the meal, so you also learn to sit with a conversation where you may not agree with stated views.
  4. You find out what is going on in each other’s lives.
  5. You learn that talking is about learning to understand the other person’s point of view, and to explore the why of their view.
  6. When you take these conversational skills out in public, you might find that you can build relationships where differing views can exist, and so your circle of friends expands in its diversity.
  7. You begin to build peace and understanding in the home and can take it out into the greater world.

Right now, what we need more than anything else is to talk to one another, and to build bonds of understanding and acceptance for each other.

Some of this might sound out-of-date. I’ll tell you it is working for clients, for friends, and others I know. It’s about table time.

Twirling in My Mind and Heart

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Discharging Trauma

Moving into a place where I can say that the work of healing is complete has been a process of reclaiming my heart, my head, and a few pretty new dresses. I feel like I’m on a fantastic journey.

I’ve crushed on an iceberg and fallen headfirst into a delightful new place of being. It only took forever to get here! I’m alive!

What can I say but “Welcome to your new world, Gail.”

If I had known then what I now know, I’d have taken my own therapeutic advice and done all of this sooner. Or would I have?

I think part of getting professional help is all about timing and feeling good about doing it. This process comes from within, and one of the challenges people face is finding the right fit.

Sometimes people get lucky and they connect with the right fit from the first try, and other times it is a series of calls and sessions. Sometimes a person will not understand why the therapist wants to refer—yet again—to another therapist. We’re doing it for you, the client, because whatever the reason, it isn’t a good fit.

In my journey, I went through several therapists before I found the right professional. My process was helped by the fact that I knew and understood what I needed to be looking for from someone who did the work I needed to be guided through. I had more than one “nope, not it” situation. I followed my gut, tapped into my resources, and finally said yes to a gifted mind surgeon. We matched well. I’m glad I had the patience to ride it out.

Things have changed in so many ways, and now as I near the finish line for one portion of the process, I begin to see what needs to happen next.

Soon, it will be mop-up time: the time after the battle when you do the cleaning and are able to see the new area for real.

I don’t feel sad; I feel a sense of peace. I can claim my life in a new way.

Yesterday I was interviewed for a podcast. I put on a pretty dress, did my hair, and sat in a calm state of mind. When it was done, I realized that this would be a two-parter. I spoke about the process I’d been through in the last ten years as it related to my church life. For the first time in a long time, peace ruled the process. I’m finding that, in a happy way, I’m unpeeling the new, yet old, personality of Gail. It is the Gail who enjoyed a pretty dress and always will. It is the Gail who can twirl in delight over happy things. It is also the Gail who now stands as a new adult to say, “This is the real me, stand aside, I need to do new things in my life.”

Healing is about being able to calmly think and reason through the essential things of life. It is about being intact in new ways and allowing for reason to rule where it once failed because you were too busy broadcasting out to the captain on the vessel. We can now look at the stuff we had to send out to the iceberg, discharge it, and celebrate a life built and based on safety and a peaceful heart and mind.

Recently, a friend began a GoFundMe for her disabled son. I heard her words, read the post, and decided what I was willing to give. In the past I would have made a choice to give but I would have jumped through the hoop of being unreasonable in my donation. It felt good to press the button on this, and not vacillate over doing so.

Lately, I’m thinking that I’m liking my personal life much more than I did a year ago. I’m not hiding anymore. It is liberating!

Last week I splurged on myself and allowed myself to buy two fine dresses for my birthday that will arrive in April. Hopefully, the warm weather will come too.

I realized that I’ll need some warm things for the winter, and this time it will be things that I really like because settling is no longer an option. This is all exciting and wonderful, and I’m liking this part of the process.

I couldn’t have done this in any other way, and I celebrate the time it took. Moving towards the real me is a gift. I’ll be twirling in my mind and my heart, and I can’t resist the smile that is breaking out on my face. The end of this portion of the journey is close!

On My Way to Somewhere Else (Revisit)

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Musings and Insights

This post was originally published on December 9, 2021.

Losses in our lives happen in many ways, and my greatest loss happened while I was trying to get to somewhere else that wasn’t on my agenda, or at least not in print. It happened in a way I won’t forget: a walk downstairs to find an altered life. A note on the dinner table telling me where his body was. That was the part of the promise he did keep.

We write scripts for our lives, and when they are interrupted the jolt can be confusing and difficult to understand. While we’re making our way along the road, the demons interrupt our peaceful walk and give us the boot off our carefully manicured path into something more like sludge, mess, and unexpected confusion.

At first, we panic, and then we try to extricate ourselves from this place, only to find ourselves pulled further into the mess of the sludge. When we realize that we can best exit the sludge by remaining calm, relaxing, and working with it, we’re free to embrace it. We can then deal with the mess in this new place. We figure out that the best method for getting free from where we are now trapped is exploring it for alternative exit options. That is how most grief and loss journeys begin: a surrender to the unknown.

I got out of the immediate sludge state and realized that there was a mountain in front of me, and that I needed to go through it to reach the place I needed to get to. That was both a relief and rather terrorizing.

With the unwanted interruption to our lives, we forget where we were headed, focusing on the path before us that has become cluttered with boulders, fallen trees, and strange critters that inhabit the once pristine path we thought we were on, and realizing that we’ve been transported to a much different place altogether. Where are we? What is this about, and will it be a help or hindrance?

No, we’re not in Oz or anyplace like it, though a part of us may wish for ruby slippers that we can click to take us magically back to before we wound up wherever this is now. We don’t get the slippers. Instead, we receive a walking stick that will come in handy in turning over the rocks, giving us leverage to lift the heavy trees that block our route, and in testing the strange new critters to see if they are friend or foe.

It’s taken several minutes to construct this, and yet the descent into this place happens instantly. We’re just not aware that within seconds of hearing they’re dead, “I’m leaving you,” “I’m moving out to pursue…,” or whatever the loss is, we’re sent by our mind into this place. As we grapple with it in those first few moments, we realize that our control is gone. Will we ever be the same? Will our world ever feel the same?

The Answer Everyone Wants

In this place we ask: When will it end? And when will things return to normal? The honest answer that we eventually discover is that we’ll develop a new normal, discover a new life path, and renegotiate what our personal universe looks like and what it is filled with. We forget about the old somewhere that had held us captive and begin searching for a new somewhere else. The catch to this search is that things no longer work the way they once did. The topsy-turvy has flung us into the unknown. All we can do is thrash around until we find something to grab onto that feels stable. 

We start to learn that the tears, the missing, and the uncertainty will fade over time, and in their place the texture and quality of what is present in our lives changes. Slowly, we stop asking when and start focusing on the how to of this new place. This leads us to finding a support system, a new village of people that is populated with those who will become our new friends. They understand where we are! They’ve been in the sludge, gotten out, and faced their own mountain. They’ve dismissed some old village residents due to the fact that they left the village or are not able to attend to the needs in the village at this time. We find a therapist who speaks our language and we seek out spiritual direction, or stumble into another path altogether. As we gain strength and our concentration returns, we begin reading books and are able to question and act on those questions. 

This new place of discovery is exciting, scary, and wide open. Oh, the options that we can explore! Slowly, the places we were headed fade away, and we’re left only with new things to discover. 

You know how people say that we’ve changed? We have! If we do the work of grief, loss, and pain well enough, we reinvent ourselves. There are old things, new things, and a bunch of creation waiting to spring forth. It can all be good. In the meantime, the question we wanted answered disappears as we become involved in the process of creating new life within ourselves. New life and meaning are unique to each of us.

The tears and the missing are still present. They’ve taken on a new form and texture. For me, it was somewhere in my year three that I noticed the real change. How did this happen? It wasn’t about time; it was processing and a world view change. It is something we experience and understand due to the work we do around our grief, loss, and pain, effecting change deep within. 

Noticing the Gift

For some people, the loss and the grief that are encountered become a gift. What? How can this be? I’ll admit that on August 29, 2016, if you had told me I’d be typing these words in 2021, I’d have had said something to the effect of “You’re nuts!” I’m typing this and I know I’m not nuts. Telling someone at the beginning of the process that change will happen is counterproductive to the process. There are some “please do’s” and “please don’ts” that are essential to observe.

Relationships can trap us, cause us to shortchange ourselves, or make us second-guess what we want in our lives—to name just a few of the things that can happen. The fact that she cheated on you and didn’t want to work it out is sad. After the heartache passes, a new discovery of freedom comes.

He or she is now gone; the love you once had will always remain, and now you are asking new questions. You want something different from before, and finding it is a good thing. You haven’t changed; you’ve grown! You are beginning to trust your own knowing, and this is an essential component of finding the new place of existence.

The gift of the tragedy is not pleasant. We are called to understanding through the unveiling of new options that we truly have choices if look and access them in the present. It is what we find buried in the rubble that was once sitting out in the open, waiting for us to discover it for the first time. 

We couldn’t see it where we were because our understanding of our lives was focused on the life we had then. We weren’t stumbling along the path, attempting to find the new points of entrance into the new place that we need to get to.

I know some who have needed to step into employment for the first time in their lives and now report feeling fulfillment in a way they never have before. I know others who took the chance of a new career. Somehow, the lack of security allowed them to risk big! For others, it is doing the same thing with fresh new insight into the things they value most. For me, it resulted in several things. My favorite is that I returned to school for a certificate in spiritual direction. I love the program! Would I have discovered this had I not been widowed? NO! It took me moving to a new place and finding a new path to walk to do what I’m doing now.

Along the way, we employ new navigation strategies, discover our “rose rooms,” and come to an understanding that the interruption that occurred on the way to somewhere else, while tragic, has become a touchstone in our lives.

The Civility of Kind Words

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Musings and Insights

This year, as part of Lent, I gave up swearing because I noticed I was doing too much of it. I didn’t like what I was hearing my own mouth say. Now, swearing has caused me to become aware of another something in society.

I’m getting irritated by people using the word “bitch.” I’m getting annoyed by the disrespect it shows to women. I’m also saddened that women tolerate being called bitch. So, I’m going to voice my thoughts.

If a woman stands her ground and asserts her needs, she is often called a bitch, even though what she is doing is the healthy thing for herself. People, an assertive woman should be celebrated! She should be held up as an example! She knows what she needs, and will go to the mat for it.

I don’t respect a man who calls a woman a bitch. There is never a reason to do that, and in my mind, it only proves to me that the man involved isn’t very aware of who he is and is only showing his disrespect for women. Calling a woman a bitch is also a form of verbal abuse.

The fact is that the use of the word has become so common that is has lost its meaning. Society is downgrading itself to a new low.

In our rush to become cool and hooked into social media, are we rushing too fast and not realizing what we’re leaving behind? Civility.

Authors such as Jonathan Haidt have been commenting on the damage of media as it relates to children and adolescents. I’m seeing it in my practice with younger adult clients and their use of media. I’m hearing it as the person uses blanket terms to talk about someone. When I ask them to slow down and identify how they feel, I often hear: “I don’t know.” And yet, when someone does slow to identify what they are feeling, they are pleasantly surprised by what they discover. People have sped things up so that they no longer have the insight they could have. It is as if people don’t want to slow down and think. It has become easier to distract ourselves from our own personal truth.

I’ll give you an example. I can easily pick up on when someone has a search going on during the therapy session. Distraction comes in many forms. The fact is, we’ve become a society that wants it now, and can’t wait if we can’t have it instantly. What happened to the slow-cooked soup? We go with the flow, and we don’t stop to think about calling a woman a bitch because now it is just done. During a conversation, we aren’t focused on the present but distracted by needing to know something RIGHT now. Here’s a news flash: Your being on the screen when I’m in a conversation with you is rude. Just like calling a woman a bitch shows great disrespect for others.

Society has become too engrossed in the fast fix to stop, put the phone, the pad, or the computer on hold. We’ve forgotten the human equation. We’ve forgotten about giving each other the courtesy of time. It makes me think of what Crichton said in Jurassic Park. To summarize: the technology exists but should it be used? Don’t get me wrong about tech: I’m the owner of a Mac, an Air, an iPhone, and the watch. They are tools! In a conversation I set them all down, and I listen to the person in front of me. And now, I’m in the place of teaching others to show some respect. It is about the person. And yet, you see disrespect on the screen. It’s that some writers are displaying poor writing skills, and if the writer doesn’t have good verbal skills, they can’t convey in a script the appropriate emotions along with the proper social skills. What winds up being portrayed is something that is less accurate. That is what becomes the norm due to the fact that people believe what is on the screen over reality. It makes me think of the mother asking her kid: “So, if everyone walked over the edge, would you?” The fact of the matter is that, in many ways, we’re allowing each other to walk over the edge without giving much thought to our actions, and parents are allowing their children to walk off the cliff! As Maya Angelou stated: “When you know better, you do better.” Society, take note: We can, and must, do better. Researchers such as Brené Brown and Jonathan Haidt are pointing out where we’re messing up.

It seems like society has lost track of what healthy norms are! It is time to know better, and do better in so many ways. It is time to not rush to judgement about “the other person.” It is time to slow down, breathe, and ask ourselves if we want to be treated as poorly as we might be treating others.

Do we really want to have our words work for, or against us?

Over a decade ago another woman called me a bitch. I stopped her and explained to her that while she thought she was being socially cool, I did not appreciate the remark. I am not a bitch. That is disrespectful to me, and to all women. It shocked her. She had education. What she didn’t have was good social education. I became a parental role model for her because I didn’t let her calling me a bitch slide. No one had ever taken the time to educate her about that social nicety. If you don’t know, then now you are learning.

I’d like to propose that we think of civility in terms of letting it begin with each of us. “Let there be civility on earth, and let it begin with my words, and actions.”

No, You Don’t Understand

Posted on by Gail Shurtleff in Living With Disability

An estimated 1.3 billion people, or approximately 16% of the global population (1 in 6), experience significant disability. This number is increasing due to population aging, the rise of chronic health conditions, and environmental factors. The vast majority (about 80%) of disabled persons live in developing countries. The result is what comes up when I did a search on Google. It is a WHO statistic. So, on behalf of over one billion people, most of whom are not in a developed nation, I’m going to gripe.

I’ve said it before: disability is non-discriminatory. Or, put another way, it just doesn’t care who you are. Disability gets you when you’re born, and it can be a part of what takes you out when you die. It is the big uncertainty in life. We can be any skin color, faith, gender, or age. Disability doesn’t care. It just plows through our lives. And most disability shows up in places where the developed world won’t ever visit.

We turn the disabled into some type of false hero. All a disabled person is doing is surviving the way they must. We are not heroes of any sort, and to put such a person on a pedestal may serve your ignorant needs: it isn’t helpful to the community. Rant over.

So, let me tell you about my day in the developed world.

I owe some things I can’t do to the fact that charitable souls have compassion and enable me to do them. This time it began on a Friday and escalated to this last Sunday while trying to pay bills. I was on the bank app, and all of a sudden, the thing went bonkers and told me I had to reactivate the app! It gets crazier, so, buckle up people, this is a wild ride.

Monday rolls around, and I try to do the thing that no almost blind person with only ten percent of her vision should try to do. I call the bank and wind up with a twit who keeps telling me she understands. NO, she doesn’t, and the fact that she keeps telling me the she does understand only proves that she doesn’t get my situation at all. Finally, she tells me that I need to go to a service point. The nearest service point is a good 20-minute drive, and more by bus. Now, I’m wanting to rip her ignorant thoughts to shreds. In frustration, I hang up. I finally go to my neighbour’s. He says he’ll help and asks me if I’m sure I want to allow him to have this data. OK, NO, I don’t want anyone in my data, BUT do I really have a choice? NO. I get things put right with the app. All is well. BUT NO, it isn’t. Now I need to get my business account back. This one is easier because there is no scanning involved. I can do this!

After I don’t know how many attempts to get it done, I call the bank, again, and get sent over to the business division of support. I wind up with someone who answers the phone happily. I explain my problem and my visual situation. She listens, and she gets it. OK, so we’ll do this slow. She can see from her end what is going on with things. After a couple of attempts we’re both puzzled by the lack of success. Then she asks if I’m on the business tab. WHAT? I didn’t see that. Am I the only person who doesn’t see that tab? No, I’m not. OK, so now I’m on the right tab, and it still doesn’t work. I’m not an idiot; I can do this. She’s stymied. I’m not knowing what to think, and then she says OK, this is a hail Mary pass, here it goes. What if, when you were on the app on Sunday, somehow the app went and updated itself, and you got told to reactivate? Go to the App store and see if you are told to upgrade the bank app.

So, off I go! Holy Moly, it is telling me to upgrade! So, I do the upgrade. I do the data again; I wait, and then, spontaneously, and without thought, I sing what I always sing when something like this happens: “HOLY MOLY, she threw the pass, Mary caught it, and it worked.”

Now, what I haven’t told you about this call is that the two of us are having a delightful conversation. We’re laughing, and trying to fix the crazy, and it took almost an hour. Now, she’s reporting this strange thing to the powers up the line. I.T. is gonna muse over this one.

She never said that she understood. She became a conduit for accessibility. We worked to get it fixed.

The sun is shining, and it is warming outside. The country is happy the sun has arrived. Spring is springing, and I can go out without a heavy jacket.

I pause, and once again, I give thanks: a thank you, because there are compassionate souls out there who will care enough to get that I’m not any type of a hero. I’m just trying to live my life, and to get things done. I just have extra hoops to jump through.

So, let’s talk about hoops. The hoops that could be made easier and that would give many of the disabled a fair shake at an easier existence.

Since I’ve lived here, I’ve heard countless references to the ADA, or Americans with Disability Act. Banks, public buildings, and all government sites must be accessible to everyone. So, ramps for wheelchairs and PIN machines, and web sites must be usable to everyone. Grocery stores and other commercial outlets do not have to comply. Somehow, the ADA is seen as the solution in countries that aren’t the US. I still had to deal with things that were not safely accessible to me if I wanted to go grocery shopping. Now, I do this online.

While the ADA allowed for equal Education for all through the IEP, or Individual Education Plan, for K–12 in the school system, it is not a guarantee that the plans will be put in place or meet all a child’s needs. The ADA is a great piece of legislation. The IEP, on the other hand, can’t guarantee that students, their parents, or education staff can create all resources needed. An example of this is that the IEP pigeonholes the person: for instance, a child that is both learning disabled and academically a high achiever. The school may not provide the proper resources for both situations. Where would the schools have put Einstein? During his living years Einstein spoke of having problems with reading and getting the right words out. It is thought that he may have been dyslexic. There are other processing disorders that could explain his spoken-of communication issues. I have friends who had to fight for children in this exact situation.

I’ve witnessed as clients with children in this category struggle to make it work for their kids. The truth is that income level can determine options. Parents who can afford private education where class sizes are smaller have children who can, in most situations, obtain the resources they need to thrive in an education setting. HOWEVER, having said that, even income may not enable children to have what they need. I’m saddened that this also happens.

The fact is that most public education is geared towards the traditional teaching process. I would have done better if I could have not only seen it and heard it: I wanted to touch it. What if the learner needs to include touch in their process? Chances are, that isn’t going to be a possibility.

As I write this, I struggle with the fact that, for some people, I’m writing about things that can’t be, and I’m writing about things that are so far beyond the developing world. Then, as I pause, I remember a TED talk about a wise educator who modelled the world for his class, and the kids had to come up with solutions to the world’s problems. As the school year came to an end, there were still unresolved issues. He though the kids would fail at it—just like adults are failing to do the right things. Then, as the clock wound down, the children came together, and through compromise and imagination, the world in that classroom resolved it all. They wiped out poverty. Maybe we should be asking our children! I think they may understand.