Shannon's Story

When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my response was “I want to listen to people’s stories.” As an uncoordinated, un-artistic kid, my hobby was bonding.

The bonding habit got started in the same place savvier preteens were getting introduced to much more exciting activities: in the back seat of a parked car. My friend and I, waiting in the driveway for our high school sisters to finish practice and drive us home, poured out to each other our family dynamics, fears, dreams, and sense of our place in the world.

It was embodied Namaste: the divine 12-year old in her saw the divine 12-year old in me. This magical alchemy—which years later I’d learn had the fancy name ‘vulnerability’—happened when we bared our souls. For the first time in a world of budding teen angst, I was held, hopeful and hooked.

Going off to college, I thought I’d be a psychologist, because that’s the only profession that got to listen to people’s deepest needs, right? When that didn’t resonate, I joined the world of non-profits, thrilled by the prospect of being part of a team united by a core mission to build communities, who dared to spend their lives believing they could make a difference.

Rising through the ranks of international NGO’s felt important and right. But my inner landscape was catching up with me. My increasing responsibilities started taking a toll that I couldn’t sustain.

In a new leadership position during a time of significant organizational turmoil, I was tasked with downsizing seasoned leaders who were 20 years my senior. My insecurities skyrocketed. I could no longer hide behind my middle-child, peace-making, people-pleasing tendencies. Who was I if I couldn’t be liked?

I shared my griping anxiety about having to hurt my staff, and how torn up I was after each conflict encounter with a trusted colleague and dear friend. You know that friend who tells you the uncomfortable stuff that you don’t want to hear? That was her: “Why is this so hard for you? It’s just what you have to do! You might need to figure out why this whole not being liked business is messing with you so much.” Wait, so the human pretzel I would twist myself into so that I could maintain this shaky façade of being LOVED! Being ACCEPTED! Being a GOOD PERSON! Wasn’t that what everyone did?

My children were 4, 2, and newborn when the anxiety came back with vengeance. It was a dark and painful time, brought on by feeling disconnected from my husband, underwater with three young kids, and finally fully opening to the suffering of seeking my worth externally.

I literally couldn’t feel my heart. It was in a tight box. And it was terrifying. For the first time in my life, my mental health felt like it was at stake. I had taken for granted that I could handle life the way I always had. But now I realized if something didn’t change, the black hole would swallow me.

I’ve always been a seeker, but this was a desperate and ugly grasping. It felt like a fight for my life. There was no lovely, lavender scented mountainside pilgrimage. I hungrily devoured anything that could help: journals, time in the woods, labyrinth-walking, meditation, yoga, retreats, praying so hard my knees bled and knuckles ached. I read the masters, the shamans, the healers, the teachers. I cried out in fear, mostly in the shower. That there was light beyond the darkness I trusted, I just didn’t know if I could hang on long enough to find it.

My loving family and friends could sense my suffering, and I bless them for holding space for me. One beloved friend sent a letter that simply said: “I know how horrible this is. I wish I could help, but I know I can’t.”

This was between me and God. That, I never doubted.

Subtle shifts began, and I began to remember.

Regular time alone in nature—on a wooded path, near a stream, didn’t matter, but that silence and introspection became absolutely non-negotiable to my well-being. I realized slowly, painfully, in a one step forward, two step back kind of progress, that there were key elements I needed to maintain this shaky stability. Like Little Mermaid Ariel walking on the beach for the first time with her new legs, I was newly grounded, but incredibly wobbly.

The gray, early December afternoon I cracked open, I’ll never forget. What struck me was just how physical this awakening was. My body trembled, dry heaved, shook. Years and generations of pain and density poured out of my shedding skin. A new day was dawning, as I slowly began to comprehend just how profoundly connected my body is to my spirit.

Slowly, with lots of help from my rock star, ‘A-team’ tribe, I remembered how to walk, and eventually run, leap and dance. The work wasn’t done, but I now had tools that ensured I could better handle what would come. The most fundamental shift: I learned to listen to my inner wisdom. A revelatory mysticism had been awakened inside; I now had God, my divine source, on speed dial.

Throughout my life, there has been a nagging sense that I never quite fit in. I was never fully at home or content in one faith, one clique, or one club. There are great benefits to living this wide-webbed life, but it can be feel isolating. Mrs. Buckley, my high school history teacher, labeled me a fence sitter because it was so difficult for me to choose a side during debates. But I can so deeply understand both sides, I’d argue. Guess I’m just indecisive, I resigned—a character trait firmly on the “weak” list in our culture.

As we drove to social events when we were first married, Mike would give me “the talk.” I knew it well. It was the same talk my big sister had given to me before we went out, growing up. My cooler, wiser, beloved counterparts have been trying, to no avail, to make me cooler my whole life.

The talk? It goes something like this: “if you see someone you met once, pretend like you don’t remember every single detail of everything they ever told you. It freaks them out! It makes you look like a stalker.” Or “try to just have a regular conversation!” And “don’t ask so many inappropriate questions. Whatever you do, don’t cry with people you just met! It makes everyone really uncomfortable! Plus, it’s weird.”

I never could get the hang of it. I’m no good at watching TV, sports, and, like I said, no hobbies. Small talk is tough. So I like to dive into the juicy stuff. How can your heart not break open when you really listen? Why wasn’t everyone crying all the damn time?

Connecting with folks came easily and brought so much hope and joy. The hope that there is so much that binds us. The joy is that we aren’t alone in our suffering. Could it be that the same stuff that made me an indecisive fence sitter also made me a curious empathizer? That notion that our weakness might be our greatest strength rang true.

In the food store the other day, I saw the kind lady who sometimes helps me bag my groceries. We fell into our usual routine, focusing on the task at hand, exchanging jokes & some pleasant small talk. So I didn’t actually look at her until I had finished paying.

“Sylvie! You gorgeous babe! You got your hair cut!” She smiled a shy smile. “It looks brand new!” Yes, she affirms, “I just got it cut this morning.” Noting the fresh black dye and part down the opposite side of her head, I respond, “Well, it looks beautiful.”

At that moment, our eyes locked. In her twinkling stare, I recognized something. She felt truly seen by me. Her penetrating look told me how much she had seen me, in return. Time stood still. Tears filled my eyes. Together, we peeled back the illusionary layers that separate us. And what was left? Love. Love so tangible, you could reach out and touch its beating form.

So 3-Minute Storyteller might just be an elaborate ploy to give me the luxurious space and a more socially appropriate venue to dive deep. People are endless fascinating. And since we are all connected, their story is my story. Maybe just a chapter I haven’t learned yet, or forgot. I am so curious about how people tick, what they’ve learned. What inspires and frustrates them. So I invite them to share their stories, and am awed by how many say ‘yes.’

I get to have meandering, open-hearted, gorgeous conversations with folks who have done the work. Taken risks. Found a path. Who have the courage to blaze a trail and invite others to follow. These conversations illustrate how there are staggeringly infinite number of trails back to wholeness. Ultimately, each one of us has to create a path, a life, that brings us back to our most authentic selves.

Like many of my fellow empaths, I find it easier to be on the listening side than the sharing side. My inhale is seeking; my exhale is stillness. On those days when I’m balanced, centered, stable and strong, joy is the tiny pause—the splendid space—in between each breath. 3-Minute Storyteller gives me the ridiculous pleasure of inhaling a tenderly curated gathering of some of the most inspiring people I can imagine. Such rich and full content for my seeking heart!

What a joyful, pleasurable opportunity to shift through and immerse myself in books, ideas, conversations, modalities, faiths. STORIES. All of these rich, wise, funny, brave, heart-breaking, challenging STORIES. This place has become my creative expression. A people-loving, wisdom-seeking, story-collecting playground. It might not always be cool, but if you listen close, you’ll hear me cry. Lots.

But there’s also a danger of losing myself in the questing.

The only way I know to protect and fortify myself is in the exhale, through my contemplative practices. Sometimes that looks like two hours out in the forest dancing, crying, sitting or stomping. (My code when I’m on the edge and need to get back to myself fast: “I just need to run out to Target.” Mike’s learned to translate.) But often it’s five minutes before the kids need breakfast on the back deck with my journal.

Maintaining a disciplined practice helps me notice if I’m out of alignment and veering towards loosing myself to the great ideas and compelling visions of our storytellers. I don’t always get this delicate dance right.

When I’m faltering, God sends me folks like Sylvie to remind me: It may be that the only thing I have to offer this world is the gift of noticing that our 60-something grocery store bagger got a new cut and color. But if that exquisite sensitivity allows the two of us to share a tender, fleeting moment that reminds us that we are all just waking balls of love aching to be seen, to be held, and that we matter, then maybe that is enough.