Lying with the Moths in the In-between

What came up in last week's circle around hope.

I’m in the bedroom of my East Village apartment lying on a multi-colored shag rug that is home to a colony of moths (thanks Etsy). My exterminator Terry can’t kill them without harming my cat so I choose to live with them. 

I’m here, sharing the shag rug with moths at 3 pm on a Tuesday, because I could no longer stare at my computer screen due to debilitating chest pains. The chest pains aren’t new, I’ve dealt with them for 10 years. What is new is that I no longer numb the pain. I made this choice in July 2023 in an effort to finally move through my chest pains and crippling anxiety; it is now October 2023 and I’m still in pain.

I place both hands on my heart, close my eyes, and try to see the unseen, a somatic healing practice I learned a few days prior from a Sol member named Tracy.

I wouldn’t know it then, but it would become an integral part of me moving through my chest pains by helping me find textures, stories, and visuals buried deep within the pain. Once I saw them, once I integrated them, the pain would disintegrate. And the more I saw my truth — the things I ignored in order to blend in, avoid shame, or stay focused on the next goal I was “supposed” to have — the more my heart loosened its grip and talked to me like an adult rather than a child throwing a tantrum. 

But we’re still in the tantrum phase. The pain is getting worse — it’s a mustard yellow color that wants to be brighter with a sandpaper texture that wishes it was smoother. Images start to swirl in my mind, tears roll down my cheeks, and I realize the emotion I am most terrified of — hope. Hope that it will all be okay. That these chest pains will go away. That the world will get better, not worse. That I can create a successful VC-backed tech company. That I can get millions of people to see the healing and transformation that comes from sharing stories in a safe space. That I won’t fail.  

Stories flick through my mind of all the times hope failed me. 

Me, hoping that the boy whose heart I broke will come back. He won’t, he’ll just break mine. 

Me, hoping that the surgery on my legs will get me back on the lacrosse field without pain. It won’t, I still can’t run. 

Me, hoping that I will create something meaningful again for the tech company that has moved me off the product I built, poured my heart into, and believe will change user-generated content forever. I won’t, I’ll become heartbroken, cynical, depressed, and quit. The men who replaced me will stay focused on the numbers and forget to tend to the magic and the product will die. 

But if that boy had come back, I wouldn’t have met so many pieces of myself or found my way to a man I love even more. 

If I had kept playing lacrosse, I wouldn’t have become a columnist for my college newspaper, which eventually landed me a job at that tech company. 

And if I had been able to create something meaningful again for that tech company I wouldn’t have left to build Sol. 

As the realizations start to move through my body, the grip my heart has on my chest loosens, my body tingles, and the pain begins to fold into itself until eventually, it disintegrates.

In its place, I’m left with an understanding that hope laced with fear, longing, regret, or self-doubt will get me nowhere. But hope woven with courage, discipline, and above all, surrender, will set me free and isn’t something to be scared of.  

It’s now February 2024 and I’m hopeful. 

Some things are worse.  

I’ve watched traumatic events unfold on social media every day with no end in sight. I’ve watched startups with tens of millions of dollars in funding fail, that I never thought would fail. I’ve watched tech companies lay off the highest number of people since the dotcom bubble. I’ve watched venture capitalists unable to reach their funding goals and avoid investing in consumer apps even more so than they avoid investing in women. I feel like the tech collective is just holding their breath, waiting for the whole industry (except for AI) to pop. On top of all that, people love to ask me, “When are you giving up?” 

But some things are better. 

I got a new rug; it’s green and has no moths. I don’t have chest pains or anxiety anymore. I sat with the pain everyday until it all disintegrated and I was left with a clear line of communication to my heart. 

My new rug. No more lying with the moths!

I’m perfectly aware that it all might not work out the way I once imagined. But that no longer scares or embarrasses me. I stay focused on controlling the things I can control. I integrate the lessons I’ve learned along the way. Have the courage to do what scares me, and the discipline to deny fear, worry, and doubt when they knock on my door. And most importantly, I surrender and follow the breadcrumbs the universe leaves for me.

If you’re struggling with hope as you find yourself in the in-between, don’t be scared. Know you aren’t alone. Uncover your stories and share them so you can rise above your past and access your potential. A perfect place to do this, is in Circle. 😉

Use the code HOPE for one month free 🌀

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Sol is a social wellness app that empowers women through storytelling circles. Circles are live, structured, video experiences that leave members feeling connected and empowered to be their truest form of self.

• Flexible to your schedule — multiple time slots everyday

• Low pressure — never have to share a story

• Judgement free — no advice or feedback, just open hearts

• Intimate — Up to 6 women per a group