The Storm

Recently, my partner, kids, and I went for a hike. I’d like to think myself a well-prepared Coloradan mountain-goer. I have spent enough hikes listening to my kids whine incessantly to know to bring two hundred and ninety-four snacks, how long of a trail to attempt, how difficult of a trail they can manage, to always sandwich them between adults on the trail (mountain lions freak me out), to not leave too late in the day, to always pack layers, and to make sure to check the damn weather.

So, I checked the damn weather. Multiple times. All morning. It said there was a “chance of showers” later in the day. It certainly did not say there was any chance of thunderstorms. Had I seen that small yellow bolt on the weather app, I would not have set out on the hike.

As the fates would have it, the weather lied (or I had a temporary loss of sanity), and off we went. We were about a mile in when I heard the first low-grade rumble. I glanced up. The skies were quickly darkening. A moment later, it was clear a thunderstorm was coming our way. My partner and I decided it was safest to turn back to our car. I love thunderstorms from the cozy nook on my couch or watching them roll by from the safety of my front porch. I do not love thunderstorms in the middle of tall mountains and trees, with tiny humans who cannot outrun a storm, and nowhere to take shelter.

Couple all of this with a memory of once walking across a field during a thunderstorm in college. I was on my cell phone (stupid), saw a bright flash, and literally heard the sky buzzing like electrical wires. I still don’t understand how I was not hit. It left me with a deep appreciation of not tempting the electrical storm gods.

So, we did our best to get off the mountain before the heart of the storm found us, but tiny hiking feet meant we didn’t make it in time. My partner wanted to make a run for it, but the “9 Mississippi’s” between flashes of lightening and booms of thunder now became “3 Mississippi’s” and my fight, flight, freeze reflex had kindly removed my logical frontal lobe from the conversation. Usually, I am a fighter when it comes to fight, flight, freeze. But even I know you cannot fight a thunderstorm, so I opted for freeze, and we hunkered down just off the trail to wait the last of the storm out.

At “2 Mississippi’s” came the pelting rain and hail. My kids were terrified, which makes sense given that they are kids. The hardest moments I have ever had as a parent are when my nervous system goes haywire along with my kids’ while they are looking to me for guidance and support. Meanwhile, I am trying to pull it together enough to offer them the comfort they need, while doom spirals in my own mind. This was one of those moments.

I pulled them in close and noticed that my hands were shaking because I was also terrified and full of adrenaline. By now there was no pause between flashes and booms. The flashes were happening all around us and the booms were so loud I could feel them reverberate in my chest. I told the kids that they should put their heads down, close their eyes, and plug their ears. I told them this because it was about all I could muster for myself—to cut out some of the overwhelming noises and sights.

They screamed after every thunder crack and asked me why we couldn’t call a park ranger to come rescue us. Even in the midst of chaos, my smart kids knew that rangers are the helpers. Alas, I had no service to call, even if I had wanted to (which, in my panic, I did briefly consider).

Flight kicked in and everything in me wanted to run away from this experience. Somehow my frontal lobe came back on line. Where was I going to run to? I kept thinking about how much I hated this. What good did that do? Finally, a useful thought emerged. I told my kids that sometimes, the only way out of the hardest things—is through them. I was pretty sure we were going to survive this experience (we were not above tree line, nor in imminent danger), but it was miserable, terrifying, and shitty nonetheless. And yet, the only way out of that storm, was through that storm.

I have been reflecting upon this experience since we (spoiler alert) survived it. At the pinnacle of the storm, I was scrunched up, hating that there was even a storm to begin with. I was angry with myself that I somehow missed this in the forecast. I kept wishing I had a Samantha-from-Bewitched-like nose, full of twitching powers that would zap us out of the discomfort of waiting out the storm. Isn’t Nature kind to lay such a metaphor down for us? I regret to inform you that even your therapist has moments where they want to time warp themselves into better times. I hoped I was not going to be seriously injured or killed on that hike, but storms are big, unpredictable beasts that unfold the way they want. They are indiscriminate and make no space for moronic college girls, walking across a field, talking on a cell phone when they are trying to do their thing. But I digress.

Sometimes we cannot outrun the circumstances in our lives. We cannot fight them. Nor can we control them. So we must become skilled at learning how to wait them out, even when we are more exposed to the proverbial elements than we want to be. This contradicts everything within us that is wired for survival. On a primal level, I believe we all carry a fear of annihilation. So much, that we will do anything in our power to avoid the emotions and experiences that feel as if they will psychologically pull us limb from limb and leave us for the wolves.

Here’s the thing: the storm did not come to annihilate us. Nor will your divorce, loss of a loved one, depression, anxiety, grief, or anything else that you have been trying to survive. It may, however, ask you to dig deep into the well of your Self and find a way to to endure as it passes.

If that means there are days where your best effort is to close your eyes, plug your ears, and try to focus on your breath, so be it. Another day you will find the courage to open your eyes and face the storm. And yet another day, perhaps you will make peace with what has come to your life’s doorstep.

We are not in control of the storm, its size, or its duration. Clients often want me to tell them when the storm might pass. I wish I had the power to answer that. The truth is that my job is much more about sitting beside people as the storm rages above them, holding their hand, and reminding them that the way out is through. I know it is possible to find your way through because I watch my clients do it over and over—this enduring of the fates.

My job is also to hold that space for myself. In my life, as with all humans, there have been thousands of storms—most of them smaller. These usually pass quickly. The ones that rattle my bones and leave me questioning my survival are always the ones that change me. Deeply. Forever. There is something about standing on your own mountain and passing through the phases of your own discomfort, insignificance, and immenseness. You face your deepest fear in these moments: the metaphorical end of the life you know. Change. Waiting. Being.

 Trusting yourself. Trusting the storm.

Per Aspera, Ad Astra.

Julie