Nobody talks about the intermission

Hello friend,

Last week, I fell apart a little.

Okay, maybe more than a little. I cried for pretty much 24 hours. Enough that when I finally emerged into public, three different people asked me if I had allergies.

Nope.

Just having a minor existential crisis over here. Carry on.

· · ·

THIS WEEK

It started with a job. I had applied for a position as a spiritual animator. A job title I didn’t know existed, for the thing I’ve done my whole life.

I didn’t have the piece of paper they were asking for, but I had the life experience. And for the first time in years, I saw a full-time job posting and thought: I want that.

I could see what I might bring to it. The workshops I could create, the community I could build, the conversations I could start. I was excited.

And then I didn’t get the second interview.

And down I went.

It didn’t take me long to realize I wasn’t crying about the job. I was crying about everything. Every idea I’ve had that didn’t work. Every business I started that didn’t become what I imagined. Every time I swung and missed. Every time I thought, this is it, only to discover that apparently, no, Karen, this was not it.

And eventually I arrived at the things I’m doing right now. The Crone Stories. This newsletter. The work I’m trying to build around women and storytelling and this strange, beautiful, confusing second half of life.

I love this work. I would do it for free. In fact, I currently seem to be proving that.

So suddenly I wasn’t questioning a job rejection anymore. I was questioning my entire life.

Is this really my second act? Am I building something, or am I just keeping myself busy? Is The Crone Stories going anywhere? Am I supposed to start another business? Go back to work? Teach? Write? Build community?

What the hell am I doing?

And I let myself go there.

I didn’t call someone to talk me out of it. A couple of people reached out, and I didn’t want to talk, because I knew what loving people would say. Their loss. Something better is coming. You’re amazing.

Those are beautiful things to say to someone. I just didn’t want to hear them. I didn’t want to feel better yet.

I wanted to feel like shit.

So I did. I let myself think the ugly thoughts. I cried about things that happened years ago and things that haven’t happened yet. I let every failure come and sit beside me. And I didn’t make myself wrong for any of it.

That might have been the most important part.

Somewhere along the way, especially in the wellness and spiritual worlds, I think we became terrified of feeling bad. We want to reframe it. Journal it. Meditate it away. Raise our vibration. Find the lesson. Practise gratitude. Look for the open window, because apparently God closed a door and now we’re all wandering around the house looking for fucking windows.

But what if sometimes you just need to sit on the floor beside the closed door?

What if you don’t need to understand it yet? What if you don’t need to turn it into a blessing before you’ve even admitted that it hurt?

I listen to Abraham Hicks. I believe deeply in energy and alignment and the stories we tell ourselves. But I don’t believe that means we’re supposed to be afraid of our own sadness.

There is a difference between feeling something and building a home there. I wasn’t moving into despair. I was visiting. And I stayed long enough to hear what it had to say.

Eventually, I realized something about that job. I don’t think I wanted the job as much as I wanted what it represented. I want to build community. I want to create spaces where women can gather. I want workshops and conversations and stories. And I don’t always want to be the woman standing at the front of the room.

I want to build the room. With real people in it, not just a screen.

Usually when I let myself completely surrender to one of these moments, something else drops in too. A knowing. A little cosmic breadcrumb that says, okay, Karen, here’s where we’re going.

Not this time.

A few days ago, that terrified me.

Today? Maybe I don’t need to know yet.

Maybe there’s a space between who we’ve been and who we’re becoming where we’re not supposed to know. And maybe one of the great privileges of getting older is finally being able to stand in that space without immediately trying to fix it.

The lights come up. The scenery is being moved around behind the curtain. You can hear people banging shit around back there. And you’re sitting in your seat wondering what the hell they’re building.

Maybe that’s where I am.

Intermission.

And maybe you’re there too. Maybe something didn’t work. Maybe someone hurt you. Maybe you got rejected. Maybe the thing you thought would be further along by now isn’t. Maybe you’re questioning your marriage, your work, your body, your purpose, your friendships, or the person you’ve become.

Feel it.

Not forever. But fully.

Don’t rush to turn it into wisdom. Don’t make yourself wrong because you’re angry or jealous or disappointed or scared. Don’t let anyone drag you into gratitude before you’re ready.

Let it hurt. Let it piss you off. Let yourself cry until strangers think you have allergies.

Feelings move. But first we have to let them move through us.

I still don’t know what’s coming next. Maybe I need to have Faith in that.

Maybe that’s the lesson. Or maybe there isn’t a lesson yet.

I’ll let you know.

In love, light and laughter,

Karen

P.S. Gertrude’s story comes out Friday, and she closes Season One of The Crone Stories. She’s the eldest woman to sit with me this season. After the worst day of her life, a friend told her: don’t make a decision for a year. Don’t even think about it. She said it freed her. Pull up a chair.