Move fast slowly – The trick to stress management and getting shit done

There is a form of danger that demands immediate response. Cortisol injects into the system, adrenaline pulses through the veins. The heart pounds, eyes dilate, muscles tense—ready for action.

If a tiger popped up in the room, it would make sense to react instantly—no overthinking, no strategizing, no contemplating feelings. Just move.

Of course, today’s tigers look different. Like an Audi driver texting his girlfriend, oblivious to you on the sidewalk as he nearly runs you over.

Yes, that’s a good time for quick action.

Or when you turn the supermarket aisle for your favorite ice cream and spot your ex, lost in the freezer section with his long-haired, perfectly sculpted new girlfriend from the gym.

Immediate turn-around.

Or that adrenaline jolt as you clutch your purse, walking through a sketchy street in the Tenderloin. A black man approaches—baggy pants, a limp, a marked face.

Yeah, that last one gets uncomfortable. Because I wrote "black guy," and that triggers the racism alarm. But let’s be real—when we’re in fight-or-flight, ingrained biases emerge. It could just as easily be a white dude in ripped jeans, but centuries of inherited fear responses don’t always check themselves at the door.

What about moving slowly in the face of danger? What about intentionally slowing the nervous system, acting with precision, breathing?

Because today’s low growl in the bush looks more like an upcoming deadline, or a meeting where you admit to the guy you’re dating that it’s not a good fit.

Or the morning firefighter routine—alarm, snooze, snooze, shit, late. Throw on clothes, slap on makeup, pour coffee into a to-go mug, dress the kids, pour their cereal, grab backpacks, sack lunches.

Kiss your hubby goodbye while already planning a Sprouts run for dinner ingredients.

Go, cortisol and adrenaline. Get that heart rate up. Hello, high blood pressure, immune depletion, and exhaustion. Not to mention the wrinkles between your eyebrows didn’t come from smiling.

Of course, all this sounds a bit binary. If you’re anything like me, you don’t have a 9-to-5 or a hubby you make dinner for.

But time itself is a cause for stress, right? No deadlines, no appointments, no flight times, no Zoom meetings—sounds like bliss.

But what if we could move fast without the cortisol spike?

Can we move quickly in the external world while staying internally slow?

Think of HIIT workouts—burpees, squats, boxing, push-ups. Fast, intense, and oddly satisfying. Maybe not during, but afterward? Endorphins flood in. That feel-good high.

What if we approached obligations—school drop-offs, reports, family reunions, lost Amazon packages—like a workout?

Stress isn’t about the task itself but the story we attach to it.

Let’s go back to the tiger. What happens if it pounces?

Go ahead, guess.

Yep. Head ripped off. Limbs licked clean. Death, in a pretty gory fashion.

Now, contrast that with being late to your Zoom meeting about the latest HeartRipple yoga pant designs.

Is your boss going to rip your head off?

The issue isn’t the task—it’s the projection.

We don’t even know what’s going to happen. The boss might scold us, we might lose our team lead position, the plane might leave, we might have to buy a bikini in Hawaii while waiting for our lost suitcase.

How bad can it really be? Are you actually going to die?

Most failures aren’t fatal. But our minds pile up every possible catastrophe, distracting us from what’s actually happening: right here, right now.

If I weren’t obsessing about my missed flight, my insurance oversight, the security line, and whether they’ll confiscate my hummus—

I could just breathe.

Calculate my speed. Ask myself, “What’s the worst that can happen?” Trust that I’ll handle it.

Then, move with focus. Approach the security line, ask the first person if I can go ahead. They smile, nod. Faith in humanity, restored.

Ditch the hummus. Buy an over priced sandwich. Enjoy the free pretzels.

Slide into my seat, heart rate up but never stressed. Because I was present.

Sometimes it’s not one thing—it’s a million. And you, the self-appointed superhero, are carrying a giant fat ogre on your head, convinced only you can handle it.

That’s the moment to pause. Breathe. Put the ogre aside to have a good bird’s eye view of it. Breathe again.

What keeps a fire burning? Not compressed logs—but air.

Breathe. Make space. Fire needs air to burn bright, not a suffocating pile of logs.

Same with the nervous system. It’s meant to undulate, not swing from Everest highs to Grand Canyon crashes. Not go-go-go, then collapse into Netflix and TikTok oblivion.

Economy of energy. Let’s go for a bunch of E’s. Not the E for ecstasy (although that could be fun—kissing your kids, prepping heart-shaped sandwiches, gushing over your boss’s earrings, squeezing your hubby’s love handles and a sweet slap one the butt on his way out the door).

No, let’s stick with these 4 E’s:

Economy—What do you ACTUALLY need to do today? Write it down.

Economize—Stay present. Stop predicting every possible outcome. It’s exhausting.

Energy—How do you get the job done with the least wasted effort?

Energetics—What energy do you bring? Can you choose joyful, grateful, or at least neutral?

As I’m elaborating on economy of energy, I find myself writing this during my layover in the Amsterdam airport, sipping my hot chocolate at ease, realizing, I may need to meander over to my next flight.

I get to the passport control line I had previously scoped out as a safe 5 min line, transformed into an endless line of hundreds of irritated travelers.

I have 7 mins. before my plane boards.

I stop. Assess. This line will take at least 30 mins.

I approach the guard, “Excuse me, do you think I’m going to be late? “ as I show him my boarding pass. “You might be able to make the flight” he says as he looks at the line.

I picture the plan of action once I am liberated from the 30 min. line. At the sound of the stamp in my passport, I break for it. Expertly weaving my way through the crowds, suitcases, wheel chairs, and incoming traffic, arriving to the gate as the doors are closing, my passport in hand, dripping sweat and collapsing in my seat as the captain announces, “ready for takeoff.”

I keep calm. The guard looks at me again. “Hold on, I’ll help you.” he says. He lifts the barrier, then another one.

A couple run up to the guard as he’s escorting me to the front, “We’re never going to make it in time!” – they frantically wave their tickets in the air.  Their anger, frustration and stress is palpable. He turns frankly and says “Sorry, you have to wait” and continues to escort me to the front of the line.

I breeze past the officer as I’m smiling to myself. Not only did I get to handle the situation majestically, I proved to myself the art of staying cool in times of pressure.

I arrive to the gate with extra time to use the restroom and saunter onto the plane.

Economy of Energy is a beautiful thing.

Life isn’t about removing stressors. It’s about shifting how you move through them. Fast on the outside, calm on the inside. Dare to take an alternative route to destination.

Be Present. Focused. Unshakable.

The path to truth runs through shame

um chronic shyness…

Most of my life was run by shame and guilt. I suffered from the shame of existing, from my own thoughts, my incapacity to be like everyone else, my inability to easily open my mouth, joke, say something witty or smart.

My mind took 400 years to process things and ultimately by the time I was ready to respond or throw in a comment, the discussion had moved miles down the road. So I was silent.

I questioned everything. There wasn’t an impulse that wouldn’t’ be flipped around on it’s head, analyzed and weighed out all the potential outcomes before it was put into action.

So, by the time the impulse was allowed to move, it was awkward, a bit unnatural, my words came out wrong, my actions didn’t give me the joy I thought they might.

I began forcing myself to listen to my impulse by the time I was in my 20’s and 30’s, I’d have these urges to run or to feel the drive to let the energy exploding in me to reveal itself.

It might be the desire to walk on a handrail, do a cartwheel, run up and down the beach, scream out loud. I would still calculate the potential outcomes, the people who may watch me, and the whole time doing it I would have their eyes glued onto the back of my head like curlers, but I’d do it.

I wouldn’t necessarily get the feeling I was striving for or that I needed to express, but at least I let myself push past the freeze response in my body that couldn’t move or speak.

With performing it was easier, I had a circle of permission. The audience was there to see me be impulsive, spontaneous, weird and quirky. I could delight in this, and my audience would give me that permission.

I could make faces, scream, fall all over the place, run and do cartwheels, take people’s shirts off, pull men’s ears, crawl on the ground, steal peoples’s hats, pretend like I’m drunk, tell everyone to be quiet, so that I, I, I, could speak.

Yes, performing gave me a public permission slip to be heard, no shame in my impulses or words, they paid for this.

It was different around a dinner table though, if I was to share an honest opinion, a tuning fork accessing my emotional and mental state and mold that into a word baby. Wow, that was a feat.

I attempted to converse. How do you have conversations? Foreign to me. Firstly, eye contact was excruciatingly challenging. I would have to hide and push down the nervous quiver to the lower floors. How far down could I hide it?

Words. What do you say to someone new? What kind of decent responses, wit and light intelligent responses would have to be invented on the spot just to keep them interested?

How to keep them interested? Maybe, I should share about myself. Yes, I can attempt to create a conversation by sharing about my life. I would talk about myself, the things I did, opinions, hoping not to have that awful silence. I wasn’t really interested in what I shared, I had heard it a million times, but how do I remain interesting to them?

I was always thrown into a state of disbelief if a few people at the table would stop to listen to anything I might share. Their eyes, all looking at me, the pressure, the pressure!

I had an audience, I have to maintain their interest, how do I get out of this as quickly as possible? Their eyes permeated me like microscopes. They could see everything. I cannot let them see how nervous I am. Hide it. Hide it.

I recall a shift. One day, sitting on a chair opposite a man facing me on another chair in a large empty theater hall. I recall he was important in my mind. It may have been regarding my show, perhaps a theater agent. My heart was beating so loud I could barely hear him speak. The heat was rising in my face as I attempted to smile, laugh and appear amusing and smart.

My mind was spinning, his words were a blur. I’m supposed to listen and respond intelligently.

“Carly, listen. Think of a response.” My inner dialogue is talking louder than he is. I readjust my posture to seem even more at ease on the outside.

Then I realize. “Carly, slow down. Just notice what’s happening in your body. Can you feel your heart palpitating? Can you feel the heat? Where are your feet, ah they’re there. Ok, can you feel the ground underneath them? Good.”

I manage to anchor my body to the seat. The seat becomes my stable point, my grounding.

“Carly, can you just be present? Focus on his words. Feel your body. Feel your body. Don’t let the mind go crazy.”

“Listen deeper.”

I managed to make it through that conversation.

Over time, I realized that pretending to be anything I wasn’t in conversation would create such an intense amount of stress that the discomfort exhausted me by the end of the evening.

I needed alone time to relax, to not have to be someone I thought they wanted to see. To release the pressure valve.

I had to spend a lot of recuperation time.

Finally, I decided to just name it.

I would teach yoga retreats, and as I would hold the opening circle, feeling the terror of not meeting up to the expectations of the people who signed up.

I start out “I’m feeling super nervous, my heart is pounding, I’m worried about your expectations, but I’m attempting anyway.”

They would all listen, and something about that blatant truth freed me.

Phew, I could start, my body relaxed and I’d take my power back. And for them, well, they could also stop with whatever narrative they had in their head to be the perfect yoga student. They had MY PERMISSION because I gave myself the PERMISSION to not be more than who I was in that moment.

I used that a lot. I still felt terribly nervous before speaking, even when I would want to respond to a group question. I would raise my hand and when it was my turn to speak, consistently, my heart would pound, my face would flush, my body would shake.

I’d say it. “I’m feeling nervous right now, but here I go.” And I’d make it through.

I haven’t been able to make that feeling completely go away every time I have the attention of a group audience ready to listen to my words.

I have to remember feeling my body. It anchors me in what’s present. I don’t always have to admit it to them, but I admit it to myself. And I give myself permission to feel nervous and still let my voice come out.

I was always a good writer. I could really let it rip, let my emotions, words, imaginations pour onto a page. Letting those come up and hit my vocal cords demanded another pathway, the pathway to concretization, manifesting of a thought into palpable audible form. Concretizing it into existence, not to be taken back or hidden in a notebook.

The stakes are much higher. Now, I feel, I formulate, as if it is a focused meditation. What wants to converge inside of myself and shape itself into the weight of a word? Yes, and when that word can be uttered and it hits the same feeling and image of that which is within me, the channel is open.

…as if the divine within is allowed to come pouring fourth like liquid.

Writing for me is god’s permission slip. You can write your soul onto the page. And when I share it, woah, there is the hot feeling in my body, the tremble before clicking the button “publish”. The after publishing rise of potential shame and vulnerability. And then something inside that releases, one more piece of me, I don’t have to keep hidden in my recesses.

One more validation to myself that every part of me is allowed to exist and express itself.

Then, once it is released. Said, read, heard. I can move on.

I can read it aloud if needed, I have released my heart, emotion, mind into the world to let them do as they wish with it. I have offered up the gift of me, my inner worlds, it is no longer mine to hoard over, to self masturbate over. It is for all to use, be inspired, ridicule or cry over. It is a permission slip.

Memory Hijacker- the true-ish story of trauma

trauma can affect your memory, but your body can remember….

Write about 8th grade is the writing prompt today, as if that was easy. Let’s imagine I’m like everybody else who remembers their adolescence. My mind shut down years ago, the cognitive memory took a vacation. Guess it was under flight mode?

My 8th grade. My slight panic arises, I don’t remember anything. Or barely. I have a face in mind, a balustrade, a girl I so wished she would be friends with me, who never was.

Rita, the girl with long blond straight puffy hair. She would sit in front of me in class and brush her hair constantly. I wished I had her hair.

What was I doing? Did we have a uniform? It was a christian junior high.

Was I in California? I didn’t know anybody.

Part of me is freaking out. How could I zap an entire section of existence out of my life?

I have a vague memory of a class room to the right in the back, did we eat there?

What was happening at that time in my life? I must have been 13 or 14. Where was my brother? My adopted sister would have been 3 at the time. I have a flash of us playing a practical joke on her and putting her in the basketball net. I wonder if she’s traumatized from that, she still remembers.

It’s all blended.

I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. The first time I kissed a boy I was in California, I must have been that age. Must have been when mom took us to California from Arizona to see our dad. They had broken up, she went back, to try to save the family.

He lived in a little apartment building. Basic. We used to spend our days in the hollowed out area of a giant bush in the complex, we loved forts. They were our safe space.

My brother and I would make forts in the living room, from the plastic fold out table to the chair, we would drape sleeping bags over it and hang out in there.

When our parents were gone, we would whip each other with wet towels. We fought brutally or maybe we were just letting out our pent up emotions from all that was happening in the family.

Did it not even concern my parents that changing schools 13 times in the span of my 10 years of schooling was a bit much for a chronically shy hyper sensitive child?

Did it not even occur to them?

One night, a woman arrived at my dad’s door, knocking, banging to see him. He finally went out. We were supposed to be sleeping. I think we slept in the living room.

They were talking, no idea what they were saying under their muffled voices, guess that was Dad’s new girlfriend while he and Mom were separated.

Why did my mother go back? Why do women go back to their abuser? He was changed, I think that was what she believed. Things would be different, she must have been struggling. 3 kids, working at night as a nurse.

As kids, we have no clue what our parents do to make sure we survive. I had no idea.

We used to throw snails on our neighbors giant windows overlooking the common green area. We would watch them slowly smear their way down the window to their final crash on the ground.

Things kids do.

Not to mention using magnifying glasses to roast ants.

That boy… I barely remember him. I think he had glasses, we played together. I remember a kiss, a quick one, then never seeing him again. Name? No idea.

I wonder was I really in junior high? All this sounds so immature. To think, 2 years later I would be going to bars with a fake ID.

This must have been earlier, I wouldn’t have been hiding in forts at 13.

It’s all a mess and part of me reaches out to my younger self and says, damn girl, you must have been going through it not to remember a single thing.

I recall slamming my finger in the car trunk.

I recall getting pneumonia and coughing until almost threw up by a car in a parking lot.

My lungs, need for air, sense of compression? I always felt like I had a cage around my chest. One day, I would break free. But I couldn’t back then.

I don’t think I was still spanked at that age. The church wouldn’t have allowed it.

At that time we were probably in the new punishment phase of writing bible verses 100’s of times repeating the same one again and again. Verses about sinning. How could I forget them now, after writing, sleeping, dreaming the constant hammer of guilt into my body?

Or maybe it was the soap mouthwash? Laying on the bathroom floor with a giant bar of fresh new square soap lodged into our mouths after being carefully grated into our teeth. We would lay their for what seemed interminable, letting the soap drip down our throats, our mouths cocked open like a pig with an apple.

That was for white washing. Little white lies had to be cleaned out of our system.

That must have been younger.

At 13 I lived with my mother. Yes, that must have been it. I was into Metallica, Skid Row, Kiss, I had posters on my walls. I had a black and white polka dotted bedspread. We lived in a house I loved, an open floor plan with bedrooms on the sides. I could easily get out without my mother knowing.

One of the nights she was at work, my friends came over, I pierced their ears with ice and a needle.

I rode the bus, I liked a boy. I was too shy to speak to him. My emotions had no idea how to let themselves out. One day, he sat close to me, I slapped him. His face was red, he was stunned.

I liked him. Why did I do that?

My first fight with a girl happened in that time, we pulled each others hair, that’s all I remember.

I must have been a churning ocean of hormones, emotions, trauma and survival mechanisms. The world was a vicious place that I never felt at home in.

What was I like? I must have been a pain in the ass. I reproach my mother for not being there for me emotionally. She was probably just dealing with her own PTSD from being with my father and working to raise 3 children.

I had no idea. I just criticized her. She slapped me once. I was 16 already.

I had no idea. No idea what went on for her, I was removed, distant, in my own mind bubble, protecting myself and surviving in a world that I had no idea how to navigate.

You want me to talk about 8th grade? Well, you know what, it’s not that fucking easy.

Managing anger🤬 as a nominated "hot headed Italian"🇮🇹

“Ma va fan culo!" we would say with an elaborate gesture of the hand. As if the hand could add on all the extra obscenities that the words “go f*ck yourself” or literally what “go F yourself in the A” couldn’t say. 

People would abruptly stop their car on the cobblestoned roads, ignoring the honking blocked cars behind theirs, and step out of their vehicle to personally tell off the guy behind you that he’s riding your bumper and being an asshole. 

A few hot headed words and a lot of hand gestures would ensue between the two. Pedestrians would stop in their tracks to take in the scene and take sides, gesticulating to which party they decided to support in the public street. 

The loud energetic uproar would finish with the driver saying “Ma va” with a backhanded gesture as if you’re pushing hair off the side of your head, except about 3 inches further away. Meaning, “whatever, get outta here.” And head back to his car and continue driving. Just a normal day. 

Italian Traffic Scene

Man, those Italians can really tell stories with their hands. What words need multiple phrases to articulate, one hand gesture can capture the entire essence. 

I’ve been accused of being a “hot headed Italian” in the negative sense to be clear. Never would I imagine that being an emotional being would be used as ammunition in the domestic conflicts of who’s right and who’s wrong. 

I’m the one who got angry, raised her voice and used a swear word. Hence I will be eternally wrong on this side of the American west coast. 

During the 10 years I lived in Italy, we were yelling, laughing, gesturing and involved in everyone else’s business. Conversation was a public affair for all to throw in a joke or an exaggeration. It was the game of who could be bigger, louder and funnier. All who happened to be in the vicinity could jump in on the game. 

Anger was a short lived affair, it blew up, sizzled out and next thing you know, they’re walking arm in arm to the nearest café for an espresso.

In California, when I use emotional intensity to express a point it can be off putting. I can be seen as a bit over the top, uncontrolled, maybe threatening.

I tend to be the one who breaks the enchantment of the spiritual bubble that encompasses the Californian lingo. The best is the sharing part after a yoga class, women’s circle or breath work course. Everyones’ like “I feel love, bliss, connected.” “I felt a ray of light come through my heart that permeated the whole circle.” Etc. etc. 

Then we all hold hands and sing I love you, You are special, we look in each other’s eyes and hug each other. 

My turn to share is often less rosy. I swear I’m not the doom sayer, I’m just honest. Either it starts with me admitting “I hate women’s circles because everyone talks about what cycle of the moon they’re bleeding on.”

Or in a more articulated fashion, “ at first I experienced irritation because the music was so loud I couldn’t hear the facilitator, then I noticed my nervous system did not feel safe enough to fully go deep with y’all.” 

No, I don’t feel safe to go deep because all that feels ok to express is rainbows and unicorns and light emotions. 

No, I don’t want you to fix me or repair me if I’m feeling irritated and pissed off.

I actually got asked if I wanted to be swaddled the last time I expressed feeling a bit exposed in an unsafe emotional space. 

Do I want to be swaddled by a group who can’t hold space for emotional intensity!? No. Absolutely not. 

Would swaddling help push down the anger and make it go away so it doesn’t rear it’s ugly head? First, my anger needs to be acknowledged. 

Anger can make people very uncomfortable. 

The relationship to anger for many  may have consisted of an abusive parent, a fight in school or a traumatic incident. 

They din't get the experience of healthy anger that isn’t meant to harm or hurt the receiver, simply an expression of an energy that is alive in the body that needs to be let out and can then move on.

The problem is we don’t have that habit. As a therapist I have clients that say I have so much anger and I don’t know how to let it out, then they smile, shrug their shoulders and laugh. 

That is WHY!

We dumb down the validity of anger, we are ashamed of our own anger, the more repressed it is, the more if ferments into poison in our own bodies. It eats away at us, all the unsaid things, the unvoiced thoughts, the repression of expression. No! we should not be angry.

The rage room. What a wonderful idea and quite funny. 

For all that repressed anger, you can pay to go to a room where you can break shit, yell and let it all out. Then you pack up your stuff and go home, your anger is out of sight, in a safe place and no-one has to know that you had an angry ferocious beast inside of you who just wanted to break everything.

breaking TV

Why do I find this funny? I’m applauding the inventors who managed to find an outlet for a societal problem and get paid good money to have people simply break stuff. 

That’s awesome. (More about rage rooms here)

The problem is: Well what's next?

Can you really just keep building up anger like a pressure cooker and pay to let it out in the rage room weekly or monthly?

Rage rooms are great for immediate release but do not deal with long term anger management. 

The car is a fairly safe place to let out our anger. Screaming at the top of your lungs at the wheel is a favorite of mine. 

Road rage. Go ahead, ride that bumper, flash those brights, swerve around that traffic, get that pent up frustration out through your car. Oh yeah. 

No, Please don’t.

You might earn the title of a big A-hole.

Comments on social media are great too.
Welcome to the absence of accountability. You can be a hater to anyone all the time, just vent out the most negative comments, scorn the ones who have opinions you disagree with, click harshly on the unsubscribe button, send the hatred out on the evil doers of the world.

Lash out against politics, consumerism, prices, complain, complain, complain. 

As long as we can let that shit out as if it’s not about us and our life, we can mask our true subconscious needs, as we attempt to get that energy moving through the body in some way or another. 

The problem with this method is it negatively impacts everyone you send that energy out to in a way that does not support mutual humanity, connection or understanding. It removes the human behind the digital device and can truly be damaging for everyone. 

Excercise helps. How many people only feel better after running or pumping as hard as they can?

Exercise helps transform that high energy Catecholamine cocktail of anger(adrenalin and noradrenaline and dopamine + others)  into a healthy channel that produces the good feeling hormones of endorphins and serotonin. 

The energy is moving and you haven’t harmed anyone in the process, but you haven’t necessarily voiced or clarified or learned how to work with the cause of what you’re upset about. 

But at least the gym can stay successful and you feel better each time after you’re done until the next urgent need to get it out. 

Some people get it out through masturbation or sex. A nice release of dopamine and oxytocin which helps release cortisol levels (stress hormones).

If I remain in the chair of the anger researcher and how to deal with it, I observe that telling my partner to fuck off when he doesn’t hug me might be counter productive.. 

I really just wanted to express how I was terribly hurt and felt desperately alone.

How I wish that all those courses in non violent communication could surpass the fire that rises up in my body in those moments, but instead I yell “all I asked  is for you to sit by me and hug me! Fuck off!" and I storm out. Literally the opposite of what I want. 

In my ideal world he wouldn’t take it personally. He’d be a nominee supporter of “hot headed Italians” and not take my words for more than what they were. Fuck off doesn’t really mean I hate you or get away from me. It just means I’m upset.

He would come after me and say in a beseeching Italian voice and a hand gesture “Dai, Carly, vieni qui! (Come on Carly, come here…) then he’d grab me and pull me close to him, I’d melt and tell him how much I loved him and we’d tumble into a passionate non-italian French kiss. (technically neither of us have Italian or French blood.)

Then there’s the opposite. Households where all they do is yell and swear at each other. It’s not healthy anger, it’s intense, it’s charged, it can be hurtful and violent. Oftentimes children are in the vicinity and it can be terrifying. 

I wonder if I learned that yelling was ok from the way my parents fought. I would hear them yelling. It wasn’t ok, it wasn’t healthy, I was scared. 

Where is the healthy middle ground? 

How to know when the words become knives and not just expressions of letting off steam? 

How do you know which words hurt and which ones won’t?

For an Italian, “fuck off” can be a daily affair, thrown around like a frisbee. 

For others with a history of trauma and witnessing anger, “fuck off” can be the trigger of a dangerous situation. 

Their nervous system might respond to anger with one of the 4 F’s. Fight, flight, freeze or fawn. 

Anger is almost always the expression of an unmet need. The needs could be multiple; love, affection, warmth, understanding, participation, acceptance, etc. 

The body gets hot, the heart beats faster, the belly might contract and anger rises, it is saying “mayday! mayday! a need is not being met here, I need your attention urgently.” 

The intensity of our emotions may or may not be in direct correlation with the intensity of the need, but rather the value we place on it or the prospect of it being able to be met. 

If my need was empathy and compassion when I was feeling down. That could have been solved by a hug in the quickest way, or perhaps an expression of genuine concern and a question of “hey, are you doing ok?” With a willingness to listen. 

When the strategy of “a hug” to meet my need for empathy, closeness and understanding was not met, I noticed anger begin to rise. 

It escalated when my partner did not grasp the urgency, he stayed far away and I felt more distance, which created more frustration and desperation. The further he couldn’t understand my request, empathize with my emotion or attempt to meet it, the more disconnection I felt. Top it off with the stark contrast between this distant figure and the one I normally go to for love and connection. I was thrown into a deep sense of abandonment.

A pressure cooker of emotion ready to explode. 

If only I had had the capacity to see all that in those 45 seconds of exchange. 

In relationship, often the emotional fire of accusations is met with another fire that counters the accusations, which fuels a bonfire of blame and disconnection.

There is no time for breath as each one tosses the hot potato back and forth. The words spew out like lava, burning, the other responds defensively or offensively. The finger points at the other, "it’s your fault that I am angry!" when underneath we are crying "Please hear me! Do I matter?"

We attempt to justify with the narrative of why they're wrong, but in the end, it is a desperate cry to be seen. 

Can you see that I need support, can you see that I want more connection and love, can you see that I want to feel understood, can you see I want to matter?

For us, our latest venture is establishing conflict agreements. 

What agreements do we have when we fight? Can we say that fuck off doesn’t mean, I hate you or disown you, rather just an expression of anger? 

Do we have a safe word if things escalate and the nervous system is overwhelmed? 

What does the safe word mean? do we back up, take a pause, take a break, come back to it, set a timer?

What are our boundaries? 

These agreements are made outside of the conflict. 

In the end, I don’t know if the Italian way is actually the best way, but it is an example of a culture that has a large capacity for emotional variety and intensity.

It may not work for everyone. Having 8 people all expressing their opinion loudly and letting off steam without validation might not be ideal, but neither is repressing it and saying “I’m fine” until you hit up the rage room. 

Living in Italy gave me the permission to voice much of what was pent up inside me in a way that didn't perpetuate judgment. It was even a fun way to express anger at times. 

I could exaggerate with some emotional intensity without the heaviness “Hey! Sta’ attenta a-o (Watch where you’re going!) I’d throw on my best Roman accent and launch a brusk straight handed gesture. 

I do miss Italian gesticulating. 

As I continue, in this American culture, I will continue being the black sheep of the women's circles and voicing my honest truth even if it appears that only flowers and rainbows are welcome.

If I become a weather forecaster, I have learned that thunder, lightning and dark clouds are part of an ecosystem of being and necessary for rain to fall, flowers to grow and rainbows to illuminate our hearts.

Learn more about the physiology of anger and a few ways to work with it in this extremely informative article here:
 

Blessings for you all in our common journey of being human. Carly

Double rainbow shot near my house in Hawaii

Dreaming possibilities into manifestation.

I read the words in the Poem by David Whyte “the step you don’t want to take” and I feel the rise of emotion, it rolls over my body, from my gut. Carly, what is the step you don’t want to take? Fear. I’m scared. It rushes over me, I cry as I attempt to type on my computer. I don’t even know why.

I am part of a weekly intention circle. Monday, 6 people encircled me, envisioning and holding me in their hearts:

Our intention for Carly Ko is that by Nov 5th she will  receive divine clarity defining a vision of a scalable project that will provide lucrative financial income, (>10k/ month avg.)  and fulfills her needs for adventure, creativity, ease, flexible travel, community, soul purpose and growth.

Wednesday, after a deep breath work session, my whole body vibrated as my arms and legs were spread open, flat on the floor in deep surrender. The message arrived, “you can have whatever you want.” I saw my self interconnected with the inter web of the entire world. You can have whatever you want, the message was clearer than day.

Today I receive a modeling casting for a 10 day booking on a cruise ship that will tour Antartica, Chile, or Columbia, Peru and Europe, paid 15,000 dollars. Possibly needing to do a cold plunge in icy water.

The prerequisite is having an “interesting look” and loving adventure. Both of those avenues are mine. I envision it, yes my whole body is on fire, I see myself plunging in that ice water and my endorphins and excitement shoot up my body.

Yes, this is something I want.

But will they pick me? I attempt to drop any attachment and just envision myself on that cruise ship watching glaciers go by.

I am just listening. I don’t know what I actually want, everything I’ve done in the past is amazing and I don’t want to repeat anything. How can I know what I want if the idea hasn’t presented itself to me?

One of my clients spoke to me about a project she was contemplating, supporting trauma survivors from sex trafficking in Guatemala and aiding the transition into another life in another country. Something in me perks up. I’m a trauma therapist, I want to help people, I want to travel, that sounds exciting. But also terribly heavy. No, I don’t think that’s what I want.

I could go sail the Polynesian islands and swim with the whales. But, I don’t know if I actually want to be on a small sail boat all the time in the middle of the ocean, what if I get land sick? You can’t make love on a sail boat if you’re a couple because someone always has to make sure the boat is sailing on course. That sounds frustrating. Maybe I don’t want that. I might get bored.

I can have whatever I want it said.

I realized in the intention circle as 6 people held me in their hearts meditating and holding my intention for 10 minutes that the word “undeserving” came over me. Do I deserve to have what I want? I felt the emotion of those words, I let go, those words don’t serve me anymore. A wave of release washes over through the tears.

I remembered my mother, I never thought she believed in me. Only I believed in me, only I struggled and pushed through life to get where I’m at now. No-one else believed in me. Only god believed in me, maybe. I had a qualm with him (her/ them/ it?) too.

There I was, in the middle of 6 people who believed in me. They saw me, they believed in me more than I could imagine, how lovely to lean back and surrender the burden of having to fight all odds believing in yourself when others could hold your back and do it for you when you were tired of holding yourself by the strings.

Now, god is saying, I can have whatever I want. It’s terrifying. It’s like Charlie and the chocolate factory, go in and eat whatever your heart desires, it’s all yours. But is it really true, is it all an illusion, where are the blockages, what about money? I asked the spirit of money what to do and it said it’s job is to circulate. Keep circulating.

I’m spending more than I would usually. I’m buying the luxury items I don’t need, a sexy card game, a series of colonics. Is a colonic a luxury!? Cleaning out the old to welcome in the new, halleluia.

I’m letting go of the old belief. I have to struggle to survive, I have to have the means, the logistical practical steps to get and have what I want.

What if I don’t need that? What if that is just old outdated trash stuck in my intestinal wall that has been lodged in there for years?

She said my colon was slow, it had a hard time to let go of the waste.

I’m ready to let go. I’m so ready to let things flow freely.

Keep circulating. Money, food, abundance, desire, intestinal waste…

The step I don’t want to take. I do. I do. I do.

I want to take that step that says you are allowed. You are allowed to have what you want. All you have to do is decide what you want.

As I sit typing in my ocean view home in Hawaii, I recognize I’m pretty close to what I want, I got here didn’t I? My dreams want to break out of their box of containment into the “what else is possible here!?”

What even greater unimaginable incredible thing is possible here?

Show me. My mind only knows that which it has experienced but my soul who crosses the boundaries of time tells me there is something beyond my imagination.

And the lesson is, be in the eternal now. The possibilities are endless yet the now must be regarded as infinitely rich and infinitely divine. I must be in the now to keep my brain from controlling the outcome. If I am to open to the possible I must be a blank canvas or an empty colon to receive (and circulate ;-) )

I’m listening.

I can feel the chilly wind from the cruise boat on my cheek with my down jacket keeping me cozy and warm as I lean over the railing like Kate Winslet in Titanic. Watching the icebergs go by (if they are not all melted by next month). I imagine the open calm sea, mysterious and tempting. You have no idea, Carly, of all that is possible.

It’s a grandiose life and there is so much more in store for you. I feel it vibrate in my bones, yes I’ll take the step with open arms, I’m showing up for it.

We are showing up for it.

Photo @Lucilla Elena