I Cried in a Courthouse Bathroom. Then I Went Back In.

Last week I sat on a jury for a murder trial. Three days. Witnesses. Evidence. Details I was not allowed to share with a single person in my life.

I am, by nature, an outward processor. I make sense of things by talking through them. I feel more regulated when I am witnessed. Taking away my ability to talk about something this significant was its own kind of weight, layered on top of the content itself.

I want to be honest about what those three days were like, because I think there's a version of what I teach that sounds like: if you do this work, hard things will stop feeling so hard.

That's not true. And I think it does people a disservice to imply it.

What the Work Actually Looked Like

Each night I came home and did the simplest things I know how to do. I took a shower. I went for a walk. I made sure I ate. I drank water. I went to bed early. I let the people around me be warm without burdening them with what I couldn't share.

None of it was sophisticated. All of it mattered.

On day three, after closing arguments, we were finally allowed to talk. The bailiff took our phones, told us to reach him by 5:30 if we wanted dinner, and left us to deliberate.

It became clear quickly that I was in the minority. I had questions. I wasn't ready to close the loop. I held that for as long as I could, and then I couldn't anymore. I got up, walked to the one bathroom we all shared, shut the door, and sobbed.

When I came out, a young woman asked if I needed anything.

"I'd like a hug," I said.

I don't know that I waited for her answer before wrapping my arms around her. She was a little uncomfortable and I noticed and I stopped. She offered me the bathroom if I needed more time. I said no. I sat back down. I kept going.

This Is What Regulated-but-Not-Numbed Looks Like

I want you to notice what didn't happen. I didn't fall apart and stay fallen apart. I didn't push it down and white-knuckle through. I didn't perform composure I didn't feel.

I cried in a bathroom. I asked a stranger for a hug. I came back out. I asked questions that others found unnecessary. I stayed open. I held my ground where I needed to and released where the evidence told me to.

That's not a tidy story. It's not a success story in the way we usually mean that phrase. But it's what the work actually looks like when the pressure is real.

The Assumption We Make

There's an unconscious assumption that doing inner work (nervous system work, emotional processing, thought work) means things will hurt less. That we'll be calmer. More together.

What actually happens is different. We may be challenged more, because we're not numbing out. We feel the full weight of what's in front of us. But we also have more to work with. We know how to take the next small step. We know what our body needs. We know how to come back.

The work doesn't protect you from hard things. It changes what you do while you're inside them.

I came home each night from that courthouse tired and full of something I couldn't put into words. And each night I did the next small thing. And then the next. And I made it through.

More on what came after, next week.