An Unexpected Journey

I’m back! In my two-month absence from posting here, an unexpected journey caught me off guard. After six years without any upheaval I was feeling healthy, strong, maybe even a little invincible. Then it happened.

Summer was cruising along. July camps with the returning kids felt like a homecoming, and I was turning my sights to Mad Camp at the end of the month. It felt like a huge step, but I felt ready and excited to step into this kind of community. As the date drew closer, though, I began to spin—maybe this was going to be too much.

Sleep has always been a delicate dance for me, and I worried that all the stimulation might throw things off. I know how much the story in my head shapes my health and sleep. Recently, the story has been a good one—abundance, support, calm, connectedness, a real capacity to hold pain. Solid ground.

Then came the cracks. A night or two of restless sleep. The old story of fear, shame, and dysfunction slipping back in. The weight and darkness of the world pressing heavy. A couple of nights with only two hours of rest. Suddenly, I was back in that familiar, scary space—my mind spinning out the very narrative I thought I’d outgrown. After a week of this, with some “hypomanic” rumblings, I knew what I had to do: cancel Mad Camp, or risk tipping into a full-blown event.

Mad Camp had held such promise. There was to be an altar, a ritual for those lost in these states which I was particularly excited about. I’d been preparing to share my sister’s story, finally feeling ready to face the grief and pain of her death. For years I’d tried to write about her but always turned away, afraid of being swallowed by the darkness. But those unacknowledged places kept pressing in, asking to be cared for—and here was an opportunity. I’ll post her story next.

So I dove in: gathering photos, writing obsessively, preparing for the ritual. It felt like I was finally ready to open to all of it, held by the witness and grief of others. But the realization came quickly: I am still carrying a lot of unprocessed pain. Even after all the work I’ve done, the old pattern of separating from it runs deep.

At first, it felt beautiful. Tears, reclaiming sweet memories, the sense of another step on my path. But the dark memories were there too, and it began showing up in my disrupted sleep with a few dreams really shaking me up.

It started to become clear: the growth I was anticipating this summer wasn’t going to happen at Mad Camp but right here, in facing this challenge with eyes wide open. The journey to Mad Camp suddenly shifted to a journey within.

So I cancelled. A disappointment, yes. But necessary. Calm and sleep had to come first. The signs of escalation were clear—but here’s the difference from earlier times: I understood what was happening. I knew where things could go if I didn’t ground myself. So I rolled up my sleeves and began the work.

The first step was clarity with my partner of over ten years. She’s been through this with me before, and she knows me better than anyone. Her love and support helped create the safe container I needed to sit with what was happening without being swept away by the highs and lows.

My extreme wounded parts were right at the surface—easily triggered, easily inflamed. There were moments with my partner I wanted to project,rage, and blame. In the past, this alone would have amplified everything and blinded me to the real lessons waiting to be found. This time, I could name it. We even laughed as I said hello to my angry teenage self and offered an apology to both of us. Instead of escalating, I walked away with a tear in my eye and a smile on my face—feeling myself come back to center. Taking that wild, creative, playful, wounded part by the hand and saying: I’ve got you. Let’s do this together.

I was also struck by the relative ease of sitting with the pain and discomfort rather than turning away. In the past, I’d do anything to escape, which only fueled the extremes. The “hypomanic” highs were a great place to indulge and hide. But with a bit of Buddhist sensibility now, I can hold stillness. Pay attention. Let feelings rise without running. The death and rebirth cycle feels familiar now, and I trust that if I stay present and care for myself, I’ll rise again from the ashes—just as I always have. That knowing gives shape to the chaos, reminding me that the fall and the rise are part of the same sacred rhythm.

Another shift is the story I carry about myself. Before, the darkness defined me within these moments—shame, fear, dysfunction. I was broken, just needing to figure out how to survive. Not this time. I held onto my essence. I knew who I was, even inside the storm. This clarity alone changes everything.

There was still sensitivity, still intensity, but steadier. Less chaos than my younger self. There’s a spiritual current in all of this—these heightened states teaching me to see the darkness as another stop along the winding path. Living at the edge of becoming, with little to hold on to. Beautiful and difficult, but deeply alive.

Still, sleep didn’t return easily, and at my age it’s harder to navigate without it. Sleep is where I draw the line—without it, everything unravels. So I took myself to the doctor and got a pharmaceutical aid. It helped. Quickly I turned a corner with my sleep. Thank goodness for the practices, the story I’ve built, the care I’ve learned to give myself—and now, this little tool added to the kit.

As calm and rest returned, I was able to sit with the heightened sensitivities and take in the real lessons that were up for grabs. One clear realization: everything that came before was practice for learning to keep a foot firmly in both worlds. Even as all this was happening, I was still showing up for all my responsibilities.

And yes I started the school year navigating these spaces and didn’t miss a beat. It was a smooth and beautiful beginning as I could clearly see my heightened state contributing to how easily we all settled in. School gave me a place to focus this energy. After almost 30 years of doing this the school’s health and my own are intimately entwined. The love I was giving my inner childhood parts at this time was also the love I was giving the children and parents in my care. My heightened sensitivities had a place to focus outside myself with a sense of grace and presence I could see reflecting back to me. Also, having school to focus on was a break from the ruminations that can be so difficult to slow down within these states. My own unique support space is always here when I need it.

The first few weeks of school in a way felt like an extended prayer. Everyday before and after I would light a candle and just pay attention focusing on myself, my loved ones, and the new families in my life. I found myself rediscovering the Tibetan practice of Tonglen as I was breathing in all the pain and suffering around me and breathing out empathy and compassion. Holy moments indeed! The feeling of a daily cleanse and centering with a sense of awe at my capacity to hold and love. I was struck within these moments by the force of my true potential and what holds me back.

Now I’m back from these other realms, reflecting on who I am and what I’ve learned. I feel a little rough and edgy but sleeping well. I don’t feel quite like the same person as before. There’s rawness, discomfort,renewal,sadness, heightened sensitivity. A time to gather lessons, to focus on who I am becoming, not as much who I’ve been. A newness in which comes a sense of excitement, regardless of the darkness all around.

Presently, I’m feeling grateful for the gifts received through these experiences. Even with the difficulty. Of course, ask me when I’m in the midst of struggling with sleep and I may give you a different answer. Yes, it means feeling more pain and uncertainty. But it also means more beauty, more growth. So I’ll keep growing. Keep exploring.

Maybe I’ll make it to Mad Camp next year. I hope so. But for now, I’m grateful for this unexpected growth spurt. This is just my normal. Nothing more.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher