Laura Mckowen Quotes

This is the singular, hard truth I come up against every day: I am the only one responsible for my experience.

The truest story - the one that will always be truest - is that I am a human being, being human. Sometimes, I am my best self. Sometimes, not so much. But goddamn, I am trying to do better. I am always trying to do better. My guess is that you are, too.

One stranger who understands your experience exactly will do for you what hundreds of close friends and family who don't understand cannot. It is the necessary palliative for the pain or stretching into change. It is the cool glass of water in hell.

1. It is not your fault. 2. It is your responsibility. 3. It is unfair that this is your thing. 4. This is your thing. 5. This will never stop being your thing until you face it. 6. You cannot do it alone. 7. Only you can do it. 8. I love you. 9. I will never stop reminding you of these things.

Over time, and with each right choice, I got stronger. I started to feel something magical growing inside me, getting bigger, more substantial, and pulsing with life. Something like dignity.

This is the singular, hard truth I come up against every day: I am the only one responsible for my experience. I decide what I let in; I decide who I let in; I decide how to perceive things; I choose it all.

The same is true for all of us when it comes to our things. We have to pick a side. If we ever want out of purgatory, we have to decide if we are going back to a life of denial and secrecy and hiding and gripping onto the thing we do not know how to live without, or if we are going to take a stab at doing a thing we have never done before.

The process has been the gift.

It’s the difference between existing and actually living.

My drinking — and whatever it is you do to feel better — was born of a natural impulse to soothe, to connect, to feel love. And although alcohol hadn’t actually delivered those things, it was absolutely yoked to them in my mind. In my heart and body, too. It was just what I knew.

if you truly want to live with peace in your heart and be free of the burdens of the past — you must be brave enough to be willing to look at yourself honestly, clearly, and without reservation. You must take responsibility for everything that’s ever happened to you. Not blame. Responsibility.

The typical question is, Is this bad enough for me to have to change? The question we should be asking is, Is this good enough for me to stay the same? And the real question underneath it all is, Am I free?

Forget forever. It doesn't exist, anyway. As Eckhart Tolle also said, "It is not uncommon for people to spend their whole life waiting to start living," and that's exactly what you're doing when now is swallowed by projections of forever. Nothing in the future exists yet. But anything is possible right now. Including the thing you think you cannot do.

what it's like to hear something that you can't unhear - when a little piece of truth lodges itself into your psyche and won't leave you be...

And here is the thing we must know about our things if we are ever going to survive them: We believe we can bury them, when the truth is, they're burying us. The will always bury us, eventually.

People who stay sick choose to keep blaming. They stand firmly in their anger and resentment and call it a revolution. They bristle against this kind of work because they view it as an affront to their sovereignty. They don’t see that humility is not an admission of weakness but a result of knowing exactly how powerful you are. It’s much easier to go down the path of self-righteousness, to be sure. Nothing is more gratifying. I fall into it regularly. But those who choose the other way? They get better. They get free. They soar, with soft dignity. They rise, without needing to announce it.

The place where we pretend, in big ways and in small, that we are something or someone we know in our bones we are not. We can go a long time pretending and thinking we’re doing it right this way, building big, complicated lives on a false foundation. No matter how big and impressive a life you build there, on that island, the crumbling of that life is inevitable.

There is a life that is calling you forward, begging you to meet its eye, to glimpse its vision for you. You can get only so far by running away from what you do not want. Eventually you will have to turn toward what you do. You will have to run toward a bigger yes.

Ultimately, I wanted to be free more than I wanted to be safe. And writing was freeing me.

It was simple, incredibly difficult, and one of the most exquisite, life-giving things you can ever learn to do: to witness yourself, without judgment, as you struggle to stay.

The truth is alchemical. It transmutes the bitterness of pain and dishonesty and shame into something else, something we can actually live in and stand on.

The effort of putting words to my experiences, of trying to describe things as accurately as possible, felt like it was saving my life. One sentence at a time, I was writing my way to an understanding and a grace I could not otherwise reach. I breathed power into a new life for myself and also slowly started to make sense of what I'd never been able to before.

Things like approval seeking, people-pleasing, not voicing my opinions, and avoiding conflict at any cost — these were all dishonesty masked as something sweeter and more socially acceptable.

Forming a new life is a really, really big deal. As John O'Donohue says in his blessing called "For the Interim Time," It is difficult and slow to become new. It's supposed to be difficult It's supposed to take everything you have. It's supposed to take longer than you want and to change you, completely. This often won't feel good when it's happening, but nothing worth having ever does.

What I mean by faith is simply this: when you enter into an unknown place, one where you haven't yet developed the skills to operate - and especially one where you don't even want to be - you have to rely on some idea that you will be carried through it and that it will be better. Often for me, faith simply meant deciding to trust the people who had gone before me. Like the women whose books I had read...surely they couldn't all just be full of shit, right? I had faith in that.

We are all magnificent monsters, capable of everything — all the light and every bit of the dark.

Snuggling up to my daughter at night, closing another day with a clear conscience, fills me with a gratitude too thick for words.

I wanted one version of me in the world, instead of the dozens there were.

Intimacy is having a kind, compassionate witness to your truest thoughts and feelings.

Most of the time we lie because we’re afraid of not getting what we want or losing what we have.

Loneliness started to abate only when I began to really let people in and tell them the truth, and that took a long, long time. The antidote to loneliness wasn’t just being around others or sharing common ground. It was intimacy.

If something is keeping you from being fully present and showing up in your life the way you want, then deciding to change that thing is an actual matter of life and death, you know? It’s the difference between existing and actually living.

You are always with me. You are never alone. And everything I have is yours. You are granted all the love in the universe simply because you exist, not because you are good. Love was never yours to lose — you cannot lose it. It will never let you go.

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known. The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you. If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here. No two trees are the same to Raven. No two branches are the same to Wren. If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows Where you are. You must let it find you. — DAVID WAGONER, “Lost

I came to realize that this is what it really means to be alive — to not look away from any of it — and that all I was really doing before was pretending: floating through my days half-numb, half-involved, half-awake, thinking I was really living when in fact I was missing it all.

I also had to believe I had in me the capacity for things I could not imagine in my mind. That somewhere within me there was a primal wisdom I could not possibly understand or access, but that not being to didn't make it any less real. There was so much of life beyond my limited mental grasp - most of life, in fact. Breathing, for example. The impossible expanse of the ocean and the underworld it contains. Quantum physics. Animals. My daughter. So when I got really scared and thought a proud, dignified, peaceful sober life was beyond the pale of what was possible for me, I would say to myself, I can't do this, but something inside me can. I can't tell you how many times I've whispered those words in the dark.

The truth is alchemical. It transmutes the bitterness of pain and dishonesty and shame into something else, something we can actually live in and stand on...it is that important. It is also difficult to do because - for many of us - it's in conflict with how we've learned to get our needs met. But the first step here is to be real with yourself. You don't have to show your guts to anyone else, not yet. Acknowledge the truth of how you feel about the thing you are going through, and leave nothing unsaid. Whisper it into the dark, say it in a prayer, write it down on paper - whatever. Just get it out of your body. That's what I did that day, and it started to change everything. Today can be the day you do the same.

...all the things we do, every maladaptive behavior or pattern we have, is the result of a coping mechanism we learned in order to keep us alive or help us survive...I wasn't deceiving people because I was a piece of shit; I was doing what I had learned to do as a child to survive. And I was doing what worked. It just wasn't - let's say - a superhealthy or productive way to operate as an adult.

One of the students raised his had and said, matter-of-factly, "I'm afraid I can't stop drinking." The room went silent. All eyes went to our teacher, David. Without missing a beat, he smiled, looked at him, and said, "Of course you can. Are you drinking now?" "No." "And now?" He smiled, and said softly, "No." "...and how about right now?" We all smiled this time. "No." This is how it is done - how anything is done. One moment, then the next, then the next. This is how this book is being written: I type this word, then this one, then this one. The words build sentences. The sentences build a paragraph. A book is impossible, but a word and then another word is not. A lifetime of sobriety was impossible, but a moment of sobriety was not. I was doing it, and I was doing it, and I was doing it again.

...if you truly want to live with peace in your heart and be free of the burdens of the past - you must be brave enough to be willing to look at yourself honestly, clearly, and without reservation. You must take responsibility for everything that's ever happened to you. Not blame. Responsibility. There are, of course, parts of your life that simply can't be your fault. You could not control much of what happened to you as a child...or whether you were abused or raped or have a chronic illness, so to say you have a part in anything like that would be untrue and damaging. But you can decide - by no longer allowing the circumstances of your life to victimize you - that none of it owns you anymore. You can say, Now, I know better. Now, I know different. I am not helpless anymore. And then you can go about doing the hard work of healing.

What I know is this: The truth is ultimately life affirming. Even when it was ugly and inconvenient and has the potential to dismantle your life. It feels like relief even when it's painful...in a "this is real and therefore you can stand on it" way. The truth is uncomfortable but confining. You know the difference when you feel it. For most of my life I believed I had to lie to get what I needed. I'm guessing somewhere inside, you believe this, too...While lying almost works, just like drinking almost works, neither will ever take us all the way home. While the path may be longer and harder and a little lonelier at times, honesty will always move you closer to love, not further away. Today I don't walk around looking over my shoulder, afraid of being found out. I don't fear picking up my phone or looking at texts or opening my mail. I don't protect different versions of myself, and I don't have to keep track of my stories, because there aren't any - there's just the one life I'm living. I'll never forget the day it hit me that things were altogether different...My mind started to wander, searching for the familiar grooves of worry or scheming or protection to run down, but there wasn't anything there but smooth spaciousness. There was the warm sun making rainbows behind my eyelids and my bare feet hitting the baking asphalt and a bit of chewed-up carrot in my mouth. I had nothing left to hide.

In The Divine Comedy, Dante described purgatory as a place where the soul is cleansed of all impurities, It is known as a place where suffering and misery are felt to be sharp, but temporary. This for me was what it felt like to have one foot in the new, strange land of sobriety and the other firmly, desperately, in my old life. The is what it feels like for all of us, I think, when we have only half-decided to own our thing, When we have only half-surrendered, only half-committed to becoming different... I thought about how anything would be better than this. This purgatory. This unbearable wishing for one side or another. This unsustainable stretching. My inevitable crash landing. I was going to have to pick a side. The same is true for all of us when it comes to our things. We have to pick a side, If we ever want out of purgatory, we have to decide if we are going back to a life of denial and secrecy and hiding and gripping onto the thing we do not know how to live without, or if we are going to take a stab at doing a thing we have never done before.

I used to roll my eyes at looking back at the past. Digging into my childhood for answers about my present patterns, blaming my parents or others for how I turned out - it seemed like a convenient rationalization, a bunch of psychobabble meant to excuse me from responsibility. But I've learned it's not at all about blaming. It's being willing to look at it all with clear eyes - to have compassion for the reasons people fell short but also to admit that they did. This was the hardest part: to admit that parts of my childhood were not okay. To stop protecting people. It is hard to type this even now, because I can hear voices telling me to stop playing the victim, that it wasn't all that bad. But I know that acknowledging the truth is actually an act of maturity and autonomy - it is, ironically, how we relieve ourselves from the victim role. Because once we are operating in reality, we can begin to take responsibility for what's ours, and stop taking responsibility for what never was. Denying works for only so long; eventually that shit will come out, and it will be ugly.

...perhaps you can see a little more clearly the ways in which you've left the center of yourself in order to get to love. Even more importantly, you might see how you didn't do whatever you did to get love because you are weak, or broken, or wrong. You sought love simply and only for the same reason I did, and still do: because this is how we are wired. As A Course in Miracles states, all human behavior is either love or a call for love...Once I started to look at it this way, it softened my shame about my patterns...It allowed me to see myself as someone who was hurting, instead of someone who was weak. What I am coming to see, very slowly and over time, is that nothing that requires or causes me to abandon myself is really love. Love is a mirror that reflects you back to yourself, not a portal through which you jump into oblivion. It doesn't ask you to be different. IT doesn't secretly wish you were. Yes, a relationship is always going to be compromise, but when you start compromising yourself, it becomes something else. A hostage situation, maybe. An arrangement, A use. An abuse. I have been on both sides of all these scenarios.

...I would have spiraled, hidden myself away, and done anything to unhear those words. I had worked my entire life to try to shape your opinion of me, and to avoid - at any and all costs - criticism and judgment...Why? Because I was ashamed. Ashamed of my body. Ashamed of my feelings. Ashamed of my desire to be loved. Ashamed of my attempts to "get it." I was ashamed long before I had any reason to be. And then, eventually, I had reasons to be... ...I was ashamed of who I'd become in my marriage, I was ashamed of who I was as a mother. I was ashamed of who I was as a friend. I was ashamed.

I hadn't noticed the totality of the distance I'd created between us until it was so big that I could physically feel it... ...something within me began to shift. I started to turn away from him, and though I hated myself for it, I didn't know how to stop. Siting there, with just a few physical feet between us, I thought, I have an entire world inside me that you know nothing about. With just a few words, I could change that. I could create one reality again, instead of two. But I didn't. I couldn't. How fragile this was. How powerful. They were just words: sounds I could make with my mouth. But if I never made them, he would never know, And strangely I believed I wouldn't have to know either. I believed if I could only hang on for long enough, eventually it would all disappear inside me, like salt dissolving into water.

...I finally stopped pretending that I felt differently than I did. I'd spent my whole life trying to bypass anger, rejection, and weakness. I'd created an entire persona in order to avoid feeling those things... I started to do the thing I had been doing, which was to bypass my actual feelings and say the thing I knew I was supposed to say: the more spiritual thing, the thing I thought she wanted to hear...But I stopped myself. I breathed. Finally, I said, "Yes, I fucking miss it. I miss it every day. All the time." There it was. Everything in me wanted to take it back, or to explain more, or to qualify it with some kind of higher wisdom. But another thing happened inside me then, too. I felt a burst of expansion, like a pressure valve had been released. Most of my life up to that point had been a series of small or large acts of pretending, which made the ground I was standing on shaky and unstable. I was never going to feel whole standing on that ground, even when it appeared to be attractive, solid, and right, because it was built on falsities and my soul knew it.

When we ingest a drug or a drink, our system instantly floods with an absurd amount of dopamine — from two to ten times the natural amount — causing an intense uprush of pleasure and focus, essentially shortcutting the brain’s natural reward system. That feels really, really good. Then a couple of things happen. The hippocampus — the part of the brain responsible for creating memories — lays down “tracks” or “records” of this rapid sense of satisfaction. So essentially the brain remembers: I can cut straight to the good feelings with this simple little thing. Next, the amygdala, which is responsible for emotions and survival instincts, creates a conditioned response to the stimulus (for me, it’s alcohol; for you, it’s whatever your “thing” is), and as a result, the brain produces less dopamine or even in severe cases eliminates dopamine receptors in an effort to maintain balance, causing the activity that once used to be the fast track to pleasure to become less and less pleasurable over time. Now, repeat this cycle a few thousand times, and the brain’s reward and learning functions change significantly. The actual pleasure associated with the behavior subsides, yet the memory of the desired effect and the need to re-create it (the wanting) persists. The normal machinery of motivation no longer functions rationally. “You were literally out of your mind,” she said.

Because sober or not, until you start to tell the truth, you're going to be desperately lonely. Perhaps this is obvious, but I'm pretty sure it escapes most of us. We know we're lonely...but we don't really know why...I felt a nagging ache of separateness I could not name. Despite being surrounded by people, having a big social life, more plans than I had time for, and a solid group of people I considered friends, I still felt very much alone. I felt alone in my marriage. I felt alone in my friendships, And actually being alone by myself? Forget it - that was intolerable... Loneliness started to abate only when I began to really let people in and tell them the truth, and that took a long, long time. The antidote to loneliness wasn't just being around others or sharing common ground. It was intimacy. My friend Meadow's definition of intimacy...she says, "Intimacy is having a kind, compassionate witness to your truest thoughts and feelings." Having a witness also means being seen. Really seen. In all our humanity - flaws and ugly bits and all. Even the most courageous of us are willing to go about 90 percent of the way there, but we hold on to that last 10 percent, the part that could allow us to be really known. Sobriety hasn't so much been about revealing the 90 percent but that last 10. The little bit I always want to keep to myself. The problem is, 10 percent of withholding, or secretiveness, will still eventually contaminate the whole...And keeping 10 percent of yourself from your partner, or whomever you could trust with your heart, will make you 100 percent lonely.

It’s supposed to be difficult. It’s supposed to take everything you have. It’s supposed to take longer than you want and to change you, completely. This often won’t feel good when it’s happening, but nothing worth having ever does.

...much the same way as I feel about becoming a mother: it has brought me right up to the nose of life itself and forced me to look it straight in the face. At first, the nearness was too much; there was nothing to protect me from the immediacy of things - not from the bright lights or the sharp pain. But then, eventually, I came to realize that this is what it means to be alive - to not look away from any of it - and that all I was really doing before was pretending: floating through my days half-numb, half involved, half-awake, thinking I was really living when in fact I was missing it all.

...I realized it wasn't in spite of her pain that she was doing these things but because of it. She knew exactly what it took to walk though the fire. That is what I recognized in her. That was why I believed her.

Lying and withholding is the cheapest, easiest way to control others. You control their perception, control their response to you, control who you need them to be, In telling the truth, I was surrendering control with the hope that it would lead to something different. I hoped it would lead to something real.

This is the 10 percent withholding. It doesn't seem like a big deal, but right then they agreed it was okay to lie to each other - even if only a little...But they were always operating just left of center, hovering around the truth of who they were, unwilling to life the film from their eyes. It was a lot safer this way, but it was also extraordinarily lonely... It would have been a risk to call him out on the little fudging of the truth...she would have had to withstand a moment of discomfort...it might have allowed then to actually fins an honest ground zero from which to build something.

We think it is the aloneness we fear, but I believe what we actually fear is not having a home within ourselves. For so long, I did not trust my own landscape. I had believed the stories I learned about it, and I had taken every chance to avoid living there and learning her. Sobriety forced a closeness to myself and to life that was at first excruciating. It burned, and it burned, and it burned. But in the ashes from burning all the things I was not, I found her. I found me. And then I could finally be found by others.

It is counterintuitive that restriction might offer expansiveness.

Don't avoid jumping because of the illusion of the stability that you think you have because that too someday will change.

about hanging out with Joe Rogan,

In The Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle says, “Your outer journey may contain a million steps; your inner journey only has one: the step you are taking right now.

I am the only one responsible for my experience.

Maybe it’s helpful to linger there for a minute, in the terrible and the necessary. To start to see them as the same. Maybe in this way, pain is not such a problem

Si pudieras ver incluso una fracción de lo que es posible para ti, caerías de rodillas y llorarías

can’t do this, but something inside me can.

the big energy bubble up in my chest