If you’ve been here a while, you’ve likely noticed a dramatic decrease in posts over the last two years. There are many reasons for this. Part of it is due to the natural ebb and flow of life (I had a baby, I was too busy with other projects, etc), part of it was due to a little bit of humility (do I really have the hubris to preach while I am still learning?), and part of it—perhaps the majority—was an emerging fear of the permanency of the written word.

There has been a great deal of emphasis over the past few years on digging up words that people have written and using them to prove their inadequacies. As a witness to this, I would be lying if I said I hadn’t also passed judgment onto those who have expressed cringe-worthy sentiments online. As someone who cares about the process of healing, I understand the power that words carry. In the same breath—as someone who cares about the process of healing—I don’t believe in the permanency of thought.

One of the strangest paradoxes I’ve discovered on my own ‘growth’ journey is the “nourishment barrier.” The basic concept is this: when you were small and certain needs were unmet, you made up a story to protect yourself from how painful it felt. Often, it sounded a little something like, “I don’t actually need that thing.” As you grew up, you may have discovered that you really do need the thing. But for some reason, when people actively offer you what you’re needing, you cannot see or feel it. You might ignore it. You might make up a reason why it doesn’t quite do the trick. The need still feels ‘unmet.’

Nourishment barriers are tricky little things. They are designed to go unnoticed to the point where even if they get called out, you will deny, deny, deny.

Often, the nourishment barrier is layered under a series of stories you’ve told yourself about who you are and what you need. Stories that may not be true, but that you believe in your bones.

If you haven’t heard of nourishment barriers (you’d be in the majority) and you’re curious to see how they manifest and wreak havoc on a person’s life, read on:

I am listening to the sound of my toddler’s voice in the other room, neighing as though she were a horse. It reminds me of her excitement last night, after a “this little piggy” session, when she ran to her father’s toes and started squealing, “weee wee wee wee!”

She so wants to share her joy when she is in it.

I just finished a meditation. I don’t meditate like the books tell you to, I listen. I listen for voices of kindness and reason and love to come through and comfort me. To remind me why I’m here. To encourage me. To guide me away from the distractions and toward my values.