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Monthly Archives: July 2011

a terrifying commitment to doing less

This pattern isn’t new. It goes so far back, I don’t know when it originated. I do a lot. A lot for me. I go and go and go until I mentally break, and land, face-first. Crying or depressed or exhausted or angry or unable to feel any passion about anything.

I rest. Fallow, eerily still. I berate myself for my weakness. I call it self-sabotage. I look at others who are still going (going going), and I lament that I am not as strong as they.

Suddenly, without even realizing it, a wave of fear picks me up, carries me. I tumble with it. The wave is angry, and it speaks without listening. “You will run out of money. You will default on your student loans. You will get fired and be unable to get a job. Suddenly, requests for your services will dry up. There will be no one left. Everyone you know will be angry at you for not doing enough. They will resent you. You don’t deserve rest. You can’t adequately enjoy rest, anyway. You can relax later, after you’ve reached X. Not now. No time for planning. Time is money. Go. Faster. Go.”

After a lifetime of being swept away by the waves, I’ve begun to notice when they’re coming. When I’m riding them. When I’m somersaulting, water burning up my nostrils, unsure which direction is up or if I’ll ever breathe again. I’ve begun to ask whether there’s another option, whether I can fight the wave. I’ve resisted, questioned it. Found out I had some control over whether or not it sweeps me away. Let myself slip. Recovered again. Pulled myself consciously in. Recognized my need to sit fallow for a moment. Gotten scared, and ridden a smaller wave of jumpy panic.

I’ve made some tough decisions, prioritized certain projects. But eventually, I trickle back into my familiar groove of trying to do everything all at once.

Last week, during a coaching class, I brought this forward, volunteered to be coached on my issue. I hadn’t planned on it (usually I’m the one volunteering to be the coach), but it came out in the moment. I was doing too much. Something needed to shift.

As often happens in great coaching sessions, I knew what needed to happen, clearly, as I spoke. I knew I had known it already, too, but that I hadn’t been ready to admit it. I needed to cut back, and that would mean making hard choices about what could stay and what could go. I’d done the patchwork quilt dance of rearranging my schedule time and time again, and this time, just rearranging wasn’t going to do it.

Things became clearer. The main point of clarity? I need to enjoy the moment. My default setting is to struggle through the present to reach the future, which is then replaced by another struggle to another future. This pattern has run its course, and it’s time for me to intentionally change it.

The next thing? It’s time for me to finish my coach training. I’m ready; I can feel it.

To do both of those things, certain other things needed to go. One was Pam’s Power Teaching Challenge. I had signed up and learned a ton from the first class, had spent half a weekend day on the first week’s homework. But it conflicted with some coaching classes I needed to finish, and the thought of teaching a class right now (while thrilling) was overwhelming. Too many logistics. Too little sane Kylie.

And then there was the next thing. I needed to cut back on my blogging. Which is hard for me. I love being here, writing every week, hearing from you. But I decided to cut back the posts to once every other week, and I’m going to stick to that.

And then there was my photo work. My photo work, which I love so dearly! I decided to stop booking sessions until January. (Those of you who are already on the schedule or who have contacted me, this doesn’t include you. We’re still gonna do your session, and have buckets of fun with it. Breathe easy.) This still leaves me a bunch of already-booked sessions to do in the meantime, so it’s not like I’ll be going cold turkey on this.

When I made these decisions, it felt like a gear clicking into place. It was right. Terrifying, but right. Things might go awry. I might somehow fail to graduate from coaching school by December. (Actually, after sending the maiden announcement to the inner circle, I’ve discovered that I’ll graduate in March, not December. Recalculating.) Business might truly dry up (as I had feared). You dear readers might forget the blog. I certainly hope these things won’t happen, but they might.

Still, I’m leaving you with something. It’s as much for me as it is for you. A waiting list. A promise between us that you’ll be the first to know when I’m again scheduling photo sessions and taking on new coaching clients in January.

To be notified when I’m accepting new photo clients, sign up here:

To be notified when I’m accepting new coaching clients, sign up here:


And in the meantime, one last thing. In order to complete my coach training, I’ll be looking for one client who can commit to being coached weekly for twelve sessions. Because you’ll also be helping me to graduate (thank you!), this opportunity is pay-what-you-can.

If you’d like to be in the running for this coaching, please send me an email (kylie.springman@gmail.com) telling me why you’re in need of support, what lofty dreams you feel coaching will help you achieve, and what per-session price would be best for you (with the understanding that this is a twelve-session commitment). I’ll select the entrant whose needs fit best with my style of (heartful, supportive) coaching. Entries will be accepted until 11 pm EST this Saturday (that’s July 30th), and everyone will be notified on Monday (August 1st).

Whether or not your entry is selected, if you apply for this coaching spot, you’ll be at the top of my waiting list when I reopen slots for coaching in January. And you’ll receive a 20% off coupon on your first twelve sessions.

. . .

And with that, I take my leave for today. But I want to hear from you on this, too: What patterns are you redirecting in your life? Are you negotiating with yourself to do less?

subway self-care

A lot of the time, the subway smells like urine. Or the car I’m in does. I used to think I had to take it, just sit or stand there in the dark heat of the tunnel, my nostrils aflame with that smell that never quite goes away, no matter how many minutes you spend trying to get used to it.

Maybe I wanted to believe I had to suffer. Maybe I was trying to punish my nostrils for existing, or for being the very silly sorts of nostrils who thought they wanted to live in New York.

But something occurred to me today, as if god were speaking her greatest truth from above the sidewalk grates. If I don’t want to smell the urine, I don’t have to. I can step ten feet to my right or left on the platform. I can move to another car.

The doors opened. I hastily hopped to the platform, around a post, into the next car down.

I felt like I was beating the system, or at least using up a Get Out of Jail Free card. But maybe I just learned how to actually care for myself. Maybe stepping into a fresher-smelling subway car is just the sort of thing people do; people who like themselves and like living here.

Maybe self-care isn’t always about grand gestures, but about realizing that you can move to the next car, and then actually doing it.

ode on alone time

O, sweet alone time.

My love for you is greater than all the drops of water in the sea.

You stretch before me, seductive, ensconced in shadows

Calling me, ever-forward, to follow you,

My patient siren.

You offer grandmotherly treats:

Chocolate chip cookies tinged with molasses and studded with bittersweet chocolate.

Uninterrupted bedtime reading sessions.

Showers that run so long my knees buckle in overheated contentment.

You whisk me into quiet, so that I forget the screeching brakes and pungently stewing garbage of the city.

You sound mostly of far-away voices, muffled through windows and walls.

You smell largely of lavender and yellow-paged library books.

You feel like the dish suds fluffing around my busy fingers, alternated with cool air and linen.

You resonate patiently clanking china.

My home within a home. That’s what you are.

Picking off the lint and detritis of my days, dousing me in your delectable solitude, always reminding me I’m welcome to stay –

Longer,

Ever longer.

An impossible lover: Allowing me to leave when I must, but open-doored, welcoming, understanding, when I return.

Never caring what I’ve done or where I’ve been.

Ready to envelop me at a moment’s notice,

Whenever I cast my gaze upon you.

i loved myself anyway.

I went to a yoga workshop this weekend. It said it was going to be a workshop on “Radical Self-Love”, so I was really excited. It was as if the workshop had been created for me, right? Right. I wore long stretchy pants and a t-shirt. I expected that lots of talking was going to happen, and maybe some backbends and gentle, restorative poses, and lots of savasana-ing. I didn’t expect to be sweating a whole lot.

My expectations were incorrect.

The class was active (really active). I was not just sweating, but dripping sweat, mere minutes into it. My thighs were shaking during my warrior poses, my hips were decidedly not squared when they were supposed to be, and I was wobbling all over the place.

Gone are the days when I was the most flexible/most experienced/most whatever student in the class. Now I’m just another girl who hasn’t been to a yoga class in eight months because she’d intimidated by the perfect-looking NYC yoga people.

And I’m fine with this. No, really, I am. Really.

Because I remember what it was like when I was one of the rockstar students in yoga class. When I’d go every day, and push my body into pose perfection. When I’d look in the mirror, while in a pose, and feel nothing but hate for the way I looked. I had no consideration for the fact that I was tired at the end of class, and that it didn’t feel particularly great on one particular day to sink that deeply into camel pose. There was no question. I had to do it the way it was meant to be done, whether it felt good or not. I had to be the best at it, because I had to be the best in everything I did. Which was an excuse to beat myself into submission, physically and mentally, every moment of every day.

These days, I’ve let go of the need to be the best at everything.

Now, I’m good at some things. I’m good at my particular stripe of coaching. I’m good at photographing people in a certain way. I’m good at listening (most of the time). I’m good at being the best partner I can be.

I’m mediocre at many things, too. I’m not the best yoga-doer, and I don’t plan on becoming the best any time soon. I barely ever cook intricate recipes anymore, because I have other things to do that I feel more passionate about at the moment. I’m bad at making small talk, and I have no stamina when playing long-running board games (though, really, Monopoly is just way too long).

Ultimately, I’m pretty sure I got just what I was supposed to out of the workshop. I found out that I completely misjudged what the workshop was going to be. And I loved myself anyway. I fell out of poses. And I loved myself anyway. I didn’t have my own yoga mat. And I loved myself anyway. I rocked back and forth in child’s pose because it felt good. And I loved myself anyway. During final savasana, my mind wandered to what my friend and I might eat after the class. And I loved myself anyway.

That’s the essence of truly radical self-love. Being imperfect and human and even deeply flawed, and loving yourself. Just the way you are. Now.

Even if that means loving yourself while you’re red-faced, shaking, and dripping sweat on your yoga mat.

gold star for you! gold star for me!

Wow. The response to Tuesday’s post on depression was overwhelming, which leads me to think that I’m not the only one who’s facing or has faced this. To say the least. As a result, I’ve been doing more thinking on what I do to live with depression and, ideally, make it through to the other side.

This week, I’ve been giving myself (imaginary) gold stars. I went to bed at 11 last night: gold star for me! I ate breakfast: gold star! I went to the gym: gold star! again! I did alll the dishes: double gold star!

The especially fun thing about this is that when I’m depressed, everything feels really difficult, so everything is worthy of a gold star. The next time you see me, I may be so covered in little gold stars that I’ll be unrecognizable.

Here are just a few of the things for which I dole out the (much-coveted) gold stars:

Gold star for getting out of bed this morning!

Gold star for remembering that I’m going to get hungry at lunchtime, and packing something to eat that includes protein!

Gold star for putting on the bracelet I like!

Gold star for leaving the house in a composed state instead of a flustered one!

Gold star for getting into Manhattan without having the urge to smack any of my fellow subway riders! (On second thought, this deserves a triple gold star.)

Gold star for making myself the tea I like, with cream!

Gold star for prepping for that one meeting!

Gold star for taking a break from work and going outside at least once during the day!

Gold star for responding to blog comments from the ridiculously wonderful people sharing themselves here!

Gold star for texting my friend to see how she’s doing!

Gold star for signing up for that yoga workshop!

Gold star for meditating for two minutes at my desk!

Gold star for taking a break from work to focus on eating lunch, and only eating lunch!

Gold star for responding to that email that I could have put off but didn’t!

Gold star for scheduling my next dentist visit!

Gold star for hand washing that shirt that can’t go in the wash, and laying it on the table to dry!

. . .

What would you like a gold star for? Share one or many accomplishments in the comments, and I’ll respond with gold star power galore (!!!).

when depressed, do this. then this.

This is a reminder to myself. For posting on the fridge. For reading when disoriented and confused. Something to grab onto when everything else feels like it’s slipping, uncontrollably, away.

. . .

Dear Self,

You’re feeling depressed. You recognize the signs. Inability to sleep. Inability to wake up. Desperate attempts to convince yourself that all would be fixed if you just moved to another city/apartment/universe. The crawling feeling that you cannot possibly stay within your skin a moment longer. Despair despair despair.

All is not lost. No, really. All is not lost. Do this:

Get up. Get showered. Get dressed. Get out (of the house). I know it feels hard. It is hard. Pat yourself heartily on the back for doing it.

Call for medical support. Immediately. *Remember that it isn’t personal if the doctor can’t see you immediately. That’s the way scheduling and doctors work, not a sign from the universe that your life doesn’t matter.

Go to work.

Keep writing your blog.

Now is not the time for driving yourself to exhaustion. (No time is, actually, but that’s another matter.)

Your state of mind isn’t a spiritual or moral failing.

Go to social gatherings. Pretend to be fine. Getting out and seeing people will make you feel less isolated. You can always leave early. The important part is getting out.

Some people really don’t understand depression. Do not talk to them about depression.

Some people get it. Talk to them, if you feel like it. Realize, though, that nothing anybody says is going to solve it.

Don’t read depressing books. Now is not the time for Zami. Now is not the time for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Now is the time for Twilight. And Harry Potter.

Meditate. Ten minutes is not too little. Five minutes is not too little.

Go to the water. If that’s not an option, just get out in nature. Or at the very least, walk around the block.

Ask for the support you need from the people you trust. Someone to take you to the doctor. Help getting out of bed. Food shopping. If one person can’t do it, try someone else.

When you start telling yourself that you should be able to do this alone, and that you shouldn’t bother anyone, ask for help anyway. (You know you’d do the same for them.)

Don’t expect anybody else to recognize the immense accomplishment that getting out of bed and functioning is right now. You deserve a medal, and probably a trophy, too, but there’s no way they could know that, as they’re not in your brain with you. So recognize the accomplishment yourself. It’s huge.

With all the love and support I’ve got,

Your (Slightly Wiser) Self

. . .

These reminders aren’t prescriptive, ’cause that would be silly, as everybody’s different. These are my reminders for myself, and they’re probably way different from the ones you have for yourself. What’s on your list of instructions for when you’re depressed or anxious or manic or sad or even in a momentary rut?

to be seen and celebrated

This Pride Month was epic. For lots of people, I’m guessing, but especially for New Yorkers. After over a week of biting our nails and calling and emailing our senators, there was finally a vote. And the vote was for marriage equality.

When the winning vote was read aloud, Mary and I hugged. We cried. We drank prosecco, and lightheartedly danced to love songs on our creaky living room floor.

Then calls and texts started coming. From friends and family. From people who knew we were hoping for this. Mary’s parents stayed up late that night, watching the news in the hopes that they would announce the victory. They sent us celebratory flowers the next day (red, white and blue, if you were wondering).

On Saturday, we walked in the yearly Dyke March, which always happens on the Saturday before the Manhattan Pride Parade. As always, people from the churches along the march route passed out water to the sweaty walkers. Groups of gay men stood on the sidelines with posterboard signs reading, “We love you, lesbians!” Allies walked with us.

The next day, I marched in the Pride Parade for the first time, part of the bright pink contingent that was Gay Men’s Health Crisis. As always, the costumes were fabulous. The boys were flirty and tan. The wigs were enormous and, I’m guessing, hot as hell.

But things were also different. The tone was extra celebratory. The cheers were contagious, like bottled joy aching to escape. The air was electric. Strangers were high-fiving each other, and smiling way more than usual, and celebrating the couples who proudly advertised that they, too, would soon be married in New York State.

It means a lot to me to have a community. People who are somewhat like me, who fight for similar causes, who belong to a similar subculture. Out of the many things for which I’m thankful, having a community to which I belong is high on the list.

But something that adds to that, that catapults my contentment into brazen hope, is being seen by people outside my tiny subculture, and being celebrated by them. For other people to express that, even though this marriage equality thing doesn’t do anything for them personally, they’re over the moon with happiness about the news. For those people to see who I am, and say, “You’re great. Just the way you are. Don’t change. I want to celebrate you for being alive, here, now.”


To love myself is one thing. For others to share that love and, of their own volition, shout it in the streets for everyone to hear, is quite another.

Allies, you matter. You matter so much. Thank you for your excitement and your messages and your calls and your tweets and your hugs and your advocacy. Thank you for being you. You’ve made me feel even happier with being me today.