My Return to Lebanon 🇱🇧

It's been a while...

Did you miss me yet?

It’s almost noon on Sunday, and most of you are either out living your best life or deep in the astral right now. For the first time in weeks, I have a moment to myself and figured I’d write a little update on my travels so far.

Before I get into the nitty-gritty of my Middle Eastern adventures—I received multiple messages about issues with bookings for sessions. That has since been resolved, so please feel free to book your session for August!

I hope you’ve been enjoying the episodes of Shadows of the Heart on YouTube while I’ve been away, and the random sneak peeks of my excursion through social media. As always, vlog recaps of my time in Lebanon will be up on my channel soon(ish).

Anyway, let’s get to the good stuff…

My time in Lebanon has been both liberating and exhausting, soothing and challenging. It’s like coming back to a lover that you haven’t seen in a while and you’re wondering if you still fit.

As I’ve often mentioned, I see so much of myself in my country—and not in the obvious way. In a poetic, romantic way. In a if Lebanon was a woman, I think she’d be me type of way.

She’s often misunderstood, yet her beauty can’t help but draw you in (😉). She’s mysterious and mystical, but grounded and realistic. She can show you luxury and opulence, but travel a little further and you’ll see she still carries heavy wounds that impact her daily life.

She makes the most ordinary things memorable—sunsets, breezes, the laughter of a child, a sip of coffee. Everything feels ritualistic, because it’s embedded in her very being.

She is the home to seemingly contradictory energy. Ease and chaos. Christians and Muslims. The rich and the poor. All are sheltered by her warmth, and protected to the best of her ability despite buried tensions.

Like me, she has also been under the control of hands who could never hold her, at least not in the way she needed. She’s been used, exploited, and an object to fight over but not necessarily fight for. An accessory to other people’s agenda while rarely considering the type of world she wants to live in.

Even at my big old age, I find myself reverting to a child version of me here. The fact that both of my parents and all of my family are here right now also lends to this.

Bouncing from one parent to another and attempting to manage everyone’s expectations as to not hurt anyone’s feelings while neglecting my own—I’ve mastered this over the years. And yet, I keep trying to break it.

When I tell people that I was born responsible, I don’t mean it in just a practical way.

I’ve felt responsible for people’s happiness for as long as I could remember. There’s always been this unseen and unspoken pressure, as though I needed to prove that I deserve to be here, that the sacrifice that came as fine print for my existence is now my burden to fix.

It’s a weight I’ve carried my whole life, and I’m still trying to figure out how to put it down so that I don’t release the angst of the resentment that comes with it on everyone around me.

Being back in Lebanon has popped my bubble a bit. Back in LA, my perspective and way of life isn’t out of the ordinary. I’m surrounded by people who speak my language (literally and figuratively), who understand my way of life and the way I see the world. That’s not always the case here.

See, the shadow of Lebanon is judgement, deceit and manipulation.

People will tell you “yes” when they really mean “no.” They’ll prioritize appearance over authenticity. They’ll ever so slightly tweak the truth in order to control the narrative—and it irks me.

It bothers me because I know these are things I’ve had to unlearn.

It’s hardly ever conscious or done in malice. I can tell it’s more of a way of connection, which is unfortunate, but given the history of this land, safety and protection often came at the cost of honesty, because the grief that’s silenced within this land, within the people who’ve had to become more familiar with death than they’d like and had to bury more kin than is normal, is a difficult energy to carry.

And for years, vulnerability in a land like this was dangerous, because it would mean accepting that things are barely being held by the seams, and breaking down may result in completely breaking apart.

Another thing we had in common.

Strength came laced in stoicism. Don’t let anyone know that they’re getting to you. Don’t show any pain or defeat. It’s a special advantage to even get to the point where you realize that this unconscious behavior only perpetuates the suffering that is suppressed. Some never get the freedom to.

And yet, it’s that same grief that causes Lebanese people to treat you like family even if you’re a stranger, party like it’s the last night of their life, and live in the moment whenever possible.

Both my privilege and naivety has slapped me in the face a few times. Who am I to criticize the way this country runs when I don’t live here? Who am I to judge how people cope and connect while having to repress trauma that I could never truly understand?

And who am I to believe that I live a “better” life when so much of my time is spent trying to make ends meet or isolated at home? Another example of the balance within everything.

When it comes to privilege, I’ve been trying to use it as a way to provide an outlook that isn’t tainted by the hopelessness that comes with repeatedly experiencing the same struggle day after day for decades.

That was the gift that was given to me by growing up in a different country, one that has its own faults for sure, but also allowed me to become exposed to so many different people, beliefs and ways of life.

And when it comes to my naivety, I’ve been remembering what’s most important—spending time with loved ones, having fun because it’s necessary not as a reward, and that you work to live, not live to work.

Perfection is a thread that I’ve been pulling for quite some time now, and it feels like I’ve finally gotten to the knot that keeps it from unraveling. Although I know perfection is a myth, an illusion that protects us from the messy and complex experience of being a human, it was still something I unconsciously reached for—and therefore expected.

It was a shield from the agony that comes with simply participating in this experience, because the truth is that life is full of bliss and disappointments, love and heartbreak, triumphs and defeats.

Real happiness is found in the radical act of acceptance. Recognizing that chasing perfection—whether in other people, in the country you live in or within yourself—is just stealing moments of joy from your life.

The partner you choose is going to piss you off sometimes. The country you live in will frustrate you sometimes. Your parents will disappoint you sometimes. You will let yourself down sometimes.

Does that mean the love goes away?

Of course, there are limits, and when certain behaviors or actions begin to impede on your safety, it’s a different story. But I think we’ve experienced another pendulum swing when it comes to our relationships and expectations, and it’s one that has swung so far to the other side, that we’ve forgotten the point.

Connection requires repair. It requires difficult conversations, compassion and understanding. It requires forgiveness and benefit of the doubt. It requires patience and belief.

We know this, but just like any other lesson on this journey, it takes some time to really becoming embodied. And Lebanon has been a great reminder of that for me.

Yes, my family will make plans without asking me, but it’s because they miss me and are excited to spend time together. Yes, my mom will still micromanage me despite me being self-sufficient for decades, but that’s her way of helping me avoid unnecessary chaos. Yes, my dad may hound me about a “stable job” and marriage, but he wants to make sure I’m not lonely or struggling.

And yes, I may attempt to remind them that they can love me in other ways that don’t frustrate me, but it will take time, because sometimes people show love in the only ways they know how, which is in the ways that they actually need themselves.

There’s always a different perspective if you’re will to see it, and sometimes we refuse the opportunity to acknowledge it because it would require us to actually accept that love was always there, nestled in the cracks of the pain we became too comfortable with and a story that kept us stuck in an identity that has gotten too familiar.

More to come.

Xo