Psst!  This is an episode of That’s What She Said!  You can listen in below, or scroll for the gist. 

Have you ever experienced a thing and when it was finally over, you looked back and said, ‘I don’t know how I survived that?’

I first remember feeling that way after taking long math tests in high school. Like, ‘if someone made me do that again right now, I couldn’t.’ Calculus fried my brain and I still haven’t used even one thing I learned in that class, so Mrs. Lesko lied, HARD, about its usefulness.

I also had that ‘couldn’t do it again’ feeling with things like my marriage, and working at the exact wrong school fresh out of college, so the scale of ‘I can’t believe I survived that’ runs the gamut from utterly insignificant math problems to taking up about a decade of my life.

The health phase of ‘I can’t believe I survived that’ is the most recent and surprising.

See, I didn’t know I was sick. I took up depression like a blanket and resigned myself to being cloaked in it, trying my best to enjoy its itchy wool covering as much as possible. I dedicated myself to joy and to survival in equal measure.

I refused to give up and pack it all in, despite suicidal ideations, and then one day I noticed that I’d gained 20 pounds in 6 weeks. Without actually eating any differently than I’d been eating for the years prior. (If you’ve heard this before, bear with me. We’re going somewhere new.)

Maybe something more was wrong. Maybe this mysterious weight gain wasn’t all depression’s fault.

I intuitively felt that my thyroid had shit the bed, so I got a test from EverlyWell — an at-home blood testing kit featured on Shark Tank — and found out that YUP, my thyroid was functioning as well as a 17-year-old car battery in an abandoned vehicle. Which is to say, not well. Mostly dead.

I went to my general practitioner, who said I should go on Synthroid for the rest of my life. No other options. No way to get off the meds. (Also the lifetime cost of meds is around $12,000+.)

That didn’t strike me as a Step One — more like a Step Seventeen or Eighteen after having tried a bunch of other things — so I struck out on my own.

Sparkle (see: sensing the sparkle podcast episode) led me to Dr. Aimee Derbes, who helped me make some fundamental changes to my diet, and who prescribed a series of herbs to help fortify my failing systems while digging into my energy systems and putting big shifts into motion.

I started to nap just a little less.

I was able to do breathwork once a week.

I didn’t weep — actually, literally weep — at the thought of having to leave the house because I was too tired to move.

Thus began a season of tiny, annoying progress.

Because virtual acupuncture isn’t a thing, and I knew I needed that particular healing modality, I went looking for a human to see in person.

Dr. Martin Orimenko used Ayurveda to make food recommendations, acupuncture to spark energy, and supplements to boost the dietary efforts.

I didn’t eat any sugar, dairy, yeast, or gluten for six weeks. No sugar included fruit, except for Granny Smith apples, and it was painfully obvious that I’d been eating less-than-nutritious foods for a long time.

I started to feel my brain working again. I started to have thoughts instead of mushy, cold brain fog. I could retrieve words faster than a few months before.

It was tiny, annoying progress.

I got fruits back, in moderation, and honey if absolutely necessary, and I kept my black coffee the whole time because I told Dr. Martin he could fuck off if he thought I was going to give that up, too.  I got supplemental treatments from Philadelphia Community Acupuncture.

It was tiny, annoying progress.

About three months into doing the strict dietary work, Dr. Martin said I had to move my body. I had less energy than a lethargic slug.

Moving my body sounded to me like a person who can’t pay their rent buying $100 lottery tickets each morning. But I did it.

I started going to the gym with Bear. I started kicking my way up and down the pool for twenty minutes at a time. I started going to the gym during kids’ swim lesson times so I could pick up tips and generally feel like a better swimmer than 3-year-olds.

It was tiny, annoying progress.

I eventually got swim goggles (a sporting goods purchase! Could it be possible that I have sports GEAR?), which led to my discovery that ACTUALLY I LOVE SWIMMING. The goggles opened up a world I’d literally never seen before, and suddenly I knew where I was going and how to get there because I COULD ACTUALLY SEE WHERE I WAS GOING. I’m still really, really bad at swimming, and most of what I do is improvised movement that in no way resembles any technique taught in school, but I like going.

More tiny, annoying progress.

I went to the gyno for the first time in about a decade — I was feeling better and on a seeing-medical-professionals roll! — and she ordered a round of blood tests. Turns out my thyroid is now functioning normally.

It was big, significant progress.

Those same blood tests revealed that while my thyroid was healed, my body was basically giving iron the finger and refusing to absorb it, no matter how much I gave it. This also contributed to my lethargy and depression. Dr. Martin gave me an iron supplement with some iron absorption magic mixed in.

It was the Plinko chip that led to the big win on The Price is Right: plink plink plink pliiiiiink plink PLINK!

::bells ring, lights flash, Bob Barker goes apeshit, I jump up and down because I just won big::

IT WAS ENORMOUS, VAST PROGRESS.

Tiny, annoying progress is only tiny and annoying until it turns the corner and reveals what it’s been building to the whole time.

Yes, it’s a pain in the ass to write every day, but eventually that turns into a book.

Yes, it’s annoying to give up dairy and sugar and gluten, but eventually that means your brain has quick thoughts, easy word recall, and ideas in abundance. (At least for me, that’s how it works. I have my 18-year-old brain back, and it’s UTTERLY MAGNIFICENT.)

Yes, it’s annoying to go to the doctor, but you just might find that you were fighting depression on three fronts — thyroid, iron, and seasonally — and eliminate two of them altogether.

Whatever you’re doing each day to chip away at a goal or to recover from a difficult situation will be tiny and annoying progress.

It’s still WORTH IT.

Your actions might never reveal themselves in a big way, with a Mighty Plinko Chip of Revelation.

You might be one day sober and then two days sober and then three days sober and then, poof, one month sober.

You might get enough distance from the demon to stare it in the eyes and take it down.

You might make a miraculous recovery that shows itself all at once with an iron supplement, or you might gradually feel like a dimmer switch has gone up on all of your senses.

Either way, I’m here to say: go make tiny, annoying progress.

Make small changes.

Embrace the little win.

Keep going.

Show your work.

Find your rhythm.

…and let me know what comes of your Tiny Annoying Big Vast efforts.

If you’d like my help making Tiny Annoying Big Vast progress, take a look at KK on Tap, which is consists of me and you working together for a whole year of business coaching!

You’ll receive quarterly 1-on-1 calls, quarterly group calls, all my work archives, admission to any live events I create, and a Phone-A-Friend emergency call for my lowest monthly price EVER. Check the whole thing out at kristenkalp.com/tap, or shoot me an email to talk 1-on-1!

P.S.  You do not have to earn your keep.

Psst! This is an episode of my podcast, That’s What She Said. You can read it by continuing to scroll or listen in here. Either way, this is a snippet I wrote *years* ago, and I am in no longer in the place I describe. ::mwah::

I’m deeply depressed and can’t see it because I’m FINE, DAMMIT.

I wake him up and lay into him with a list of all the things he’s done wrong: too this, not enough that, too much this, not nearly enough that. Poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke.

He doesn’t get angry.
He doesn’t even defend himself.
He just says, “If you really feel that way, maybe I should pack my things.”

Tears are streaming down my face and I can’t understand why I’m doing this, but I hear my voice mutter, “Maybe you should.”

He’s in the hallway gathering a handful of possessions when asshole brain pipes up: good. Now you can kill yourself.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME, ASSHOLE BRAIN?

You’re pushing away this person who adores me because he would never let suicide happen?

You’re taking these absurd actions — seemingly against your will — because you’re too cowardly to take action unless you’re entirely and utterly alone?

It only takes that one sneaky sentence for me to see the long, snake-like tail of depression slinking through my life.

I call him back into the room and tell him what’s going on, weeping and sobbing and hysterical and oozing snot like a sewer-dwelling blobby monster.

As long as Bear is in the house, asshole-suicide brain is permanently foiled. Asshole-suicide brain doesn’t like this, so it’s pushing as hard as it can to rid my life of him. I feel like an idiot and a moron.

How could I have fallen for this nonsense? How come I can’t see what’s right in front of my face?

He softens and holds me.
I apologize again and again.
He forgives me just as many times as I can utter “I’m sorry.”

We agree to tell on our dangerous thoughts from then on, no matter what.

We agree to announce, “Asshole brain is saying…” and then fill the other person in on the latest.

We agree to be uncomfortable with sharing our thoughts because shame can’t survive the light of day and an articulate conversation — and because losing a person you love is far worse than hearing what their whacked out asshole brain has to say in any given moment.

Tell on yourself.

Tell on your worst thoughts.

Tell on all the ways asshole brain has power over you, and suddenly, it won’t have so much power.

As a shame researcher, I know that the very best thing to do in the midst of a shame attack is totally counterintuitive: Practice courage and reach out! – Brené Brown

When you have a safe person to share asshole brain with — a friend, lover, relative, therapist, psychologist, psychiatrist, or doctor — asshole brain loses its stranglehold on your life.

When you share asshole brain’s rants with those in your inner circle, you stop being afraid of every thought that isn’t lollipops and rainbows.

You’re able to enter deeper into your own experience without fear of asshole brain, because you know nothing it says has to be yours to carry all by your lonesome. Further, when you say asshole brain’s thoughts out loud, you can see their absurdity with ease.

Yah, asshole brain? I should kick Bear out of my life because he didn’t run the dishwasher or take out the trash this week?

Yah, asshole brain? I should close down my business and work for someone else because I’m so good at taking orders and following rules?

Yah, asshole brain? I should stop working on my latest project because everyone knows it’s going to be a total fucking failure and the nuclear war is going to start any day now, so who cares anyway?

You don’t have to be scared of asshole brain.

You don’t have to believe a word it says.

….and if you can learn to share its macabre musings, your quality of life gets better.

Telling on asshole brain is like airing out a tightly enclosed, dark and dank room: when you throw open the windows and let the light come streaming in, it changes. There’s far less to fear when the sunshine can hit every corner.

Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light. – Brené Brown

A reminder: I’m not a medical professional, and if you’re experiencing dark thoughts like the ones described, please seek medical help AS SOON AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE. Please. If you’re having standard human asshole brain thoughts, know that I love you and you’re right there with the rest of us: human. And doing the best you can. 😉

Asshole brain is my name for what others call your ‘inner critic,’ but that doesn’t seem strong enough because FUCK it’s an asshole. Read the intro to asshole brain, then hit up part two.

P.S.  Here because someone is saying all the things about depression?  Here are more of my thoughts and struggles with depression.

It’s easy for me to make plans for sweeping changes and short timelines. Throw out all the sugar and cheese and processed foods and bring in the vegetables! Buy the 30-day pass and get to the gym every day! Toss all the plastics and load up on glass containers, reusable bags, and never use plastic ever again for any reason!

Also: productivity. I tend to write books in 6 weeks or less. If I’m not achieving, I’m not living!

And if I don’t want to do something that’s on my carefully-planned calendar? Too bad! Do it anyway!

And if I’m tired and the writing isn’t happening? Suck it up, keep going!

And if I feel like shit for no reason I can discern? Oh well, there’s work to do! No one cares about how you feel, least of all your work ethic!

Tenderness — even internally, in the realms where no one else sees or knows me — is associated with weakness.

If I don’t make fists and rise up in anger; if I don’t fulfill the obligations on my calendar every single day, in the order listed; if I don’t achieve myself into a new financial echelon on a regular basis; if I don’t grow my following by X percent each year; then I’m weak or failing or both.

I have a tough time with tenderness.

It means I have to sit with myself in pain and in mess and listen to asshole brain without actually believing a thing asshole brain says. It means that sometimes, I don’t get as much done as I’d planned. It means that I don’t push myself past the point of exhaustion and waste 3 hours doing a task that would take 20 minutes if I just moved it to tomorrow.

I was consulting with an herbalist since my recent panic attack triggered a look at my health on a more than passing have-a-few-green-smoothies-and-do-weekly-yoga basis.

I told her the basics of my humanity with a great deal of shame and more than a touch of anger at myself:

I am one-third as productive in February as in July.
I dread the coming of October and November.
I sleep far more in the winter.
I have way more energy in the summer months.
I wake with the sun.
I want to go to sleep with the sun, too.

She looked at me with such tenderness as she pointed out that that’s what mammals do.

And, um.

We’re mammals.

It was almost unbearable for a stranger to look at me — the sum of me, having just consulted about my daily cycles and foods and bodily functions — and say that I might be right. Where was the work ethic and the magic pill to make me impervious to weather and the seasons? Where was her admonishment for my clear lack of will power? Where was her stern voice and her berating commentary about my weight?

I expected a quick assessment and an even quicker cure.

Instead, she met me with tenderness.

Ugh. Tenderness.

Tenderness means admitting that instead of being wrong or broken, I might just be an animal who hasn’t lost its instincts.

What if my instincts are on point, and my fighting them is actually causing unnecessary pain? What if I plan for seasonal rhythms, and input to match my output, and to keep on keeping on as the seasons allow — but this time, to do it with some semblance of kindness toward myself?

Hhhhnnnggggggggggg. ::makes assorted straining faces that indicate I’d rather take a pill and schedule myself into oblivion than be a mammal::

It’s so much easier to beat myself up and start a new(!) life-changing(!) revolutionary (!) program than to soften and deepen into my most human spots. Tenderness means admitting to my depression when it shows up. It means taking my tonic for anxiety when I read the news and it’s too much to process. (It’s often too much to process.)

Tenderness means getting help being human in the form of acupuncture and breath work, and talking with people I love about everything that’s going on inside of me instead of trying to give them the buttoned-up, no-worries-here!!!! A++ version of things.

Tenderness means living into the hard places without judging myself for the existence of those places.

It means I’m paying closer attention to the gentle ways change can come about instead of trying to push and strain and achieve my way through each day.

What if I don’t clear the cupboards of every single tasty processed thing in an effort to start over 100% and simply buy less shit-food and more broccoli? What if I acknowledge that change can be and often is gradual instead of trying to overhaul the entirety of my being again and again and again?

What if I don’t give in to the temptation to take on a 30-day challenge and instead, find ways to incorporate nurturing into every single day? What if nurturing and tenderness are one and the same?

OH GOD IT’S SO HARD. (That’s what she said.)

Welcome to Tender Land.

The good news is that there’s less self-flagellation here. When I can be with my humanity — its rough edges and flaws and the wintery desire to go to bed at 6:30 because it’s been dark for two hours already — I can extend that same courtesy to others. Even if you can’t sit with your desire to nap or to eat all the carbs or to check your phone 744 times a day — I can! I’ve been practicing!

If I can be tender to myself, being tender to other humans is far less challenging!

Of course, asshole brain does not agree. If I just push harder, hustle more, put my nose to the grindstone, and try more, I’ll get further. Right?  Like lifting a hundred pounds or running seven miles or sweating in a 105-degree room for 90 minutes. It’s gotta be hard in order to matter.  Laying off, easing up on myself, and/or being gentler with my humanity couldn’t possibly be beneficial. COULD IT?

I took a 30-day sabbatical in which I burned my last business to the ground and survived. No Productivity Police showed up to haul me off to Efficiency Jail.

Likewise, punishing my body for being a body — human and prone to tiredness, sweaty and smelly and alive — hasn’t worked yet. I weigh precisely as much as I did before I decided to do all the punish-y revolutionary things to myself.

What if being kinder to myself lets me be kinder to others?

What if loving the parts of me that are dark and weak (see: depression and my penchant for hermiting) means I’m capable of loving other humans more?

What if refusing to hate my body means I’m more capable of seeing the miracle of being alive that lives in every single body, no matter its shape or size?

What if quietly, lovingly refusing to judge other humans or put them in small boxes means that I’m more capable of finding and voicing nuance and complexity?

What if tenderness is, in fact, the answer?

The world has plenty of go-go-go, scheduled-for-17-hours-a-day, busy busy humans.

We seem to be losing the people who aren’t moving at warp speed. The people who work and play and ponder, fully acknowledging that the most brilliant ideas don’t come at hour 16 of a 17-hour-day, but in those moments when we step away from work and dive into something else entirely.

What if I stop being angry at myself for everything I haven’t yet achieved?

Oh god. That’s so fucking hard.

What if we are not here to achieve? What if we are simply here to love?

And in love, tenderness is always the answer.  (Dammit.)

Tenderness is the answer.

…I still have a tough time with tenderness. But I’m working on it.

P.S.  Tenderness goes hand in hand with learning to live in the body.  Find that and all other That’s What She Said podcast episodes here.

P.P.S.  The struggle part of the story is essential.