Ein alter Freund stellte mir diese Frage: Was haben Deine Kinder mit Dir gemacht? Wie haben sie Dein Leben verändert? ich dachte: endlich fragt mal einer! Und dann sprudelte es aus mir heraus.

„Sie haben mich nach innen geworfen. Sie haben mich Kraftquellen finden lassen, von denen ich noch nichts wusste. Sie haben mich unendlich verwundbar gemacht und sehr stark. Sie haben mir die Illusion geraubt, ich könnte niemals lieben. Nun muss ich lieben. ich darf lieben. Und gehe damit das volle Risiko ein. Jede Sekunde. Und mir schlottern vor Angst die Knie.
Ausserdem durfte ich mit ihnen heilen, lachen, mich wundern. Jeden Tag, seit fast siebzehn Jahren, essen sie, was ich koche, schlafen in Betten, die ich schüttle und wasche, trinken aus meinen Wasserhähnen und verlassen sich auf mein Herz. Manchmal ist das so viel, dass ich sehr müde bin. Und es ist so viel, dass ich vor Dankbarkeit platze. Und hier ist das Risiko der Arroganz am grössten: ich will, dass jeder kriegstreibende Despot Klos putzt, fiebrige Kinder hält, verkotzte Handtücher mit den fingern reinpult, bis sie in die Waschmachine gehen. Ich will, dass er da sitzt, mit zwei Leben auf den Knien, die so total auf seine Hände, seinen Verstand, sein Mitgefühl angewiesen sind, dass es kein Entrinnen gibt. Nachts nicht und tags nicht, um 2h nicht um 4h nicht um 18h nicht. Ich will, dass er einen Kindernacken in der Abendsonne sieht und ihm der Atem wegbleibt, weil dieser eine Blick alle Verletzlichkeit der Welt auf sich liegen hat, und einem die Brust zerdrückt wie ein ganzer Betonbunker, der mit einem mal darauf lastet. Ich will, dass er Atem holen muss, in diesem Moment. Wo die Liebe ihm das Herz aufschneidet, tiefer, als er es je für möglich gehalten hat. Vielleicht wäre dann mehr Frieden auf der Welt.“

How I Watered Down My Marriage With Non-Violent Communication

“No, not like that! That’s not how it works!” were two of the many sentences I used to speak frequently to my husband. I was raised in a direct culture, in which criticism and anger is openly spoken and shown. This comes with benefits and drawbacks.

At first I clung to the value of my direct expression and aggression. I defended myself. I praised the virtue of my “honesty” and ridiculed my softer-spoken husband for not standing in his power. It does not feel great to write this. And yes, I did do that. No wonder this led to his withdrawal. I faced the growing pain of disconnection. Instead of passionate love, I found more and more distance in my marriage.

It was deeply painful. And it was a deeply inspired mechanism: This pain eventually had me take the next step.

I became willing to look at myself. To see my contribution. This is how I found meditation. I began listening better, and discovered the heat of my partner’s pain when I spoke in certain ways. Ouch. I did not want to be the person to inflict that kind of pain.

I felt the shame I held around my own speech. I started seeing how my “honesty” included little mean stabs at my husband. How my “truth” often was an attempt to ease my own pain by inflicting pain on him. I really did not want to see that. Yet once I had the first glimpse, I started recognising more and more of the violence in my speech. So I went on a mission: Learning “non-violent communication.”

This was an approach that quickly had me enthralled. I read feverishly, practiced, observed and reflected on my changes in a journal. I bumped my nose pretty hard many times, learning to “clean up my speech.” And I had a steep learning curve. Things improved for a while. Then something else happened.

It was very painful, and it took me a long while to find it and name it.

For sure my marriage was more peaceful. For sure I was pretty happy with the way I spoke now, most of the time. I even got better at „subtleties“ like tone, facial expression and body language.

But what was happening deep down in myself? What was that unfamiliar gnaw? Why did my tears flow suddenly, when I remembered myself kayaking through the rain, on a vast lake, as fast as I could, violently happy? Feeling as alive as an Arctic Tern? My husband paddling by my side, with long, confident strides, and joy on his face?

There was something very essential missing. What was that blanket, that seemed to cover my heart? Where was my vitality? Gone. That word dropped into me one morning, heavy as lead: Gone. Why was it gone? Where did it go?

In a familiar way, I first blamed him. It was because of the way he met me! The way he spoke to me! The way he looked at me! He did not evoke that passionate part in me! „So there!“ I thought angrily… Yet I knew I was kidding myself even as I revelled in blame and inner ranting for a while.

He did not truly have the power to snuff out my vitality. Only I could do that. So what happened? And how did I manage to turn my life into damp toast?

Here I was, remarkably more soft-spoken. Yet I felt twisted inside, muffled. My new vocabulary was painfully limited in expressing my stronger emotions. Even my strengths. The strength with which I drew my paddle through that rain-swept lake with joy…

In fact, I had come to believe that those strong emotions were somehow wrong. My “violent” emotions held too much energy. Instead of taking care of these emotions, and acting and speaking in truth to them, I had taken a fateful short-cut: I had watered down my voice using what I thought was “non-violent communication.”

“I feel so frickin’ angry!!” had become “I am a little frustrated.” “I feel so desperately alone and unmet, I just want to crawl under my desk and hide like a little girl!“ had become silence. It was deeply painful. And again this pain led to the next stage of my journey.

How could I be true to my passionate emotions and yet speak skilfully? For sure I couldn’t use non-violent communication as a patch covering up what I really felt any longer. I had probably misunderstood what the inventors of that approach had meant all along. And, looking around me, it seems I wasn’t the only one. How often did I hear soft and polite words, seething with violence? Between parents and their child? “Honey, will you PLEASE stop that banging!!!?! Grrr!” Between partners: “Excuse me…!!!?!?” these two polite words can be said in so many ways.

I still hold the intention to not unnecessarily hurt my partner. But now I also hold another intention: To not unnecessarily hurt myself by betraying, and stuffing my deeply felt and passionate emotions. For me, the way to do that has two main steps.

First, increased awareness and acceptance of my emotional life.

And second: A striving for skilful yet authentic non-violent expression of my truth.

How does that play out in my life?

You can find me sitting or walking with my strong emotions before I take them to my husband. And you can find me speaking with passion, more forgiving of my own lapses, more quickly acknowledging my judgments and “stabs”, followed by a fierce dedication to repair. Life has returned to our home. Life is delicious and messy. And I’m feasting on it.

What about you? 

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Photo Credit: Filip Mroz, unsplash.

Have you ever been haunted by the question „Should I stay or should I go?“ Plagued by it, back and forth, not finding the answer, not settling into any kind of certainty of your path?

This question used to haunt me. There it was, lurking in corners like a pesky varmint, scaring me, bugging me, staring into my face.

I tried my best to answer it until the confusion became unbearable, and I would numb out.

After all, numbing out was more comfortable than facing this bloody question with no hope of finding an answer.

I was stuck in indecision. And I was slowly losing my ompf.

Indecision was like a slow inner bleed. It robbed me of my powers. It was the reason I reached for the next cookie, stuck on the couch. It was the slow inner drip that made me sleepy, lured me into hope for magical solutions.

If I could just be better, if I could show up more feminine, more attractive. Then… If he would just wake up and change, if he would just find a friend to help him improve this or that. Then…

For me, the pain only grew. Half-awake I saw myself slipping away into the grey.

I would catch my reflection accidentally. The tired sadness in my face startled me.

Until I found the guts to look myself straight in the eye:

How are you, self?

And I kept answering myself: 

I am confused. I don’t know what I should do. I feel such a longing for this relationship to blossom into full potential. I feel weak and exhausted. I judge myself for not getting it right. I am ashamed to fail yet again. I am afraid to hurt him. I am afraid to damage our kids. I am afraid to make the wrong decision.

It was like riding a great big powerful beast. A dragon. A dragon with a bleeding wound. Only for my dragon, this wound was not hidden or internal. She was writhing, fighting, in full knowledge of her bonds and pain.

Instead of running away, I began visiting the dragon. I found community to help me sit with her and bring her my full presence. I learned that my dragon was powerful. I began to see that, ungoverned, all she knew was fight, flight, or freeze. I saw how she breathed fire when scared, and that her fire had an enormous heat. Enough to kill a man. I learned that she was innocent, for she had no reason. Swimming in her thick skull was a reptilian brain. 

I found guides who taught me how to keep steady and be with her, when she was sad and scared. I learned how to give her space to writhe and thrash when she was mad, and slowly I trained my ability to contain her to keep her from hurting others or herself. 

Over time, we forged a relationship, my inner beast and me.

If you watched Avatar – it was like I had connected my braid to her. The power and agony in her that once had scared me, had tried to throw me off, was now the power in me.

She trusted me. She was ready to hear my command. She and I were one.

My question was not „should I stay or should I go“ anymore.

Right then I knew both paths – staying and going – to be painful and exhilarating. 

The fantasy of the right decision – it fell away. The dream of finding my soulmate in a new person I was yet to meet – I dropped it. The goal I had for my marriage changed from „I want happy“ to a bigger vision (you can read Jayson Gaddis‘ take on the main goal of a high functioning marriage here). Knowing myself better, I learned to differentiate the impulses of my dragon from the wiser council of my mind and heart. I saw how I had still a lot of work to do before I could fight well when my husband and I were in conflict. As long as our inner dragons were colliding, our hearts would not be open to each other.

Turning my attention directly onto myself had proved to be the liberating move. Where the agony was, there lay my power to turn things around.

It was not important if I stayed or went. It was important to know that whatever choice I made was my own, active choice.  

The right path was the path I chose. 

It was the direction I set my eyes on. The call of my dragon-heart that led the way: 

I chose to stay in my marriage. Since then my marriage is the path I choose every single day when I wake up in the morning.

From that place, I have a bigger view. I see that I have not yet given it my all.  And I am always free to revisit my question.

Today I am in my marriage with all my heart. For my dragon and me, there is room for a lot of things. But not for falling asleep again for any length of time.

I have work to do.

I have love to live.

Years ago, I found myself caught between two very strong forces: The pull towards The Relationship School® in Boulder, CO and the passion for our family life in my Swiss village. I was stressed and confused. These forces were tucking at me strongly, persistently.

Should I really go? Was it just midlife-crisis that had me jump into this adventure, or was there any wisdom in leaving my family for a week and flying over the Atlantic?

I did go. And I found a path that I have been following ever since with all my heart. Here is how one boy I never met gave me the courage to go:

Swiss mountains around me, packing list in my hand. My head insists I am going in the wrong direction: to the US. I have been looking forward to The Relationship School® in Boulder for months. Now my body stalls.

Just now my village home is paradise.

Only yesterday my kids had formed a circus with their friends. The arena was under Miriam’s linden tree, by the pony barn. The afternoon sun was shining through the branches. The children jumped and danced on a board balanced over an old tin bucket. My heart burst with gratitude and joy – the last thing I wanted to do was leave my little girl to go to the US.

There she was, swinging dangerously, smiling and throwing the first dried leaves into the air from her pocket. All-natural confetti.

It was only because I created my own hell in the midst of this paradise that I was now getting ready to leave for a seven-day-trip. As it turned out for me, awakening to this hell, led to finding Jayson Gaddis and his Smart Couple Podcast. Which was the beginning of a fundamental re-gardening process: very slowly I was turning the destitute industrial area of our marriage to match our idyllic surroundings of lush greenery, spaces maintained with love and abundant signs of community.

I dropped the packing list and used the last hour before my children would walk down from the village school to ride down to the lake, getting our groceries from the organic co-op.

As I was pedalling up the hill again I remembered an email from a German friend. He was housing a refugee boy from Syria: Maher. Maher’s mother was killed on their flight from war, and his father and siblings were scattered over Europe. My friend was asking for help to reunite Maher with his family. All it would take was some luck and a few thousand Euros to cover plane fares. This was my chance to bribe the universe and to quiet my fears about travelling without my family. I put my bike away and went straight to my laptop to make a donation.

Helping out this boy gave me the courage to face my own fears. It also helped me connect my travels with one of my highest values: Being of service. Learning about relationship would serve world peace -– it may sound far fetched, but it seemed clear as rain to me: I was travelling for myself, for my family, and for Maher.

Then I finally packed. One day and a 15+ hour plane journey later I joined just over 50 people at Boulder’s Integral Center for the first ever Relationship School Live Weekend. For about half of us this was also the kick-off to a nine-month journey, studying the Deep Psychology of Intimate Relationships in order to become well-practiced “love warriors”.

Jayson and his wife Ellen Boeder fed us neurophysiological knowledge and role-played common situations in the “full catastrophe” of family life. They modelled the attitude, timing and language that can turn a relational challenge into love. We repeated the moves in real-time exchanges and learnt how this felt in our own bodies. Over time, I could practically feel my relational muscles become stronger!

I was in a jet lag haze that seemed supportive of opening my heart through sheer exhaustion. Practicing with the other students meant checking in with myself, opening my heart and entering an intimate exchange.

Over and over I failed or succeeded to stay connected to myself, keep my heart open and stay in intimacy. This was taking it much further than countless hours spent on the meditation cushion, as essential as they are to me.

Whatever sense of awakened love I was feeling was directly put to the test of actual relating.

The day after the Live Weekend I found myself sitting in Trident Café, Boulder, with a massive soul hangover, clear mind and expansive heart, my relational muscles slightly sore.

Just as working out makes my body feel confident and alive, I was filled with new confidence to bring home to my family, my entire relational life. If this were to wear off, I was still left with a down-to-earth set of practical tools, a map and a compass.

I was intent on expanding paradise by tending to my marriage: To me it’s the most important thing in my small privileged life, and the best contribution I can think of to create a global garden in which my family and Maher can heal and thrive.

Packing that morning for my trip home, I checked email one last time. My German friend had sent a note: In the few days since my donation, the fund to bring Maher’s family together had grown to over 3500 Euros. People had teamed up to organize flea markets, offer legal council and sent money to make a difference for this boy. My heart softened as I realized how eager people are to do something practical to help relieve suffering in the world.

With the Rocky Mountains at my back and a thick Relationship School® manual in my bag, there was no doubt I was going in the right direction, my direction.

I was bringing back home a keen determination to live in integrity beyond my meditation cushion, a set of tools for everyday, heart-swelling memories and a small to medium sized “cowboy hat” for my kids to parade around our Swiss village.

And most importantly I was bringing myself back home.