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Five Deep Breaths

liz lamoreux

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Five deep breaths.

Right here.

Letting whatever is pulling on you roll off of you like raindrops with each breath.

Inhale.

Notice.

Exhale.

Let it roll away.

Repeat as needed throughout the day.

permission

liz lamoreux

permission love note

I just want you to know I’m thinking about you today.

I hope you will go gently, and that you will know you aren’t alone over there.

Listen to your inner wise one as you can and do what you need today.

Rest. Rage. Love.

Ask for a hug.

Get outside.

Reach out.

Drink some water. Take a long hot shower. Listen to music.

Move your body. Read a poem. Honor your story.

Do what you most need, dear one.


If you’re looking for ways to connect with that inner voice through mindfulness and creativity, check out my ecourses. Listening to what you need, connecting with that wise one inside, is what my courses are all about.

a gatherer of sunsets

liz lamoreux

sunset art journaling page

Perhaps she will be a gatherer of sunsets, and my job will be to slow us both down so she can fill the cracks with the beauty and the quiet and the wonder and the glorious shades of orange, pink, and purple.

(Amen.)

Because writing the words, the prayers, the hopes stuck inside me onto the page help me make sense of things. Always.

i really want to tell you...

liz lamoreux

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I really want to tell you that there's something so magical about spring in the Pacific Northwest, and I wish you were here so I could show you how the blooms on the fruit trees stitch my heart back together (they might stitch your heart back together) as they swirl into puddles on the ground. I really want to tell you that I am certain that you made someone have a better day today just by the way you're showing up in the world. That smile you gave, the way you held the door open, the way you listened, that moment when you let that car merge when no one else would, the music you were playing while making dinner, that moment you said, "thank you," that decision you made to send a text and check in...those little ways you are you make the world a better place. I really want to tell you that I know some days it feels like we're walking through a sticky mess of "how the hell did I get here?" AND somehow we're still walking. Can you feel what that means in your bones? We get that it is hard, but we keep showing up. Side by side. (Isn't that a miracle?) I really want to tell you that sometimes I default to insisting that I'm alone in the midst of it all, but I've found that my friends won't let me pitch a tent there anymore. They look at me (sometimes that might mean over the phone or via text or Marco Polo {get that app!}) and they say, "I'm here. You aren't alone. Even if you try to be, you're not." And I'm so damn glad that I listen to them. I really want to tell you that being a parent pushes me to edges I didn't even realize I had. And yet, I'm sitting across from this little girl as I type this, this warrior girl with "I dissent" superpowers and a huge heart and a sense of humor that makes me literally snort with laughter, and I see her. I see who she is. And I feel the ways she makes me stand up in my warrior self. I watch her concentrating with a tiny smile on her lips, and I let the gratitude rush in beside the heartache and my whole body relaxes as I smile knowing we are okay. I really want to tell you that you are beautiful. That you are not alone. That you are making the world (your world) a world I want to live in as you show up as you. Yes. Yes. Yes.

(I’m sending more love notes like these to my newsletter these days. If you want to subscribe, just head over here.)


I take her hand

liz lamoreux

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I took this photo the day after EJ’s open-heart surgery eight and a half years ago.

I’d just had the longest night of my life standing beside her while I held a pacifier in her mouth because it seemed to help her sleep. She hardly used one at home but the nurse really wanted to try giving her one and it was too big for her little mouth and it kept falling out. Each time it did, she would moan a sound that ripped at me. So I stood there and held it. For hours.

It felt like the final challenge of Survivor. Know what I mean? I watched the first few seasons and the final challenge was always a balance endurance test.

I had music playing softly, the playlist I had made four months earlier when we were waiting for her to arrive. Indigo Girls and Macy Gray and my voice singing along with them. My dad relieved me at some point around 5 am and I went downstairs to the Starbucks because of course the children’s hospital in Seattle has one.

I pretended I had a protective bubble around me like Violet from The Incredibles creates. I didn’t want to let anyone or their story in. I remember sitting at the table thinking I was enveloped in fog. Beginning to lean into the truth that a doctor had saved her life. Holding the fears surrounding how she would heal. How I would.

Before going back upstairs, I took this photo. It’s part of a series of mirror photos I took back then to help myself know I wasn’t disappearing. It’s become a practice I turn to again and again to feel seen.

Today, I want to whisper to this woman: I see you. Thank you for being so strong and open and present even when it might have felt impossible.

And in this moment, I’m imagining that I take her hand and walk into this day.


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Being Seen is open for registration!

This is my 5-week ecourse that combines the mirror meditation and self-portraiture to help you deepen your relationship with yourself. The mirror meditation is a practice you can do almost anywhere that can help you feel deeply seen and reconnected in the midst of the unpredictability daily life can bring.

During and after the course, we'll connect in a private Facebook group + I'll be sending you the mirror meditation journal (and optional care package upgrade) in the mail! There are a limited number of spots for this final round of the course, and we’re almost half full. Learn more about sign up here.

I want to remember

liz lamoreux

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Last month, EJ and I visited my mom in Texas, and just before we boarded our flight home, I wrote down these words.

I want to remember the moments of softness and joy found as we watched the sunsets.

I want to remember when she found the shell and carried it in her pocket until she saw me and slipped it into my hand.

I want to remember the laughter, the singing, and the way she cuddled up next to Grandpa after her big fall.

I want to remember the way she yelled, “I love you” one more time to Grandma after we gathered up our bags and headed into the airport.

I want to remember the moments of ease and love in the spaces between the challenges that squeeze my heart.

I want to remember the ways I kept taking deep breaths and asked for help and tried to keep sloughing off the feelings around what I cannot control.

I want to remember that my mom and I laughed so hard we were both crying.

I want to remember that I can just tell the truth.

I want to remember all of it.

Gathering evidence like this is how I make sense of The And Spaces I find myself in as I move through my life. Putting the words down, pairing them with a photo, becomes the way I see through all the stuff when it bubbles up inside.