As the weeks go by, it amazes me how fast we can adapt to the new normal. I do what I need to do, and then my new chill time consists of texting with my niece about which face masks are the cutest, watching martial art movies, and indulging in some social media binging. 
On these binges, I see many posts like “anxiety is a choice,” “anger is a choice,” “gratitude is a choice.” I totally get and agree with this sentiment. But I also wonder, is it as simple as that? Do we have a choice when our nervous system is in overdrive? When our survival brain is pumping adrenaline like mad into our bodies to keep us safe from what it perceives as aggression?
So perhaps it’s not really a matter of choice, but a practice, like in martial arts. Instead of repeating a move over and over until it becomes second nature, we learn how to come back to our breath when we lose it. To our bodies. To the present. Over and over. To let go of the future, of over planning, of anxiety. To forgive ourselves when we become angry or forget to be grateful. Over and over, until it gets easier.
Remembering that, like in meditation, getting distracted by anger or anxiety is not a “fail.” It is part of the practice.
That the healing is in the return.
Not in being always perfectly centered.

It feels like day 813205 of the lock-down. It's rainy. I am not feeling that great. And that's OK.
Sometimes, I try to justify all of this madness by thinking of all the good things coming out of it. I am practicing a lot. Becoming closer to friends and family who live far away. And—because of my niece's obsession with a psycho-socialite that teaches killer workouts—I may even end up with a soupcon of abs for the first time in my life.
But staying positive all the time can feel exhausting. On those moments, I need to let go. To understand shit happens, and there is no need to justify it. To eat pancakes for dinner. To take a day off Zoom and listen to my worries, my anger, my grief. To hold space for these feelings that are often overwhelming, often enlightening.
Because balance is only found in that tiny space that lies between our joy and our grief, our hopes and fears, our OKness, and not OKness. Without darkness, there is no light.
Love,
Nathalie

My Belgian family has a knack for weird stories. Fake suicides that become real. Covering up for Russian spy networks during WWII, and marrying exotic dancers with fake names stolen from novels. They lost many houses to gambling, and many lovers to drink. No wonder they ended up ruined.
But despite their madness, they were also survivors. A great, great uncle survived close to two years in a concentration camp at 60. When he was released, he avoided the issue by joking that the “simplified meals” helped him get rid of gout.
My great uncle made his way out of occupied Belgium and France bribing guards with cognac.
And my grandparents and father survived 13 days in a lifeboat with scarce food and water after their boat was sunk by a German U-boat.
Through the years, they have been my inspiration. All of them…except my grandmother. She is reported to have spent the 13 days in the lifeboat putting foundation powder on her face to look immaculate while repeating “this can’t be happening” like a mantra.
She made it through in one piece. And now that the first thing I do every morning is to put on lipstick, I have a newfound understanding and respect for her. Like her, this simple routine helps me feel like myself again.
We all are different. And we all have our ways to cope. For me, it’s lipstick and meditation; for you, it may be yoga, and, for others, it's a zoom happy hour. The important thing is to check with ourselves:
What do we need to feel more calm and centered?
What brings a little bit of happiness and joy to our life right now?
Is it reasonably healthy for us emotionally and physically?
Is it respectful of other people’s well-being?
And then go for it, without self-judgment and with loads of compassion.
Love,
Nathalie