Welcome to the Being Broken Blog

As a therapist, writer, and photographer, I have long believed that paying attention is one of the ways we heal. Sometimes that attention takes the form of conversation. Sometimes it comes through images. And sometimes it arrives through writing.

Many of the reflections shared here grew out of my own experiences with grief, loss, family, healing, and the search for meaning after difficult life events. Others have been inspired by themes that emerge in my work as a therapist and by the resilience I witness in the people I have the privilege to work alongside.

This blog is a place for stories, reflections, poems, photographs, and practical insights about grief, trauma, healing, relationships, and the complicated work of being human.

I hope something you find here helps you feel less alone, offers a new perspective, or simply gives you permission to be exactly where you are.

 

Thank you for reading.

Lessons for Loving the Misunderstood

About This Poem

People sometimes tell me they don’t read much poetry because they’re worried they won’t understand it. The good news is that poetry isn’t a puzzle to solve. There is no single “right” interpretation. Often, the most meaningful poems are the ones that remind us of something we already know but may have forgotten.

In this poem, peonies become a way of exploring grief, family, emotional inheritance, healing, and self-acceptance. The poem reflects on how we learn about love, belonging, and vulnerability from the people who raise us—and how those lessons can shape us long after childhood.

As you read, notice the images that stand out to you. Notice the places where the poem feels familiar or where it stirs a memory, feeling, or question. Poetry often speaks to us in unexpected ways.

Most of all, this poem is an invitation to consider that healing is rarely rushed. Like peonies, some things unfold in their own time.

As you read, pay attention to the lines that linger with you after the poem ends. They often have something to teach us.

 

 

Lessons for Loving the Misunderstood


It is late spring
and I wait for my peonies—
tight buds
unfurling
into softness.
 
People complain
they do not last.
 
That is what I love:
their brief insistence,
their fragile abundance.
 
My grandmother’s four
peony bushes
bloomed beside her house—
later divided
among her children
like softened inheritance.
 
I watched grief drape itself
over my mother’s shoulder,
like a shawl she did not notice—
the way her mother wore it,
and her grandmother before her.
 
I grew up in a house of angry boys,
full of droning noise,
with no room for music
to fill the cracks.
 
I learned to read faces,
not feelings.
I mistook apathy for safety,
numbness for peace.
 
And still, beneath it all,
something in me waited—
tight-lidded,
like a peony bud,
storing softness in secret.
 
Poor attunement leaves bruises.
Maybe also breadcrumbs—
small mercies that say:
Try again.
You’re safe.
Grow differently.
 
Some bend inward,
petals clenched.
Some open too quickly.
Some never stop scanning the garden
for danger.
Some bow on the stalk
beneath the weight
of their own unopened beauty.
 
Now I sit with the peonies—
not as a stranger to their grace
but as a student of their timing.
 
They do not rush.
They do not pretend.
They do not ask permission
to be soft.
 
And in that,
I honor myself—
not only in blooming,
but in waiting,
in bruised leaves,
in letting go.
 
I waited all winter.
 
Now I know
even waiting can be heirloom,
handed down
through women who bloomed
in silence
and still rose
again and again
from black, muddy earth.




From Mastering the Art of Being Broken
© 2006 Lee Erickson
ECSI Press - All Rights Reserved