Motherwort: An Ally for Courageous Connection

A friend just sent me a song by the amazing ahlay blakely. If you have a sec, check it out on Instagram! It’s beautiful, her work in the world is amazing, and I want to be a part of it rippling wider and wider still. These are the words she sings:

courage is not the absence of fear
it is the feeling of this fear
-being afraid-
and {showing up} anyway

I need these words. I’ve chosen a life that requires a lot of courage, and it’s not because I am facing extraordinary danger on a daily basis. It’s because I am dedicated to being in honest, deep, and intimate relationships. And that is some scary shit.

I have lived in intentional communities for the past ten years and have been in committed partnership with Seth for seven. I live closely enough with other people that conflict inevitably happens. Sometimes it’s small and easy to work out in the moment, but when our deeper needs go unmet and core wounds are triggered, one or more of us gets emotionally activated and it can be hard to find our way through the conflict. I hate it when that happens.

I hate it because I am terrified of it. And as much as a part of me wants to run and hide every time conflict scratches at the spaces between anyone in my sphere, working with conflict in a constructive way has become a core element of my life work. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I spent the first 40 years of my life doing my best to skirt around interpersonal conflicts by being “good” and, if that didn’t do the trick at preventing uncomfortable interpersonal exchanges, I’d do whatever I could to mend the situation as quickly as possible… which included stuffing my own needs into the basement of my being and taking responsibility for things that weren’t mine to own.

I spent most of my 30s in a relationship with someone who was equally conflict-averse, and, while a part of me longed to be able to talk about the elements of our relationship that were hard for me, I was so relieved by our tacit agreement not to talk about hard things that I told myself that I couldn’t expect to get all my needs met by one person. For almost six years, it seemed like a brilliant strategy for a peaceful, easy relationship. 

Until my already-distant boyfriend completely dropped off the map energetically. While I had accepted a baseline level of emotional absenteeism, something shifted one spring for good. What little presence I had received from him disappeared overnight. The few times I mustered the courage to ask him about it he said something like, “No, it’s not you, it’s my upcoming test, it’s the stress of buying a house, it’s…” When I asked him if he still wanted to be with me, he said “yes” again and again, even though his actions, or lack thereof, were revealing a different truth. And yet I clung to his words like they actually meant something. 

The question I never thought to ask was, “Do I still want to be with him?”

Finally, I sought the guidance of a mentor who reflected my misery back at me. “He could go on like this for a long time, but you can’t,” she said. “You need to tell him how unhappy you are. You need to tell him that things need to change.”

And so I went home, asked him to talk in a couple hours, and wrote a clear and kind letter telling him how much pain I was in, how unwilling I was to live in a home with so much emotional distance, and how much I wanted things to change. 

And then, in one of the most terrifying and courageous moments of my life, I read him the letter. And when I did, he finally named the truth. He was unhappy too. He’d been afraid to say it because he loves me, but he wasn’t in love with me anymore. He wasn’t interested in working on it. He wanted to break up.

This had been my greatest fear, the thing I had been bracing against all summer long, and yet, as soon as he said those words, I FELT RELIEVED!! I WAS FREE!! By 4am the next morning, I had decided to quit my job of seven years, get rid of most of my stuff, and get a one-way ticket out of Portland.

That breakup launched me into a whole new life, the one I’d fantasized about as a kid but had never quite been able to actualize. It led me to four years of living in a cabin in the woods while working with an intentional community in the Oregon Cascades, and eventually to falling in love with a man who is not afraid of conflict at all, but embraces it as an opportunity for growth. Ew. Five years ago, the two of us moved to Full Bloom, a small intentional community in Southern Oregon, and now we’re in it for the long haul. 

In our early days here, I tried my same old strategies of avoiding conflict when it arose in our community. I’d notice things that rubbed me the wrong way, and then I’d just let it go. But it’s not so easy to do that when sharing life so intimately with others. For me, “letting it go” often meant cleaning up other people’s messes, taking on extra work to make up for their slack, ignoring the fact that they were not meeting the commitments we all agree to when we move here, and pretending everything was hunky dory when it just wasn’t. “Letting it go” actually started to feel like “taking it on” and it got super old after a while.

At the same time that community life was revealing some of the flaws in my “conflict avoidance is the best!” approach, my relationship with Seth kept insisting on the same thing. Shit. I knew I wanted closeness between us. I knew I wanted truth. And as much as I wanted the kind of ease that had existed with my ex during most of our time together, I was no longer willing to pay the price of emotional distance for it.

And then there was COVID and the predictable divergence of beliefs about what it was and how to deal with it as a group. There were community members who consistently didn’t show up for their commitments and others who crossed boundaries again and again and again. There’s all of our embodied wounds and things that trigger them, and it became undeniably clear that if I want to be married to Seth and live in community, I must show up for conflict. 

Luckily, the founding members of Full Bloom developed structures for working through conflict long before we arrived. They learned early on that, without clear agreements about interpersonal challenges, things could get ugly fast. During my time here, I’ve also learned that things can get ugly fast when those structures are not an integral part of our community culture. 

But we’re learning. We’re learning how important it is to let prospective residents know that, no matter how dreamy this communal life in the woods may seem, conflict will arise. It’s inevitable. And that when it does, we can shut down and fracture, or we can use it as an opportunity to heal wounds we didn’t even know we had and deepen our empathy toward ourselves and one another.

We’re also learning that it’s a lot easier to call upon our tools for being with conflict when we truly need them if we practice them when things feel smooth. So we’ve been playing with scenarios and developing skills so we can access those tools more readily when things get heated. 

And we’re balancing our playful conflict practices with vulnerable conversations about our personal histories and reflecting on our go-to responses when we’re triggered. We’re learning about the nervous system and somatic practices to help us regulate our bodies when things get spicy. And in doing so, we’re cultivating a community ecosystem capable of holding conflict with resilience.

A couple weeks ago we had a chance to call upon some of these practices. One of our neighbors is also one of our dearest friends, and he sent an email that ignited frustration in Seth. Upon receiving Seth’s frustrated reply, our neighbor asked to have a conversation with him, and asked me to be present for it. 

I agreed, but I was nervous! I was afraid, but I showed up anyway, offering my grounded presence as a witness and, if need be, a facilitator. But they didn’t need structural support. My simple presence was enough because these two led with their empathy, their presence, their skills, and their commitment to their relationship. Once again, I was shown that conflict doesn’t have to be destructive, but can actually deepen bonds. I was shown that conflict is worth showing up for, despite the butterflies in my stomach beforehand. 

To protect their privacy, I won’t get into the nitty gritty details, but I’d like to break down the flow of the conversation in hopes that it may support you in your courageous conversations.

Intention-Setting: Seth and our neighbor-friend began by stating that they were both coming to the conversation with curiosity, a desire to hear each other and be heard, and committed to reflect back what they had heard from the other before sharing their own experiences. 

Shared Expressions of Curiosity, Needs, and Empathy: Seth began by asking to hear more about the needs of our neighbor, then reflected our neighbor’s response back to him and expressed true understanding of his needs. This helped our friend feel seen and safe.

Seth then expressed his own needs and how they conflicted some with our neighbor’s, and our neighbor reflected that back to Seth and voiced empathy for Seth’s needs. 

Proposed Solution: Seth felt seen, heard, and understood by this exchange, and extended an idea that would help both of their needs be met. Our neighbor liked his proposal and agreed to it.

The Deeper Layers: While the conversation could have been complete at that point, Seth also shared some of the deeper childhood experiences that had contributed to his original emotional response to our neighbor’s email. This made our neighbor feel closer to Seth and more understanding of his initial frustration. 

Mutual Appreciation: Our neighbor voiced gratitude for Seth’s curiosity and vulnerability and shared that they helped him feel calm and non-defensive during the conversation. Seth thanked our neighbor for reaching out to have a conversation and for being willing to work with him to meet both of their needs. They hugged and expressed their love for one another, and then we chatted like the dear friends we are. 

And you guys! I got so verklempt and wished that I could have recorded this conversation to share as a model for transformative conflict because it was awesome! But instead I’m sharing it with you this way. I’m sharing it because I know I’m not alone in my inner urges to avoid conflict. I’m sharing it to show you what is possible when we each take responsibility for our own needs, wounds, and reactions; extend curiosity and empathy toward others whose needs seem to be in conflict with our own; and work together to find a solution that everyone can at least live with, if not thrive from.

I’m sharing this conversation with the relief of knowing that we can all learn these skills, and the hope that as more of us adopt them in our daily life, the more true peace we can have in our relationships culturewide. 

And I’m sharing this with the awareness that EVEN THOUGH my mind knows all these things, my belly still sometimes gets filled with butterflies, my hands get cold, and my heart beats faster when I engage with conflict of any kind. Parts of me are still terrified by it, and deal by letting those parts know that their fear makes sense, but I’ve got this.

“I’ve got this” when I can access a sense of safety inside my body, one that is big enough to hold the fear without being overtaken by it. I begin by tuning into my feet or sit bones and breathing deeply, letting my exhales take longer than my inhales. I watch my fearful thoughts arise without clinging to them and return to my anchor and breath.

I also turn to herbs to help me be with my fear. Any nervous system ally can be supportive, but my favorite herb for courageous conversations is Motherwort. With the scientific name Leonurus cardiaca, it is literally named “lionhearted”, or “courageous.” A bitter-tasting herb with sharp prickles around its tiny flowers, it may be surprising how grounding this bee-loved herb is. But its bitter qualities are a huge part of what makes it so supportive to the nervous system. Bitter herbs tend to bring the energy down, so they encourage a sense of groundedness, and Motherwort is my favorite one to turn to any time I feel activated or afraid.

Motherwort is also a heart tonic and, by doing its work with the heart muscle, it stimulates the vagus nerve, which helps us transition from a flight-or-fight response (aka reactive conflict vibes) to a parasympathetic nervous system state. When we’re hanging out in a parasympathetic state, we are neurologically capable of connecting with empathy, compassion, curiosity, and care—key ingredients of constructive conflict.

I’ve also found that Motherwort helps me experience and move through my grief without being overwhelmed by it. Because conflict often stirs up wounds from the past, it’s important to have grief-support embedded in courageous conversations.

Finally, all of those sharp prickles around Motherwort’s beautiful little flowers reflect her gift of “loving boundaries.” Showing up for conflict with kindness, care, and curiosity does not mean dropping our self-advocacy or opening our gates wide open for criticism. Motherwort helps us do it all—be kind and clear, firm and flexible, understanding of others and respectful of our own limits.

While it probably won’t suddenly turn a hard conversation into a super fun one, a few droppers-full of Motherwort tincture—combined with somatic practices, skillful communication, and an intention to meet conflict as an opportunity for mutual growth—can help you access your own beautiful lionheart and show you that yes, you too can feel this fear and show up anyway. 

To support you and your relational wellbeing, Motherwort tincture is 20% off through August 15th! To learn more about the many gifts of this fiercely loving herb, check out her profile in our Plant Profiles section.

To courage! xo Becca