Many (many) years ago, I was a nerdy kid who loved anatomy textbooks and herbal medicine textbooks in equal measure.

I wanted answers — was obsessed with answers. How could I fix what hurts, in myself and in others? I was convinced that if I studied enough, analyzed enough, memorized enough, I’d find all the answers — the root cause, the right antidote, the perfect dosage — and the problem would be fixed for good.

For a while, that worked — but of course, the problems we actually face are never really that simple.

How can we mend what hurts, in ourselves and in others?

These days, I’m much more interested in the question than the answers.

“Fixing” is rarely part of my vocabulary now. When I work with clients, much of what we talk about it is getting comfortable with what is — holding multiple truths in mind at once, mending what needs grief, releasing what cannot be repaired. We work with an exploration of asking better questions — and “how can I fix this” is rarely a good question, when it comes to the work of social change and relational practice.

What questions are you asking, these days?

So often, I get inquiries from people who are interested in mediation but don’t yet have consent from all parties. They’re often dealing with something that feels intractable and one-sided — “I'm considering going no contact with my mother,” “I don't want to go to the funeral but perhaps I should,” “What happens if I can’t get my boss to agree to my accommodation needs.”

Almost always, there’s an undercurrent of I don’t know if I should stay or if I should go.

So I’ve been considering offering up a few relationship advising spots, for these intractable questions that we wrestle with alone.

The relationships we flow in and out of are the stuff of our lives, the textures and colors that shade every other interaction we have. And I'd love nothing more than to welcome the people around my proverbial kitchen table, into a practice of intimacy and better questions, dispensing a little wisdom and a few medicines along the way.

Bring what feels impossible and lonely — bring the heartbreak of a man who loved you but couldn’t stop himself from cheating, bring the cautious joy of deciding to live a childfree life, bring the inner child homework your therapist insists on, even — our relationship with our self is, of course, the longest one we have.

If anything in this offers you a spark of curiosity, reply CURIOUS.

ps — my 10-year-old self’s favorite anatomy textbook is the one on the bottom of this pile. The rest are all neuro textbooks from my college days, pulled out late at night to draft a talk on neurodivergence and disability justice earlier this week.