Dedication
To my mom, and all those who have gone before,
may they rest in the infinite peace of love.
To all of us who remain, may we alchemize
our pain and heal our hearts.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction: You Create Change
1. The Power of Your Relationships
2. Exploring Your Embodied Self
3. Understanding the Neurobiology of Trauma Bonds
4. Witnessing Your Conditioned Selves
5. Harnessing the Wisdom of Your Body
6. Creating Change Through Mind Consciousness
7. Unlocking the Power of Your Heart
8. Becoming the Love You Seek
9. Empowering Your Relationships
10. Reconnecting with the Collective
Epilogue: My Heart’s Unexpected Truth
Acknowledgments
Notes
Index
About the Author
Praise
Also by Dr. Nicole LePera
Copyright
About the Publisher
Introduction
You Create Change
You’re probably reading this book because there’s a relationship in your life that’s causing you stress. Whether it’s with a romantic partner, parent, sibling, child, friend, or colleague, you’d like your dynamic with another person to change—and if you’re like most of us, you’d like this change to happen as quickly as possible. Some of you may even be on the fence about continuing to work on a particular relationship, unsure if it’s worth the effort or if repair is even possible. Others may be having difficulty finding or sustaining relationships, fearing a future of isolation or loneliness.
I get it. Over the course of a decade working as a clinical psychologist, I had many clients who deeply desired to find a lasting love, resolve repeated conflicts, or break dysfunctional habits. During sessions with individuals, couples, and families, I witnessed a similar pattern again and again: despite their best intentions and efforts, most people were unable to create or maintain the relationships they wanted, and many had grown frustrated and often resentful in the process.
The majority of my clients read relationship books and had, over time, tried all of the latest strategies and tools, hoping something, anything, would help. Many had heard about the concept of “love languages,” made popular by Dr. Gary Chapman’s 1992 book The Five Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts. Dr. Chapman’s theory suggests that asking our partner to demonstrate their love in different ways—through physical touch, quality time together, gift giving, words of affirmation, or acts of service (like making the bed or cooking dinner)—can deepen our connection.
This larger approach of implementing external change—expecting others to adapt their behaviors to meet our needs—is a common thread in most relationship-based therapy. Though the practices and tools differ across therapists, books, and ideologies, in general, the core message is generally the same: we must change ourselves in some ways to better meet another’s needs and vice versa.
In theory, if you don’t feel supported or connected in your relationship, asking the other person to modify their behavior probably sounds like a good plan. But when we take this approach in real life, it often backfires. We can’t change others, and relying on them to change their ingrained relational patterns doesn’t usually work, at least not for very long. Instead, seeking external change often increases the tension between people, causing reactivity or discontent, and perpetuating conflict or disconnection. It can actually be a recipe for a lifetime of resentment and contempt.
You might (rightly) be wondering, So what am I supposed to do? If expecting others to adapt who they are to better accommodate who we are doesn’t work, then what does? For years, I asked this question, too.
Early in my adult life, I struggled to create the bonds I craved. Though I had numerous therapeutic tools at my disposal, I continued to feel dissatisfied in most of my relationships, despite my best efforts to increase my self-reflection, self-awareness, and communication. I felt constantly alone, even when surrounded by others, whether it was my family during holiday time, a group of friends who had gathered to celebrate my birthday, or a romantic partner on an intimate vacation. In those moments when I wanted (or even expected) to feel a deep connection, I often found myself feeling lonely and unloved. No matter what I said, how I said it, or what others did or tried to do for me, I still felt disconnected and alone. The more desperately I tried to get close to others, the farther away I felt and the deeper my ache grew.
One Christmas, stuck in these unfulfilling yet familiar cycles, my relationship patterns became clearer to me. At the time, I was dating Sara, a relationship you’ll read more about in chapter 1. We had been together for several years and were living in a shared East Village apartment. Because we both went home to our respective families for Christmas Day, we had a tradition of celebrating the holiday together a few days early. That particular year, Sara had asked if we could hang out as a couple, just the two of us. That was a significant departure from our normal dynamic. Sara was a very social person, and our relationship for years had revolved around parties and group dinners. I was touched that she wanted to spend the day with me, and I hoped this special gesture would help deepen our bond.
That morning, we woke up in our decorated apartment, and I cooked us a special breakfast before we sat down to exchange gifts. I was thrilled when I opened an envelope from Sara that included two tickets to see a Cirque du Soleil show—my favorite!—later that day. She wants to spend more time alone with me! She remembered how much I like Cirque du Soleil! She loves me! I thought. It was the ultimate romantic gesture. But as we got ready to leave, I started to feel the same gnawing sense of disconnection.
Several hours later, as I sat next to her in a dark, crowded theater, I didn’t feel any differently; in fact, I felt even more alone than I had earlier in the day. We weren’t speaking or making eye contact, and instead of feeling connected by some invisible band of love that I expected to flow silently between us, I felt as though I were sitting next to a stranger. To deal with the discomfort, I ordered a beer and continued to drink throughout the performance, hoping it would break down whatever wall existed between us.
At the time, I was in the second year of my clinical psychology program and seeing my own therapist. I was working on myself and becoming more self-aware—or so I thought—and communicating my learned insights to others. That only compounded my belief that the problem in my relationship with Sara must be her unwillingness or inability to connect.
The longer I stewed in my familiar loneliness and increasing feelings of disconnection, the more I began to think that maybe I had something to do with my unhappiness after all. As I had many times before with many other people, maybe I felt alone with Sara because, emotionally, I was alone. Though it pained me to recognize that I might be unknowingly creating my deepest suffering, it also sparked hope that, as the one responsible, I might also have the power to break these repeated cycles.
Like many of the relational patterns we repeat as adults, my emotional loneliness began when I was young, as a result of my earliest relationships within my family. In childhood, I never learned how to emotionally connect with anyone because no one around me was emotionally connected, either—they didn’t learn how. In order to emotionally connect with another person, as I discovered years later, you have to be emotionally connected with yourself. And to be emotionally connected with yourself, you have to be able to authentically feel and express your emotions. Authentically expressing our emotions allows us to feel truly seen, known, and supported by others—core emotional needs we all share.
Because I continually held others responsible for my relationship problems and expected them to change for me, I couldn’t see the role I was playing in my own unhappiness. I couldn’t see how disconnected I was from my own wants and needs. Though I was working to understand myself better, I wasn’t fully aware of how I was showing up in my relationships. Like many of my clients, I expected others to tend to my emotions or make me feel better, without knowing how to do so myself. Believing that the “right” person would “just know” how to ease or take away my deep-rooted feelings of loneliness, I felt disappointed when they didn’t, no matter what they did or who they were. Looking to others to meet my needs was sabotaging my relationship satisfaction, yet I continued to repeat the same behaviors, not just in my romantic partnerships but in all of my other relationships, too.
Slowly, as I started to see that I was the one constant in all my relationships, I began to realize that I could never really control what others would or wouldn’t do, let alone how quickly, effectively, or comprehensively they could or would support my needs. And, I started to understand that expecting or demanding someone else to change who they were or how they authentically expressed themselves would only leave us both feeling unloved. To be loved for who we are is a universal human need—and one that I definitely didn’t want to deny my loved ones.
What I hadn’t been taught by my family or in my clinical training was that in order to change how we relate to others and experience our relationships, we have to first change how we relate to and experience ourselves. How we relate to and experience ourselves as adults is directly impacted by how others related to and experienced us in our earliest relationships. Whenever our care was unpredictable, inconsistent, or neglectful when we were young, we formed the core belief that we were unworthy of being cared for or getting our needs met. Feeling intrinsically unworthy, we then began to modify how we expressed ourselves and related to others. Over time, we started to show others only our “acceptable” parts by playing certain roles—what I call conditioned selves in this book—to protect ourselves and fit into our earliest environments. As adults, we’re still driven by our deep-rooted fears of unworthiness and continue to repeat these habitual patterns within our relationships.
Playing these familiar roles disconnects us from our unique essence, or our individual way of being with others, inevitably leaving us to feel undervalued in our relationships. In order to authentically express ourselves with others, we need to feel safe and secure enough to do so. And in order to feel safe and secure, we first have to feel truly safe and secure in our own body. Many of us, however, can’t actually access this sense of safety, because our body can’t access it. With chronically unmet needs, our nervous system remains chronically stressed. We get stuck in survival mode, physiologically unable to feel safe in the presence of others.
That realization opened my eyes. If I never felt truly safe in my own body, how could I be open to feeling safe enough to experience the moments of joy, ease, and connection that authentic love can provide? If I’m constantly focused on how I measure up to others or to society’s standards, suppressing my authentic needs and desires in the process, how can anyone around me have the opportunity to connect with the real me? If I don’t know and love all of me, how can I expect myself to allow someone else to know and love all of me?
