“Stay with it. The wound is the place where the light enters you,”
-Rumi
The sky blankets us with thick clouds, overcast after the morning rain. The fresh scent of dew and daffodils emerges from the wet earth as she exhales with gratitude for this sustenance. Sparkling puddles entice my adventurous children to test their depths. Giggles and muddy water collide in the air as they play, uninhibited.
Their quest for worms commences, as they turn over every brick in our garden. Everly leads the expedition, with her rainbow-colored boots poking out from the bottom of her shiny baby blue raincoat. Jack follows behind her, toting a bright red bucket to collect their specimens. I roll a brick over, revealing a big, fat, juicy worm wriggling in moist soil.
“Worm!” Everly shrieks with joy, pointing to our discovery.
I pick up the slimy, pink worm and hand it to my eager daughter, and do my best to disguise my disgust.
Don’t pass on your irrational fears to your children.
Everly tenderly holds the wriggling worm in her hands and we examine its translucent body. Jack offers his bucket of dirt as its new humble abode, and she gently places it inside. They continue meandering around the yard together until their bucket is full, and their little boots and hands are muddy.
A herd of muddy boots trample into the house while I’m untying my shoelaces.
“Jack! Everly! Stop!”, I yell angrily, “Look what you just did!”
Their worried eyes look down, then back up at me.
“Come take your boots off outside right now!”, I demand.
While they take off their boots, I take a couple deep breaths and do a quick body scan. The immediate sensations I notice are a tight jaw and furrowed brow.
Hello, Anger. I see you there.
I recognize judgmental thoughts creeping in, like “I shouldn’t feel this way,” and “a good mother wouldn’t feel angry.” I gently bring my attention back to the physical sensations. I soften where I can, and notice as the sensations slowly begin to fade. I invite curiosity into the space to discover what else is present. My muscles feel weak, my eyes heavy, and my energy low.
Aha, I’m tired. Hello, Fatigue.
My body needs rest to refill. Fatigue has drained my “bucket,” leading me to be reactive instead of responsive.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. Next time I want you to do something, I’ll ask more kindly,” I tell the kids, “I realized I am feeling tired.”
I kiss their little foreheads and coax them to the couch. They’ve already had their allotted screen time today, but the only way for me to get rest is to let them exceed their hour long limit.
Good moms…can’t be defined in one way. I don’t know, with certainty, what a good mom is. I will feel better, and be more patient and engaged if I let myself rest. I will model self-love for my children.
The three of us snuggle underneath the giant, fuzzy red blanket on the couch. I am fast asleep within a few minutes of the movie starting, and awaken to a text message an hour later from Alex.
“I swear I’m cursed! Normal patient just stroked out on me!”, he said.
“Oh man. So annoying. I hope it doesn’t follow you to the surgery center!”, I replied.
Alex is finishing his last week in the ICU before he starts his new job in an outpatient surgery center, where he will no longer be witnessing daily trauma. His decision to leave was very difficult. His identity was so tightly bound to being an ICU nurse. It has been heart-wrenching to watch him grieve losing that title, and yet I also feel proud of him. He is learning to give that same compassion he gives freely to his patients, to himself. We are both learning that self compassion is not selfish.
“Mommy, I’m hungry! Get me a snack.” Jack declares.
“Me too Mommy, get me food!” Everly agrees.
“I’m hungry Mommy, will you please make me a snack?” I suggest to them.
“Mommy, will you please make me a snack?” They repeat synchronously.
“Yes, I will,” I reply, smiling at them.
I stand up and stretch my refreshed body, and go to the kitchen to prepare snacks for my children. I breathe in deeply, grounding myself in the present moment, and set the intention to be present with this otherwise mundane task. The Honeycrisp fashions red and yellow streaks and speckles like a painter unleashed artistic rage on a canvas. The whoosh and thump of each slice through the apple creates a rhythmic anchor to the present moment. The sweet, fruity aroma arouses and captures my senses, causing my mouth to water. I delicately slice out the core, observing the artistic seed pattern. I’m surprised to discover how much joy I can experience by merely cutting an apple. I plate the apple slices and my mind drifts to self judgment for snapping at the kids earlier.
I gently place my hand on my heart and close my eyes. I call on my RAIN practice, a mindfulness technique I learned from Tara Brach, a psychologist and Buddhist meditation teacher. I begin with the R of RAIN, recognize. Recognizing what emotion is present is easy as it's an emotion I’ve become very familiar with throughout my life.
I see you there, Shame. I know you’re trying to protect me, but I’m ok.
The next step of RAIN is to allow the experience to be as it is. This step still feels dangerous to me. Instead of pushing away this uncomfortable emotion, I allow it to be as it is.
It’s ok to come out from behind those shadows, Shame. You’re welcome here.
I smile as she slowly approaches. Her head hangs low and her shoulders are slumped, crushed by gravity and blame that does not belong to her. Extending my hand out to her, she reluctantly places her hand in mine and I pull her into the light. She tries to hide it, but I see the weight of what she’s carried her whole life in her sad eyes, her wounds. But I don’t look away, even for a second. She is beautiful, radiant even, and I stand in awe as the light shines through all of her broken parts.
I move to the next step of RAIN, investigate, by asking with curiosity, “What is it that I am believing?,” and “What does this hurting part most need from me?” It’s no surprise to me that I’m still believing that I’m a bad mother, that shame and self judgment continue to debilitate me. I look deeply into this suffering, this shame, searching for what this part of me needs.
Reassurance. I need reassurance. And forgiveness.
I search deep inside for my most awakened self to nurture my wounds, the final step of RAIN. I find her standing alone in a grassy meadow. The sun highlights her gentle gaze and inviting smile, and she has a warm and accepting presence.
“You can forgive yourself for the mistakes you make, dear one. You are a good mother, and a good person. You are worthy of forgiveness, love and belonging,” I whisper to myself.
I linger in this space of self compassion for a moment, letting the comfort I am providing hold my body. I am both the holder and the one being held.
I return my attention to my breath. I rescan my body and notice the heaviness in my chest is gone, and my shoulders are relaxed. Shame was present in my body, and has passed through.
I watered seeds of reactivity earlier with my children, but then I watered seeds of humility and self compassion.
I must often remind myself that mindfulness is a practice. Sometimes I catch myself before I become reactive, and sometimes it’s smack dab in the middle of an ugly meltdown. It’s like I have an alter ego that steps outside of me for a moment and says, “Hey, you’re stuck in reactivity again. Come back into your body. Pause and breathe.” I find myself mixed up with the same emotions, triggered by the same things, over and over again. So over and over again, I’m learning to bring loving awareness to myself in those moments. And sometimes it isn’t even my alter ego who brings me back, who shines the light in the dark places. Sometimes it’s my children.
Yesterday, I was in a frenzy getting Jack ready for school, slamming dresser drawers, and snapping orders at him. Before I’d even become aware of the state I was in, Jack kindly looked at me and said, “Momma, it seems like you’re feeling frustrated. Do you want me to take deep breaths with you?” Tears immediately filled my eyes and I graciously accepted his offer. We sat on my bed breathing together, in silence.
I’ve even started noticing Jack show himself compassion. He’ll scream in frustration when he accidentally breaks his newest Lego creation, then go to his room and begin taking slow deep breaths until he feels better.
I used to think giving myself love and compassion was excusing my bad behavior. I used to think it was self indulgent. But direct experience has shown me my self compassion practice produces less reactivity, and encourages my family members to be compassionate. By showing myself love, I am also loving others.
Bringing awareness to how full my bucket is allows me to make skillful decisions. When my bucket is near empty, I’m surviving; I need rest, support, self compassion and understanding. Unrealistic expectations of myself prompt disappointment, frustration and shame. When my bucket is near full, I’m thriving; I can extend help to others, I can look and reach for opportunities to grow. My work lies in my ability to recognize and honor where I’m at mentally and physically.
Today, my energy matches the weather; cloudy with intermittent showers. I find a break in my showers after the kids eat their snack, and we build a makeshift beach in the living room. Jack’s mattress offers a cozy spot to rest on the “sand,” and dark blue sheets on the floor offer the illusion of a sparkling blue ocean. Reggae plays in the background while we play with sand toys and throw the beach ball around.
The sound of the garage door opening propels the children off the mattress.
“Daddy’s home! Daddy!”
Alex bursts through the door and greets us enthusiastically.
“Where are my kids? There are my kids! Where is my wife? There is my wife! Hi! Hi! Hi! I missed you!”
Jack and Everly giggle and jump in circles around him in their swimsuits, careful not to touch his germy scrubs.
“What is going on here?” Alex asks, laughing.
“We’re at the beach, obviously,” I reply, jokingly.
“I want to join! Okay, Daddy’s going to take a quick shower and join you guys,” he tells them, and kisses the tops of their heads before running to the basement shower.
Gratitude arises in my body, an opening heart space and a gentle smile. Over the past few months, I’ve witnessed Alex begin to wake up and return to us. He fills up more space in our home now, and we all feel his presence.
I’m so happy he’s back.
I can appreciate how difficult this new practice of self compassion has been for him. He’s spent most of his life being a “Yes” person. Can you do overtime? Yes. Can you take an extra patient even though you’re slammed? Yes. Can you help me with my pain and suffering? Can you fix this problem? Can you put your needs aside for me? Yes. Yes. Yes.
He’s been faithful to the hamster wheel for so long, that he was afraid to step off. What if he stops saying Yes? Who will he be? Who will be there to say Yes to the things he says No to?
Well aware of how scarce my bucket is and meeting myself with compassion, I decide to make it a “you pick dinner” night. These glorious nights grant me the permission to not worry myself sick over my kids not eating.
Dinosaur chicken nuggets roar and lose limbs as they engage in an epic battle as the kids play and eat. Alex recounts his absurdly traumatic day at work. I attempt to practice deep listening to hold space for him and his suffering, but feel distracted by overwhelming gratitude that these painful exchanges will soon be far in the past.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Trevor and his family will be in town next month, and I wanted to see how you felt about inviting them to Jack’s birthday,” he mentions.
Well, there goes my stress free dinner, damn it.
“Are they vaccinated?” I ask.
“Yeah… Well, he and his wife are. Their daughter obviously isn’t,” he says.
I freeze. A penne pasta noodle is hanging from my fork. I weigh all the risks and benefits. My best friend’s daughter's birthday party just passed. They rented out an ice cream truck for her, and invited the whole neighborhood block of children. Her daughter looked so happy.
I want Jack to experience a birthday party like that. I don’t want him to miss out on special childhood experiences with friends. My kids deserve that kind of fun, too…But what if I invite someone who has asymptomatic Covid and they get everyone sick? What if some guests get really sick and it’s my fault because I was reckless?...I’m so fucking tired of being cautious…Wow, how bad does that make me sound?
“Heather?” a distant voice calls.
“Huh? Oh…sorry,” I say, returning to my body, “Um. I don’t know.”
“What’s your hesitation about?”, he asks.
Parents have enough damn things to worry about. Make sure your children eat a healthy diet, but empower them to make their own choices. Protect them from predators (who seem to be everywhere now, according to the news), but don’t shelter them so much that they can’t enjoy autonomy or learn to protect themselves. Don’t give them too much screen time but also consider that we live in a digital world. Earn enough money so you can live in a nice neighborhood in a good school district, but don’t work so much that you aren’t present with them. Parent them mindfully, without passing on your childhood trauma, even when you’re exhausted from doing everything listed above. Oh and now, make sure they have a fulfilling, joyful childhood but try not to spread Covid and kill people.
Fear and guilt just circling around, darling.
We decide we’ll ask our other at-risk birthday guests if they’re comfortable with an out of state guest coming, and delegate this moral conundrum. We’re both so tired of making these decisions. Two years from the start of the pandemic, vaccines are available, and we still worry about every social decision we make. We limit our interactions with others and feel sad our children are missing important early childhood experiences. We let our guard down by socializing with any other person and feel worried and guilty for potentially getting someone sick.
The kids snuggle together in bed while I read them a picture book about emotions before they go to sleep. The kids enjoy pausing on each page and describing how they experience that particular emotion. We get to the page about feeling shy, and Jack declares his unfamiliarity with that emotion. I laugh in agreement.
“You are a social butterfly, buddy,” I tell him.
I turn the page and recognize the girl struggling to tie her shoelaces. That frustrated girl is me. In my daily experience with life, there are still so many struggles, even two years after the beginning of the pandemic and after starting a mindfulness practice. When I began this practice, I sought simple relief from my suffering, and wasn’t prepared for the complex ride that this practice has taken me on. Learning to open to experiences, positive and negative, has opened me to emotions that I wasn’t aware of before. I feel more raw, more vulnerable than I did, and I’m learning to balance welcoming what’s present with self compassion. When I zoom out on my experience the last couple of years, I see how far I’ve come. I’m much less reactive, much less judgmental of myself. It’s still there, but it has softened. Recognizing this, I allow myself to be kind and accepting of this feeling of frustration.
This, too.
The kids are tucked into bed and Alex and I are on the couch. He has been more open with me about his emotions lately, which is difficult for him. Every time he opens up to me about his pain and suffering, he apologizes for burdening me. And every time he apologizes, I tell him not to and promise him that helping him, helps me.
He tells me how drained he feels, how depleted of energy and disconnected he feels, how powerless he feels. He sees the suffering of the world and wants to fix it all. He admits he recognizes now that he can’t, but that’s hard for him to accept. One person alone can’t heal all the world’s wounds, and certainly not from a place of scarcity. He’s trying to save the world with an empty bucket. I’m familiar with the pain of that never ending race, and I’m beginning to find my way out.
Maybe I can help him fill his bucket.
“I feel terrible, like I’m abandoning my coworkers. Like I’m bailing on them after all we’ve been through together,” he says, referring to his transition to his new job.
He feels shame for not being what he thinks he should be. I know that feeling intimately.
“I’m so sorry you’re carrying that weight. I don’t think anyone will be mad at you or blame you for leaving, but I understand that it’s hard for you to leave them,” I say, sincerely.
“None of us expected a pandemic to happen, but then it did. And we all got through it, together. And now, what? I have to just say goodbye to all these people I’ve been through literal hell with? Why do I get to just walk away?” He expresses, wearing guilt all over his face.
I let silence fill the room for a moment, resisting the urge to react strongly.
“Nothing can erase the work you did in those hospital rooms, with all those patients. Nothing can take away what you’ve been through with your coworkers. Nothing can; not even leaving. It’s ok to choose yourself now, to choose your own healing now,” I tell him.
His shoulders relax down away from his ears, and his posture becomes less stiff.
“I know you’re right, that it’s ok to leave and doesn’t make me a bad person. But deep down it just feels…” he shakes his head, “I’m sorry for complaining about this again, I’m sure you’re probably tired of hearing me complain about it.”
Don’t you see darling? Helping you fills my bucket.
When we bring more awareness to our thought and behavior patterns, we will likely discover that we constantly fall short of our personal expectations and values. Even if we dedicate hours to reducing our reactivity, we alternate between conscious responding and unconscious reacting. We desperately cling to things that we desire and push away anything that makes us uncomfortable. As we open to all experiences, both desirable and undesirable, we experience discomfort as we become more aware of our own shortcomings. A new mindfulness practice is like opening a closet door to things you’ve hidden away. Our work lies in our ability to stay open to these experiences, fully present and aware of what is happening inside and outside of our bodies. In order to maintain this practice, self compassion is a critical component to our ability to stay open, nonjudgmental, and grow.
Uncomfortable emotions will likely arise when we first examine ourselves with these tools. Some can reveal the truth and further our growth, but others can cloud the truth, make us feel worthless, and hinder our growth. How we handle frustration and disappointment when we see a disconnect between our actions and our values determines whether or not this moment will advance our personal growth. When we approach the disconnect with judgment, shame degrades our power to change. Shame tends to be a default emotion for many of us when we’ve done something we’re not proud of, because we haven’t exercised self compassion enough. As a child, we may have been told, “You shouldn’t feel that way,” or, “Suck it up.” Instead of being coached on how to handle difficult emotions as they arose, we may have been invalidated or shamed.
Shame can arise when we inspect our flaws and moral inconsistencies without loving awareness. Ironically, we tend to extend love and compassion to others more readily than ourselves. Brené Brown, a well-known public speaker and researcher on shame, describes shame as “...the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love, belonging, and connection,” in her novel, Atlas of the Heart (Brown 2021). She differentiates shame from guilt by defining shame as a focus on self, and guilt as a focus on behavior. This subtle distinction shifts our thought from, “I am bad,” to “I did something bad.” Many of us were shamed when we made childhood mistakes and now self-shame when we’ve made an adult mistake, as an attempt to change our behavior.
Shame is a poor motivator for change, especially when endured over time. In a meta-analysis by Budiarto and Helmi, it was shown that shame has a negative correlation with self-esteem; as our shame increases, our self-esteem decreases (Budiarto 2021). If we frequently shame ourselves, we increasingly de-value ourselves and lose confidence in our ability to change. Low self-esteem indicates self-doubt in our ability to do better, and lack of self compassion.
Those unfamiliar with self compassion may think, “Oh, self compassion is not for me, that sounds selfish and I will probably not achieve as much. I need to be hard on myself.” However, psychological science says otherwise. The research of Dr Kristin Neff shows that self compassion motivates far better than shame, and appears to be better than high self-esteem (Neff 2023). Self compassion does not perpetuate complacency, it kindly acknowledges suffering as part of life and supports improvement.
It is also not the same as self-pity, where we forget that other people in the world are experiencing the same suffering. Kristin Neff describes self compassion as requiring three components: self kindness (avoiding self-judgment and negative self-talk), common humanity (recognizing that others struggle just as we do), and mindfulness (the ability to be present and notice what is happening, as opposed to over identifying with the emotion) (Neff 2023).
Self compassion is the ability to hold our pain, flaws and failures, with kindness and understanding, with the intention of healing our wounds and improving ourselves. It is the wholehearted presence we can bring to ourselves when we’re suffering, and when we’ve fallen short of our ideals. It is the single most important tool for sustainable positive change in ourselves and the world.
Being kind to ourselves is challenging, as many of us tend to be our worst critics. We give much more grace, compassion, and understanding to a dear friend than we do ourselves. When a close friend tells us, “I messed up, I’m such a failure,” we tell that person, “You are not a failure. This mistake does not define you as a human being. What you’re going through is hard right now, but you are a good person and will get through this.” However, when we experience those same feelings of failure and inadequacy, we are not as kind and accepting to ourselves. Even though we intellectually understand that no one is perfect and that we are flawed just like the rest of humanity, we expect near perfection from ourselves.
From a biological perspective, there are survival reasons for our tendency to hold ourselves to higher standards than others. Our early human ancestors had to fight for their needs like food, water and shelter. Appearing stronger and more capable was a useful method to getting our needs met. The dangers we faced, generally speaking, were much more severe than they are in modern times. Defending our property and protecting our image was extremely important to our survival.
When we judge and criticize ourselves, we’re attacking ourselves as if we are an enemy. We’ve been conditioned to have higher expectations of ourselves, but it no longer necessitates our survival. It can be scary to feel like we are not measuring up and like others don’t perceive us the way we desire. The key here is to stop beating ourselves up for our perceived failures, and when we catch ourselves beating ourselves up, to stop beating ourselves up for beating ourselves up.
Being compassionate towards ourselves includes kindness toward ourselves when we realize we are being very unkind to ourselves. It’s not helpful to tell ourselves, “I shouldn’t feel this way.” When we’ve made a mistake, or fallen short of our goal, our inner critic may show up and begin whispering harsh criticism in our ears, “You’re a failure. Why did you even try to attempt this? You’re not good enough.” Once we recognize what is happening internally and acknowledge the presence of our inner critic, we can say to them, “Hello, thank you for coming, I know you came to protect me, but I’m okay.”
We can place our hands on our hearts, and as if we are talking to a friend or a child, say to ourselves, “I see you are hurting. I’m sorry you are suffering. It’s okay to feel frustrated, angry and disappointed. This is very difficult, and you are not a failure. You did not do as well as you had hoped, but that does not make you any less worthy of love and belonging. This struggle does not define you as a person. I’m here for you.”
Once the inner critic has quieted, we can reflect on our suffering in the context of our shared humanity. We recognize that we are not unique in our suffering, that everyone else in the world is suffering in some way too, and that many others are experiencing the same suffering we are at this very moment. We suffer, just as everyone else in the world suffers, and we can expand our hearts to hold it all, mindfully.
For many people, the ability to exercise compassion for themselves is extremely difficult and can feel unnatural or perhaps dangerous. If offering yourself kindness is too difficult to access, you can metaphorically call on another figure in your life that you know holds you with compassion. It may be a child, a friend, a partner, a parent or other family member, a pet, a spiritual figure, or your most awakened self. You can tap into the love, acceptance and understanding that they offer you anytime you need it. When you recognize a difficult emotion arising, you can close your eyes and imagine this figure standing with you, perhaps embracing you or touching your shoulder, looking at you lovingly and offering kind words or just their gentle presence alone. Allow yourself to be fully immersed in the experience, bathing yourself in tenderness, understanding, and love.
The more we practice self compassion, the more naturally it will come to us. We can offer ourselves kindness in times of difficulty, then release the pain instead of letting it weigh us down. Whereas shame and judgment trap us in a perpetual cycle of painful patterns, self compassion frees us of the added weight by breaking the chains that bind us, allowing us to move forward more easily. The liberation we experience when we discover our ability to heal our own wounds and let go of shame and judgment is profound.
An important part of the practice of self compassion requires that we turn toward our suffering, instead of instinctively turning away from it. Many of us have learned that certain emotions are “good” and others are “bad.” Most people associate “bad” emotions to be ones such as anger, frustration, abandonment, disappointment, rejection, insecure, and fearful. Because we have labeled these emotions as “bad,” we deny their existence, and refuse to acknowledge their presence. By swallowing our “bad” emotions and refusing to look at them, we become unfortunate victims to their disastrous resurfacing. When we are open and allow ourselves to be present with these difficult emotions mindfully, we gain insight into our suffering and allow space for healing and growth. The key to our deepest spiritual awakening lies in our ability to befriend these uncomfortable emotions.
Kintsugi is an ancient Japanese art form of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. Instead of throwing away the broken pieces or trying to disguise them, the cracks are illuminated. The focal point of these art pieces become the broken edges, the imperfections. The beauty in our cracks and imperfections also depends on our careful, tender nurturing of these wounds.
It’s important to recognize that any and all emotions are allowed, and should be treated with tenderness and love. When difficult emotions arise, we can envision a long picnic table, much like the ones we may have eaten at in elementary school. We can picture our emotions as children, all wanting to sit with us at the table. During this practice, we are in charge of who’s allowed to sit at the table, and our work is to allow anyone who wants to join to do so. No emotions get turned away.
Maybe Anger storms in, with their arms crossed across their chests and their noses and foreheads scrunched. We can gently smile at Anger and ask them if they’d like a seat at the table. We don’t need to begin a discussion with Anger, or ask them why they are the way they are. We just need to share space with them, and not turn them away. We can thank Anger for coming and tell them they can stay as long as they need. We can just sit in silence with Anger and breathe. Perhaps Shame comes in next, their clothes dirty and tattered. Shame might be reluctant to approach the table, for fear of being rejected. With the same kindness and acceptance as with Anger, graciously invite Shame to come sit with you and Anger at the table. Feelings of sadness or guilt, anger or frustration, even judgment and blame; all are allowed to come to the table of self compassion.
All feelings are welcome.
All.
Instead of shutting ourselves down or shoving difficult emotions away, we need to stay open. We need to stay open with a mindful, tender and loving awareness to our entire life experience. This is how we cultivate self compassion, and how we find inner strength to keep moving forward.
Awareness Exercises:
Guided meditation
Self-compassion is often a difficult practice for people to access, as we tend to judge and shame ourselves instead of offering love and understanding. Using the RAIN meditation, we can learn to access compassion for ourselves when we're experiencing difficult emotions. Use this meditation to discover self-healing when you are stuck in a cycle of reactivity or tangled in painful stories and difficult emotions.
Journal
Notice your current emotion, such as “contentment” or “anxiety.” Scan your body, and take note of prominent sensations and locations. Remember “this is what contentment/anxiety feels like.” As you go through the next day, compare your sensations with what you recorded. Now that you’re aware, what should you do next, when these sensations arise?
References:
Brown, Brené. Atlas of the Heart: Mapping Meaningful Connection and the Language of Human Experience. First edition. New York, Random House, 2021.
Budiarto, Yohanes, and Avin Fadilla Helmi. “Shame and Self-esteem: A Meta-analysis.” Europe’s Journal of Psychology, vol. 17, no. 2, Leibniz Institute for Psychology (ZPID), May 2021, pp. 131–45. https://doi.org/10.5964/ejop.2115.
Neff, Kristin D. “Self-Compassion: Theory, Method, Research, and Intervention.” Annual Review of Psychology, vol. 74, no. 1, 2023, pp. 193–218, https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-psych-032420-031047.