America’s Broken Heart:
Searching for Love in All the Wrong Places
Love is not consolation. It is light."~ Nietzsche
When I was thirty-seven, heading for the milestone of forty, I saw “Thelma and Louise,” and it opened a door in me that dropped me to my knees. Big love to Marianne Faithfull, who sang The Ballad of Lucy Jordan in the movie; she died on January 30, 2025. She was one of the great singers of my generation.
This newsletter is a multimedia journey—immerse yourself fully by watching the videos, listening to the audio, and exploring the links.
I was a solo teenage mom, now a grandma whose kids both had kids young, too. I would never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in my hair. I mourned.
At the age of thirty-seven
She realized she'd never ride
Through Paris in a sports car
With the warm wind in her hair
So she let the phone keep ringing
As she sat there softly singing
Fast forward eight years to 1998. I was forty-five, fifteen years sober, and had met the love of my life. We’d planned a trip to the Swiss Alps to climb Mont Blanc, but when I broke my knee skiing, we had to cancel it. Together, we embarked on a whirlwind trip through Europe instead—a first for both of us. We began in Athens, then took a ferry to Santorini, followed by Crete and the remote side of the island on the Libyan Sea. Back in Athens, another ferry carried us to the boot of Italy, to Brindisi. From there, we took trains to Rome and Venice, ending with the midnight train to Paris.
The craziest part? I’d written a poem about Vincent Van Gogh, who I considered my soulmate, alongside Paul Cezanne, Rainer Maria Rilke, and other artists who spoke to something deep within me. I didn’t have a fine arts education—I’d dropped out of high school as a solo teen mom, focused on raising my children and making ends meet. Once they were grown, I went back to school, earning a practical degree to teach. But I was an artist through and through. At six, I wrote my first story and declared I’d be an author someday, though life had other plans. On my fortieth birthday, I picked up a paintbrush for the first time. That same year, I discovered Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. His words were a siren call, affirming the writer I had known I was since childhood and awakening a new pull toward painting. Two years later, at forty-two, I met Wayne, who was forty-six. While our meeting felt destined, the truth is, love is always a choice—and we had quite the journey ahead of us.
In Paris, we went to the Louvre, where we stood in a crowd before the Mona Lisa, encased in glass. The distance was palpable—between us and her, between all of us pressed together. At the Café de Flore, I sipped coffee and ate buttery croissants and wrote in my journal, while Wayne wandered Rodin’s Sculpture Garden with his camera. In the mornings, we drank espresso, fresh orange juice, and savored sweet meringues on our balcony overlooking the Left Bank. We strolled (I limped) down the Champs-Élysées and walked beneath the Arc de Triomphe. We climbed the Eiffel Tower. Wayne took color photographs; I took black-and-whites.
And then we went to the Musée d’Orsay. Cassatt, Morisot, Courbet, Millet, Renoir, Pissarro, Degas, Manet, Gauguin, Cézanne, and Van Gogh. I had pored over art books since picking up a paintbrush for the first time at forty, drawn to the painters of the 19th century and the beginnings of modern art; leafing through their pages was visual candy. The Impressionists wowed me, but Van Gogh, a post-Impressionist, blew my mind. I devoured his paintings, his drawings, his letters to Theo—anything about him I could get my hands on. And I painted. I had no formal training, had never taken an art class, and believed I couldn’t draw. But putting color on canvas woke something in me, stirred my blood. Van Gogh’s work reached into my soul.
At the Musée d’Orsay, I stood in the gallery of Van Gogh’s work, and I bawled. If I could have fallen to my knees right then, I would have—and almost did. I stood directly before his work, canvases he had brushed with color using his very hands, and I recognized him as a kindred soul. The truth in his work coursed through me. Van Gogh painted from a place so raw, so stripped of pretense, that it laid bare something I hadn’t even known I’d lost—my connection to the unbroken self. It was a place I had been severed from, and maybe we all had. And he cared for nothing but that truth.
Vincent, too, was a misfit. Seeing his work directly instead of photographs of them flattened in books was a spiritual experience. His paintings said things to me; his paintings saw me. I felt an intimacy I’d never known, as if heart, mind, and soul collided and became one.
Wayne witnessed it. His gift of a trip through Europe was his marriage proposal. I was forty-five and riding through Paris with the warm wind in my hair and my future husband beside me.
Through the Eyes of Van Gogh
Original music and vocals by Wayne
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We both had idealistic ideas and unrealistic notions about love and brought them with us into our marriage. But with fifteen years in twelve-step recovery, I’d had a glimpse of my wholeness by then, and Wayne saw it, much as Vincent’s paintings did. This early spark of authenticity and mutual recognition of each other’s inner selves became a foundation for our relationship. Twenty-eight years now.
Over time, we learned the most valuable gift we could offer each other was not idealized love, grand gestures, or transactional agreements, but a deep, authentic connection - both within ourselves and with each other. Even if we had much to learn about intimacy, that glimpse of soul we began with has carried us through. We’ve had our trial by fire. Our trip to Paris was a magnificent adventure, but it’s the hard core work we’ve each had to do since that brought us home to each other. On the other side, we’ve realized what matters most: the connection within. Love isn’t a feeling; it’s a choice, and it always begins with ourselves.
“Heartily know, / When half-gods go, / The gods arrive.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Emerson reminds us that we can find genuine connection only by letting go of illusions—whether about love, others, or ourselves. This realization led me to a theory: proof of our inability to love is etched into the world we’ve created.
But it’s more than a theory.
It turned out to be 100% true for me. The theory part is that I think it will turn out to be 100% true for many of you, too.
At the heart of all relationships (and at the core of all addictions) is this truth: most of us have an intimacy problem. America has an intimacy disorder. I’ve heard several experts across disciplines suggest we live in a “Cluster B” society. I’m going to go deeper than that, starting with a line in The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, one of A.A.’s primary texts:
“The primary fact that we fail to recognize is our total inability to form a true partnership with another human being.”
For decades, I read this passage without fully grasping its weight. Only after years of personal struggle did I begin to understand its significance. What does a true partnership with another human being actually look like? I thought I knew, but I didn’t. This question forced me to confront my misconceptions and the societal narratives that shaped my understanding of connection.
Much of human life’s suffering and strife stems from an inability to love fully and authentically.
What do we know about true human partnership? Where did we learn what we do know?
The answer is everywhere and nowhere. Our understanding of relationships has been shaped by culture: movies, sitcoms, romance novels, True Confessions magazines, Playboy, our parents’ marriages, billboards, peer groups, and the lyrics of pop, country, and rock and roll songs. Our earliest experiences with sex have left their mark.
These stories and images don’t just distort love - they replace it. We chase after illusions, believing they’ll lead us to love, only to find that love was never there. All we find are substitutions. What remains is a world of simulations, where the idea of love conceals the fact that love, as we’ve been taught to understand it, never existed.
What do I mean by intimacy disorder?
An intimacy disorder can be understood as a disruption in the natural connection between the self and others, rooted in a disconnection from oneself. True intimacy—Into-Me-See—requires first being able to see into oneself. The word "disorder" historically means "to destroy or derange the order of," and in this context, it reflects a breakdown in the internal alignment needed for intimacy to flourish.
As is sometimes the case with other types of acquaintanceships, to suddenly love without really knowing is to opt for romance, not commitment and obligation. ~ Barry Lopez
Intimacy begins with connection. If I am disconnected from myself, I cannot fully see into myself, let alone allow another to truly "Into-Me-See." While therapists often explore this concept through the lens of attachment—our bonds with others—this perspective may not always address a deeper issue: the disconnection from the self that disrupts intimacy at its core. Without self-connection, the foundation for authentic intimacy, both with oneself and others, remains unstable.
When we are infants, if we experience a safe, nurturing environment and sufficient mirroring by a primary caregiver, chances are we stay mostly intact: we remain connected with our essential selves. Then, as we develop physically, psychologically, mentally, socially, and emotionally, this growth unfolds in harmony with our essence, our original nature.
Yet, this is rare. Why? Because caregivers, society, and institutions inundate us with messages that clash with our essential selves. From the earliest age, we are taught not to trust ourselves.
Without delving too deeply, consider the ever-shifting advice on parenting over the decades. Take, for example, the debate over feeding infants: formula versus breastfeeding, on a schedule versus on demand. Whether it’s rigid scheduling or chaos, the child’s natural connection to their essence is disrupted. The focus becomes molding the child rather than nurturing their innate being.
We can honor a child’s essence without indulging or spoiling them. This requires the caregiver to be present. A caregiver can provide structure, impose schedules, and offer guidance while still recognizing and honoring the child’s essential nature. But this is only possible if the caregiver is themselves connected to their own essence. Here lies the work. It's less about the caregiver themselves and more about their relationship with themselves that shapes the child's ability to connect with their own inner world.
Without going into tedious detail, I’ve summed up the root of the problem: disconnection from the self. That is what I am referring to with the term intimacy problem. As relationship expert Harville Hendrix observed, we are wounded in relationship, and we heal in relationship. In other words, relationships are everything. It begins with the connection to one’s essential self, to that original wholeness. When that bridge is broken - as it so often is in our culture - we fail to develop the capacity for true intimacy. Instead, we learn a transactional model of relationships. We unknowingly construct false selves designed for survival, rather than connection.
We are wounded in relationship, and we heal in relationship.
It’s easy to say we were wounded in and must heal in relationship, but what does that indeed look like? It may be different for each one of us.
For me, it took a community as well as key figures I met along my recovery journey. It was as simple as attending the 12-step meetings I was introduced to in rehab, meetings where other people greeted me at the door, spoke openly about their struggles, and told me to “keep coming back.” It was as easy as the meetings after the meetings at the diner or coffee shop down the street where others -also disconnected from their original wholeness and s/Self - listened to me and cared. It was as easy as a sponsor leaving her warm bed and coming to my home at 2 in the morning because I’d lost my mind and was stark-raving sober.
Early in my journey, a therapist looked me in the eye and said, slowly and emphatically, “Kelly, your family is very, very, very dysfunctional,” challenging my belief that I was the problem, that something was terribly wrong with me. Her words reached some tiny spark within me. It took me many years to realize that the only thing wrong with me was what I’d been conditioned to believe. The real issue was my disconnection from myself—the internal rupture that severed me from my own experiences, body, thoughts, and feelings.
I may be an extreme example of this: I was born and raised in a cult on top of everything else, like transgenerational trauma and caregivers who had been cut off, disconnected from their own core integrity, unable to affirm or nurture mine.
It was as simple as that—and as hard as choosing something different from what I knew, over and over again. Choosing against everything that told me not to exist, to conform, to shapeshift into others’ projections, to die. One day, I chose life. And then I chose it again, despite the pain, because the greatest truth I know is this: to be disconnected from my deepest nature, my true self, is a living death.
I began to see that when the half-gods go—the false narratives, the illusions, the belief that something is wrong with me—the gods arrive. As I made space for my essential self, I discovered my innate completeness and the possibility of true intimacy. It isn’t easy. It takes surrender, trust, and the courage to choose life again and again, even when everything in me wants to give up.
Intimacy? I didn’t find it in partners or any relationship outside myself. I found it within. I found it when I followed the still, small voice that whispered, “Get help. Live.”
That’s where it began. I’ve chased connection in the wrong places and the wrong people more times than I can count. But here’s the thing: once I made that first real choice—out of my own free will—and sought real answers, the way opened. And then I couldn’t do it wrong. Even the wrong choices led me back to the right ones. Every misstep brought me closer to myself, not further away like it used to.
That’s intimacy. A greater power kicked in like a nuclear generator the moment I acted from free will to seek something bigger than myself. That power taught me how to grow, how to show up, how to form true partnerships with others. But it started with me. I ask for help. I show up. I offer help.
I couldn’t show up for the first thirty years of my life—I wasn’t even born yet, not really. I was disconnected from myself, maybe from the moment I took my first breath. My original wholeness was still there, but buried. I had to get to a place where every substitution for the real thing—every external chase—became so debilitating that I was finally willing to surrender.
What does this have to do with intimacy? Everything. True intimacy begins with inner alignment. I have to seek it in my own depths, not in a drink, a drug, a job, another person, a dogma, or a persona. Though our preferences for escape may differ, looking outside ourselves for fulfillment inevitably leads to inner or outer bankruptcy—or both. The problem only becomes clear when we fall, when we fail at being human.
There’s no arrival. Daily, I reach for my essential self, seeking the willingness to go to any lengths to reconnect with something greater than me. It’s that inner tether—however faint—that draws me back to the truth of my original wholeness. For many of us, that wholeness feels like nothing more than a dim, ancient memory. But it’s still there. It’s where we come from. Home. As T.S. Eliot wrote:
And the end of all our exploring will be to find the place where we began and know it for the first time.
Next time you're searching for connection—on Tinder or elsewhere—remember this: the real match is within. Choose life. Choose you.
One thing: A 7-Step Exercise: Inventory of Beliefs and Experiences with Love and Intimacy
Step 1: Create Your Inventory
Take a sheet of paper and divide it into two columns.
In the first column, list all your beliefs about love and romance.
In the second column, identify their sources (family, culture, religion, media, etc.).
Step 2: Reflect on Your List
Take time to contemplate your beliefs.
Notice patterns, recurring themes, or contradictions. How have these beliefs shaped your experiences?
Step 3: Extend to Personal Experiences (Optional)
Disclaimer: Seek professional guidance if you are not ready for this step. This is best done with a supportive community or trusted guide.
Create a separate list of your past experiences with intimacy in familial, romantic, or platonic relationships.
Acknowledge the emotions that surface but stay focused on observing rather than reliving.
Step 4: Share with a Trusted Guide
Discuss your inventory with a trusted friend, mentor, or guide who can provide support and insight.
Step 5: Meditate and Ask for Renewal
After sharing, spend time in meditation or quiet contemplation.
Ask inwardly for a new experience of intimacy to unfold in your life.
Step 6: Create a Jar of New Ideas and Experiences
Designate a special container for collecting moments of growth.
Write down new ideas, beliefs, or experiences with intimacy and place them in the jar.
For example, "I felt heard when I shared my list with a friend."
Step 7: Revisit and Celebrate
When struggling, revisit your jar to remind yourself of progress and moments of connection.
Regularly reflect on your growth and celebrate the new perspectives and experiences you’ve gained.
This practice is not just an exercise but an ongoing dialogue with yourself about what intimacy, love, and connection truly mean to you. By grounding this exploration in reflection, sharing, and tangible rituals like the jar, you create a dynamic, living process for growth and self-discovery.
While I draw from meditations and teachings across various spiritual traditions in my newsletter, I embrace inter-spirituality. As Mirabai Starr has said, “There are echoes of the essential wisdom teachings in every single tradition.”
Extra Credit: Listen to a short clip of The Quest for Self and Samanerie Jayasar narrating Ramani Maharshi’s words. I listen to her transcendent readings of wisdom traditions often.
On repeat:
Shout Out:
I love SStack’s The Elephant in the Mirror and its clever `play on ‘the elephant in the room.’ As a recovering scapegoat (among other things) I was always the one who saw the elephant in the room that everyone else refused to acknowledge.
shifts the focus inward, pointing us toward the elephant within—a vital part of the journey for me. Check him out.Substack freed my voice after years of being workshopped into silence. No more ‘show don’t tell.’ No more ‘needs more detail.’ No more voices drowning out my own. Now I write raw, honest stories that would’ve terrified my workshop self.
I finally sound like me.
Amen, Kelly. Every single point.
My goodness that must’ve taken you ages to write all that. A lot of work has gone into that, Very interesting a lot of things I didn’t know learned