The Forest in the Room: Notes from a Human in Progress
I’ve been digging into ‘presence’ lately: what it means in leadership, coaching, and being a human. I’m learning that presence isn’t about showing up as a polished version of myself. It feels more like standing in the middle of a forest, breathing in the air, feeling the ground under my feet, and knowing every tree, plant, and animal is part of me. And if you cut one of those trees down, the whole ecosystem groans.
For years, I edited out parts of myself to fit in, but also to find a way to like myself. It’s fascinating (and a little terrifying) to see how these cuts shape our way of being in the here and now.
On paper, I am a Child of Deaf Adults (CODA), but up until recently, I never fully identified myself as one. I never really even embraced that side of me. Same when I started living abroad. As a French expat in Eastern Canada, I chose to live like an anglophone, so I rejected everything related to anything French.
I now understand I was starving parts of myself, and that one doesn’t need to happen at the expense of another. We’re not puzzle pieces meant to fit into a neat, predefined shape. We’re complex, constantly moving, interactive beings, part of something far bigger than we can imagine. And when the parts we’ve set aside are welcomed back, our presence deepens, beyond the limits of the little puzzle box we once tried to fit into.
When I decided to move to Canada, I made two very conscious choices.
1. I would go to Toronto because it’s one of the world’s most diverse cities.
I also told myself to avoid Francophones (especially from France) at all costs. I wanted to practice English, to think differently, to expand my worldview, and so I convinced myself that being around French people would actually be harmful. I actively avoided anything French-like, even the food. I truly believed that the “French way of thinking” and the whole culture would limit my growth. I thought I was making space for English, for flexibility, for diversity, and for something new.
These choices were inspired by my time living in Dublin. After being an expat there for 15 months, I returned to France only to realize I couldn’t bear being around 90% of French people. I had changed so much that I couldn’t feel at home anywhere within my old network and entourage.
I went into a familiar reaction: I rejected my French side. Off I went to one of the most diverse cities on this planet, Toronto. And if I heard a French accent on the sidewalk, I’d cross the street. Horrible? Maybe. Human? Absolutely.
But the truth? It was safer to cut off that part of myself than to confront the fact that by rejecting French people, I was also rejecting a part of my background. The more people gushed over my ‘cute French accent,’ the harder I worked to erase it. Well/Bon, it didn’t work, but I do get a kick out of the confused looks when people hear me speak and ask, ‘Where are you from?’ So I’ll take that.
I thought I was making space for something new, for a new space in my forest, but really, I was starving the forest.
Suppressing parts of ourselves doesn’t just cost stories. It costs energy.
Think of it like this: every time we avoid a part of ourselves, it’s like carrying a backpack full of rocks. Our brain is working overtime to keep that rock in place, and it drains our ability to be fully present.
I’ve come to understand that presence is a psychological state where our perception of reality is shaped by our embodied experience. In other words, it’s not about being perfectly present, it’s about being fully engaged in the here and now, even when that here and now is a hot mess.
My Frenchness story wasn’t the only identity I’d tried to edit out of my life. Being a CODA? That was another tree I’d been watering with shame instead of sunlight.
For over 30 years, I thought I was a "bad CODA."
Not because of anything anyone said, but because of the stories I told myself. I’d hear people gush about CODAs, how fascinating, how unique, and I’d shrug. Breakfast for me, what’s the big deal? Turns out, the big deal was me. But underneath, there was this quiet shame. A sense that if I embraced my CODA identity, I’d have to feel things I didn’t want to feel: things about being different, about standing out, about the emotional weight of growing up in a world that didn’t always make space for my kind of experience.
Thankfully and horribly, expanding my business forced me to dig into the parts of me I’d been avoiding. My marketing and LinkedIn coaches both latched onto my CODA story, and my first reaction was always the same: “Back off, beautiful ladies.” Because asking me to “use” my CODA story to connect with peers, prospects, or collaborators was a huge activator of the shame I’d buried.
Reintegrating this part of myself isn’t about loving the label, it’s about loving the parts of me that I convinced myself weren’t lovable. And let me be honest, it’s slow, it’s messy, and some days it still feels like trying to glue a shattered vase back together with hope and a prayer. And I’m impatient, and I don’t like to pray, unless it’s to the Goddesses of 85% Dark Chocolate and Redwoods.
The work I’ve done (and am still doing) to reintegrate these parts has three steps: first, admitting I lied to myself for years and hurt myself more than I can possibly fathom. Self-betrayal really, really hurts.
Second, acknowledging that the shame I felt around my cultural identities was just another layer of the same old story: “I’m not enough as I am”. Ouch.
The third step for me is practicing self-compassion.
I believe this kind of work really matters because it affects all of us. When parts of us are missing, something is missing in how we love, how we connect, how we relate safely, how we respect and feel dignity, and how we lead our lives.
And honestly? It makes us miss out on you, too. And we need you. :)
I see it in my coaching sessions**, for example**: clients who think they’re showing up fully, but are actually just thinking their way through. And then there are the moments when something shifts, when they stop hiding the trees they’ve been told don’t belong. There’s a release sometimes: the backpack has hit the ground. People have even said, “I feel lighter.” That’s when the deep work begins. The release and the shift are part of it, but we also need to keep reinforcing the new path.
For leaders, with a title or not, this means leading from a place of wholeness, not just competence. For coaches, this means creating the kind of safety that lets clients drop the script and tap into their own wisdom. Grounded and embodied presence is the kind that only happens when we stop cutting down our forest. When we’re grounded, our brains and bodies are literally wired to connect, to notice, to hold space in a way that words alone can’t.
Presence isn’t something we achieve and then check off our to-do list (oh, how I wish it were that simple!). It’s something we practice and revisit, over and over again. It’s about standing in the middle of our own forest, not as a single tree, but as an entire ecosystem.
So here’s to the mess—the forest, the rocks, the shattered vases. Some days I’m holding it together, some days I’m clearly not.
Either way, I’m in it with you, as we are.
Jess
