The Choice

by Edith Eger

“I’d like you to try something. An exercise. You’re going to turn yourself inside out. Whatever you usually hold in, you’re going to get out, and whatever you usually get rid of, you’re going to put back in.” I took the pad of hotel stationery off the desk and handed it to her with a pen. “Each person in your immediate family gets one sentence. I want you to write down something you haven’t told that person. It might be a desire or a secret or a regret—it might be something small, like, ‘I wish you’d put your dirty socks in the laundry.’ The only rule is it has to be something you’ve never said out loud.” She smiled faintly, nervously. “Are you going to make me actually say these?” “What you do with them is entirely up to you. You can tear them up like confetti and flush them down the toilet, or set them on fire. I just want you to get them out of your body by writing them down.” She sat in silence for a few minutes and then began to write. Several times she crossed something out. Finally she looked up. “How do you feel?” “A little dizzy.” “Topsy-turvy?” “Yes.” “Then it’s time to fill yourself back up again. But with the things you usually give to other people. You’re going to put all that love and protection and nurturing back inside.” I asked her to picture herself getting very small, so tiny that she could climb inside her own ear. I told her to crawl down the canal, and down her throat and esophagus, all the way to her stomach. As she journeyed within, I asked her to p...