Self-Compassion, The Compassion of Possibility and the Experience of Disability – A Love Letter
Terri-Lynn Langdon is a well-known therapist in the areas of mental health, youth issues, violence against women, maternal health, disability, and social justice. Her trauma-informed skills, mindful ways of working, and empowering others to create the best health possible while living in authenticity are strengths in her practice.
Compassion means to witness and suffer with your own suffering and the suffering of others. As a student of compassionate inquiry which is a psychotherapeutic approach to healing that was created by Dr. Gabor Mate and curated into structured courses with the work of Sat Dharam Kaur, ND, I feel compelled to write about the five levels of compassion as they are taught by Dr. Mate but also to share how these concepts are vibrating in me and how I feel these concepts can be used in your own healing and the healing of others (especially if you’re disabled).
Dr. Mate says that there are 5 levels of compassion:
Ordinary compassion: This is the basic premise that when someone else is suffering, we also suffer, and we feel bad for the person who is suffering.
Compassion of curiosity: This is when we are curious about someone else’s suffering and their personal experience with it. A great example of this is that the characteristic of curiosity brings with it less judgment. For example, when we see an unhoused person, the curious mind makes fewer assumptions about that circumstance. It is not assumed that the person is unhoused because of “a drinking problem,” “a mental health problem,” or a “difficult personality.” Instead, we are able to ask salient questions, such as “Tell me about your pain.” “What happened?” or “What barriers are you experiencing to housing?” But really, it could be any number of questions.
The compassion of recognition: This is when we recognize ourselves in someone else’s suffering. I recognize myself in many other people’s suffering. I often think that this could be me, or that this was me, or that I could be in their shoes in the near future. Many folks are more alike than different. It is this recognition in human habits, needs, and nervous system responses that make up some of the experiences of the compassion of recognition.
The compassion of truth: This is a call to truth-telling. It can often be painful to discover and uncover the truth about one’s pain and pain in life. It is also true that it is not compassionate to protect someone from their pain. To be human is to suffer grief and loss (something that I know all too well!), to be human is to sometimes experience the body-mind as painful, and these examples barely scratch the surface. Attempts to shield anyone from the depths of this altogether can cause harm. The compassion of truth acknowledges that sometimes the truth hurts, but your pain will be nurtured and hopefully lessened through acknowledgement and moving with it.
The compassion of possibility: This is when we see others, not for their defenses or their dysfunction in difficult times or seasons, but we can also see the possibility in people for change. We can see their capacity for positive future outcomes, for growth and connection, and for new selves to expand and change for the better. My understanding of the compassion of possibility is that it is not about suffering with but rather moving through suffering to imagine a beautiful outcome in the near future for that person or group.
In my view, the compassion of possibility has rich implications and meanings for many at the margins. It’s fascinating for me to think through the compassion of possibility for the disability communities. Let me explain.
When I was a little girl growing up between Scarborough, Toronto, and Newfoundland (and some places in between!) It was quickly determined that my education would be at a segregated school for disabled children, and I was not given the option at the time to finish high school. I was told that I would instead be given a certificate of education. Unfortunately, the rationale was, “How else would I get access to medical treatments and supports consistently if I went to an integrated school?” What is scary about this is that the control of disabled children’s bodies had a plethora of administrative support vis-à-vis funding, and the majority of it, it seemed, was dedicated to my exclusion rather than my inclusion. The world, my world, with its policies, programs, perceived liabilities, and beliefs, had formed the vision of what could be possible for my life. In terms of employment, I got a lot of comments on how I could work in a mail room or about how I could learn limited administrative tasks to earn money. I was told time and time again that becoming a mom was not possible.
None of what was written about my perceived capacities as an adult actually happened. In every way, I am grateful for all of the things that did not happen! I think that’s in fact because other people’s perceptions, fuelled by ableism, were not meant to be. I think that is because I clung to the few people who saw my possibilities every time. I learned to do this as a child. It was part of how I survived.
With both of my young children, I inseminated. Experiencing that process meant that I really had to cultivate self-compassion, self-truth, self-love, and self-nurturing in ways that I did not previously learn. There is so much learning to do.
I sometimes wonder what is possible if we see someone we perceive to be disabled and we don’t assume that they’re suffering right away, and instead we ask about how they’re experiencing their day. How about we don’t say, “I can’t imagine being in a wheelchair,” and instead we think about the future as disabled, we see love in disability, as in, disabled people are love, and we see disabled joy and disabled becoming. I will say it again, disabled people are loved. If becoming disabled is not seen as possible, then disabled leadership, professional development, and futures are suppressed. In research terms, this suppression and its outcomes are happening in Canada and in many, many other places to the detriment of everyone and on the backs of disabled people. It is crucial to share that it is not happening because I’m a wheelchair user. It’s happening in part because the compassion of possibility, in disability, is often not called forward. It’s happening because of ableism that says that disabled life is no life at all. We rarely ask disabled folks in our lives to grow. This is a mistake that can be made when we equate disability with shrinking and being less than. It is happening in part because very damaging policies do not support disabled lives, let alone disabled progress and disabled parents’ children, which is still highly stigmatized!
I see the support that my perspective brings, and I am privileged to do it. I see others very clearly much of the time. I am so excited to work in the field of compassionate inquiry and to support communities at the margins with this approach. The compassion of recognition, the compassion of truth, and the compassion of possibility are critical therapy topics worthy of curiosity and exploration. They are crucial concepts in community activism and community care as well.
If I see every community as worthy of the same life chances that the most privileged of communities have access to, literally, so many radical, loving shifts would happen towards living and being and being known. When I think about that as a possibility, I feel so much peace in that place.
Terri-Lynn Langdon, Social Worker & Health Equity Researcher
Terri-Lynn Langdon is a feminist, disability studies, and health equity scholar in Social Justice Education at The Ontario Institute for Studies in Education. She is a candidate in the Collaborative Specialization in Women's Health at the Dalla Lana School of Public Health and a research fellow with the School of Cities at the University of Toronto. She has over 14 years of experience in the social work field. Terri-Lynn is passionate about helping people to achieve the best possible health and a meaning-making life. She is the mother of 2 young children.
