Episode 63: Walking Sacred Paradoxes with GanelLyn Condie Part 2

I would just say to someone that, to me, triggers are teachers.
I get triggered every day—and when I do, I get to look at that and see where I still get to wrestle with some sacred paradoxes and allow God to teach me.

Can we make more space for not just empathy, but compassion? Empathy is wonderful—better than sympathy—but compassion is the ultimate. Empathy sometimes requires us to sit in another person’s pain, and not everyone is doing their own work around pain. Many people don’t feel comfortable with it.

I think our church communities can sometimes feel like a one-room schoolhouse—kindergartners sitting next to high schoolers. That kindergartner has never even considered algebra; they’re just learning their ABCs. So, when we sit together at church, one person may be navigating a really complex stewardship while someone else is completely at peace.

For one, it may be a “trigger fest.” That’s when I have to rely on God even more.

After my sister Meg died by suicide, I went through a season where church was painful. The grief of suicide is a unique, complex grief. I gained a new sense of compassion and empathy for those who’d said, “I can’t go to church right now—it’s too painful.” I suddenly understood.

Compassion allows us to meet each other in a space where we can hold space even if we’ve never experienced what someone else has. But if the person next to you doesn’t have compassion for themselves, they’ll probably struggle to offer it to you. We can only share what we have.

In your work as a coach, I’d guess you can effectively offer compassion because you’ve wrestled with deep triggers, pain, grief, and unmet expectations.

Right now—in August 2023—my life looks nothing like I thought it would a few months ago. In May, I spoke in the Marriott Center at BYU Women’s Conference in front of 10,000 people. Within weeks, my daughter left home, my show was canceled, my latest book was rejected, and I had two surgeries.

I don’t have all the answers. But I’m learning to pay attention to what triggers me—to recognize when I’m having a trauma response, even when others don’t see it that way. Sometimes I say it out loud: “I’m in a trauma response right now.”

I’ve told entire audiences, “Please understand that I’m filtering a lot through a trauma response. When you say that, or when we talk about this, the story in my head might not match your intention. You’re not responsible for that, but I’m responsible for being aware of my lens.”

Some people understand. Others don’t even know what a trauma response is. And that’s okay—they might still be in “kindergarten” in that one-room schoolhouse.

When we worship in faith communities, we can remember we’re sitting beside people who have very different levels of awareness and experience. That perspective helps us extend grace.

I try to show up authentically. Not everyone loves that about me—but I value vulnerability. That’s where true connection happens: when we open up and share our stories.

Empathy is better than sympathy, but compassion is deeper. Compassion doesn’t require me to take on someone’s pain—it allows me to sit beside them, hold space, and just be present. We don’t need to fix, assess, or understand. We simply let their story matter.

Not everyone is comfortable being open, and that’s okay. We all have areas of shame where we still hide. Where we’ve worked through shame, we can be more transparent.

Only Jesus can truly say He’s been through it all. The rest of us are still learning our own curriculum. Everyone I know who holds space authentically has gone through something.

Some of my LGBTQ+ friends are my best sounding boards right now. Different circumstances, same tools, same journey. That’s the beauty of compassion—it doesn’t require shared boxes or identical experiences.

We can feel who’s wrestled through shame and who’s still stuck in it. And here’s the truth:
We judge where we feel vulnerable.

Every time I judge, I try to ask: What is that revealing about my pain? Where am I feeling vulnerable? Why am I judging?

Recently, I discovered professional betrayal that really hurt. One of my top values is honesty, and I had to sit with that pain and ask, “Where can I show up more truthfully? Where have I been hiding?”

I can’t control others—but I can choose how I show up. That’s why the “window versus bridge” analogy matters: I can clean my own window, but I can’t force someone to look through it.

Where you’re judging is where you’re feeling vulnerable. It’s uncomfortable, but it points you back to what you can do about it.

Painfully true—but freeing.

Sometimes judgment gives us a sense of “us and them,” but that’s just our own mirror.

When faith journeys take a pivot, questions and doubts arise. Maybe they’ve been buried for years, but suddenly they’re in your face. I always had empathy for the LGBTQ+ community, but when it became personal—when I had “skin in the game”—that empathy became embodied understanding.

Navigating those pivots is complex. Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. Find or be a faith friend.
   You only need one. And if you don’t have one yet, be one. Text someone you feel drawn to, even if they’re totally different from you. My faith friends tell me the truth, hold compassion, and do their own work. They’re not perfect—they’re invested.

2. Find ways to serve.
   After Meg died, I was called to teach Primary—a terrifying calling for me—but those children saved me. Their love was pure, their songs simple. Service helped me get out of my own head and reconnect to light.

3. Be intentional about what you consume.
   During tender seasons, choose only what brings light—music, books, people, rituals. I call it “chopping wood and carrying water.” Do the simple things that keep you steady.

We spend so much time trying to eliminate darkness instead of finding ways to turn up the light.

So ask yourself: What turns up light for you? Walking your dog? A funny movie? More sleep? A massage? After Meg died, I needed regular massages because the grief lived in my bones.

Those are my three tips:
Find a faith friend (and be one).
Serve in simple, loving ways.
Do what turns up the light in your life—and only those things for a while.

You have full permission.

What does it mean to live beyond the shadow of doubt?

For me, it means acknowledging the shadow is there—not running from it. The shadow itself is proof of the light. To live beyond the shadow of doubt is to find ways to turn up the light in your life. The shadow only exists because of the light.

Light will always win. Even one small light can fill a dark room. The shadow is not something to fear—it’s evidence of the great light in your life.

Quick-Fire Questions

Favorite book: My scriptures—because one verse can turn up the light in my life. But The Diary of Anne Frank changed me as a child. It gave me perspective, courage, and empathy.

Introvert or extrovert? An introvert with extrovert skills. I love people—but I also need quiet alone time to refuel.

Favorite artist: The Impressionists—especially Monet. And Brian Kershisnik, whose art graces the cover of my book You Are More Than Enough, You Are Magnificent.

Night owl or morning person? I used to be an early riser, but menopause changed that! I still get bursts of creativity late at night when the world is quiet.

Celebrity crush: Tom Selleck—no contest. My husband knows it. I’ve loved him since Magnum P.I. and yes, I still have the poster.

Diet soda or sparkling water? Diet Coke or Diet Dr. Pepper, always—but I also love Pellegrino. And I keep all the pretty bottles; one day I’ll fill them with wildflowers for a garden luncheon.

Furthest you’ve traveled: Bahrain, in the Middle East. I spoke there for three days to youth from across the region. It was a life-changing experience.

Final Thoughts
If you want to connect, you can find me online at ganellyn.com, or on Instagram, LinkedIn, Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. I love hearing how our stories help each other.