Tiny Buddha

Author: Iva Ursano

  • Why I Blamed Myself for My Ex’s Suicide (and Why It’s Not My Fault)

    Why I Blamed Myself for My Ex’s Suicide (and Why It’s Not My Fault)

    “No amount of guilt can change the past and no amount of worrying can change the future.” ~Umar Ibn Al Khattab

    I don’t remember the exact day the message came through. It was from my son, Julian, and he needed to talk to me. It sounded pretty serious. He never really needs to talk to me.

    His father was found dead earlier that week. He’d hung himself.

    While this news hardly affected Julian at all, it hit me like a ton of bricks, and I cried.

    Our Marriage

    We met in a taxi thirty-three years ago. He was the driver, I was a drunk passenger. He was super handsome and flirty. He brought me home, and we exchanged numbers and instantly began a relationship.

    Within six months of dating, I found out I was pregnant. Since I didn’t want to be an unwed mother, we were married within a month and began our lives. We both had good jobs. I worked at a bank, he was an HVAC technician. Life was pretty good in the beginning.

    Then his job took us to a different city. We moved and for the first time in my life, I was alone with no friends and no family. I was twenty-six years old. Our marriage was okay, and we got along well.

    About six months after we moved to this new city, he started coming home later and later from work, some nights not until 2am. He always told me he had to work late. I believed him. He was on call a lot. I was home alone a lot.

    A few months later I made the decision to return to our hometown. He was to find a job there, which wouldn’t be hard. I didn’t want to be alone in this big city anymore, and I was just about to give birth. I wanted my family around.

    Life After Our Move

    We stayed at my parents’ house when we returned, and within a month had found our own apartment.

    He found a job almost instantly, and I delivered Julian two days after we got home. Life was going well.

    About a year into our lives with the baby, things started to get bad. He was out “working late” an awful lot. He would come home around two or three in the morning, smelling of alcohol. By the time Julian was eighteen months I had had enough and asked him to leave. This wasn’t the life I wanted for my son.

    He moved out and for the next six months, my life was a living hell. He would come over drunk at night, force sex on me, threaten to take my baby away from me, threaten to kill us both. He threatened me almost daily. Many nights I’d stay at a friend’s house just to feel safe. Many times the police were called.

    He finally moved out of province, and it was years before we heard from him again.

    The Divorce Agreement

    The day had come to file for divorce and put this whole marriage nightmare behind me. I filed for sole custody with no visitation allowed to him. He was unstable, dangerous, and violent, and I was not taking any chances with my son. The fact that he lived far enough away was my saving grace.

    Also stated in the divorce agreement was no child support payments. I wanted to completely cut all ties with this man. So I did just that.

    Twelve Years Later

    It may have been longer, maybe thirteen or fourteen years later, we received a package from him via his brother. It was sent to Julian. A picture of himself and a silver chain with a St. Christopher pendant.

    It meant nothing to Julian. He didn’t even know who this person was. I questioned his gesture. Was he trying to make amends? Was he trying to prove that maybe he’d changed and he wanted to start a relationship with his son?

    I never got the answer to any of those questions. He never reached out again after that.

    When my son moved away to university, he lived only a couple of hours away from his father. He made an attempt through his uncle to maybe meet up with his dad, but his dad wasn’t interested and declined the offer.

    And life simply carried on.

    Every now and then, throughout the years, Julian’s uncle would update us on what his father was doing and how he was doing. It seemed alcohol and depression were major parts of his life.

    I couldn’t help but feel responsible for this.

    Was he depressed because I took his only child away from him? Was this my fault? Whenever we got another update, I just felt guilty. Did I do this to him?

    The Call

    When I got the call, I was in complete shock. I had no idea his depression was that bad. How would I have known? Were there other factors that played a part in his suicide? Or was it just years of anguish knowing he had a son who was never a part of his life… because of me?

    Could this have been prevented if his son had been a part of his life? Did I do this??

    I cried for a week. I had never felt so much sorrow, and guilt. SO much guilt. Was I responsible for someone’s suicide?

    Dealing with My Grief and Guilt

    It took me a while to wrap my head around his suicide. It also took me a while to convince myself I was not responsible for it, nor should I feel guilty about it. I didn’t talk to anyone about this. No one would understand my feelings, and they were hard to explain.

    I realized, though, that he had been battling demons that had nothing to do with me. I made the best choice for my son, and that was the most important thing to me.

    He had made his choices as well. And I had nothing to do with them. Me not allowing him any visitation to his son was a result of his actions and choices. He chose his behavior. Not me. I chose to not have his behavior damage my child.

    I had to talk myself through that. It’s not your fault, Iva. He could have chosen to change his life, improve his life, reach out to his son more often, anything. And he chose not to.

    It’s not your fault, Iva.

    There is a tiny part of me inside that wishes things would have been different. If only he got help for his depression and alcoholism. If only he could have been a part of Julian’s life. If only he could have tried to help himself.

    I’m sorry his life ended so tragically. I’ll always feel sorry for that. But I won’t feel guilty about it anymore.

    It’s Not Our Fault

    It’s so easy to take responsibility for a loved one’s suicide, especially when you set a hard boundary for your own well-being. “If only I had done this or done that” or “if only I would have not done that,” but the reality is, it’s not our fault.

    We are not in control of how people think, act, react, or live their lives. We can only control our own lives. What people do with their own life is out of our hands. We can offer them tools and help, but it’s up to them to accept it and/or use it.

    If they don’t, that’s not our fault either. It’s easy to think that we should have/could have done more, but we did as much as we could. The rest was up to them.

  • What I Really Mean When I Say I’m Fine (Spoiler: I’m Not)

    What I Really Mean When I Say I’m Fine (Spoiler: I’m Not)

    “Tears are words that need to be written.” ~Paulo Coelho

    It was lovely to see you today. I haven’t seen you in such a long time. So much has happened since the last time we saw each other.

    You asked me how I was. I politely replied, “I’m fine” and forced a smile that I hoped would be believable. It must have worked. You smiled back and said, “I’m so glad to hear that. You look great.”

    But I’m not really fine. I haven’t been fine for a very long time, and I wonder if I will ever know what “fine” actually feels like again.

    Some days are good, some not so good. I’m doing my best to stay optimistic and to keep faith that tomorrow will be better. Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s worse. I’m never prepared for either outcome.

    I’m doing my best to pretend I’m fine.

    The mask I wear hides my pain very well. I’ve been wearing it for so long now that no one can see through it anymore. It’s my new face, and it smiles on demand.

    Some days I wish I didn’t have to pretend to smile. I long for the day when it will come naturally, sincerely, and genuinely.

    When I say I’m fine this is what I really mean…

    I’m sad. I’m really having a hard time right now. I wish I could tell you. I’d like to think that you might even care. And maybe you do truly care. But I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want to bother or burden anyone with my troubles.

    My troubles are big and ugly. I can’t burden you with them. You are facing demons of your own. You don’t need to be exposed to mine. That would be so selfish of me. To think that your demons are not as important or debilitating as mine.

    So I just tell you I’m fine. I’m protecting you when I say I’m fine. Because I’m afraid my pain is just more toxicity.

    I want to tell you my troubles. I want you to take them away. I wish someone could fix everything that hurts, though I no one else can do that for me. Still, I wonder, does anyone have all the answers to these questions that are pounding in my head and causing me grief and anxiety?

    Anyone?

    There’s a tightness in my chest that won’t go away. There’s a darkness in the pit of my stomach that makes me nauseous. My shoulders feel weighted and my arms long for human touch. A body to wrap around tightly to comfort me and ensure me that everything will be okay.

    My troubles have completely consumed my life.

    Inside, I’m crying all the time. My soul is crushed, and my heart is full of holes that I’m desperately trying to patch up as best I can.

    I’m full of anxiety inside, and no matter how hard I try to find peace, it eludes me. I feel there are a million demons inside of me, and I don’t know which one needs my attention the most.

    So I ignore them all. It’s too much for me to bear most days.

    When I say I’m fine I really wish you could hear my inner voice screaming, “I’m not fine, and I need help. Please stay and talk to me, comfort me, help make this overwhelming pain stop.” I want to say this to you. But I open my mouth, and “I’m fine” comes out instead.

    I’m not really fine. I’m not sure how to handle today, and I fear what tomorrow may bring. It’s constant anxiety. I wish it would go away if only for a day.

    I want to be fine, honest I do.

    One day I would love to sincerely tell you how fine I am. That all my anxieties, worries, and fears are gone, or at least less overpowering. That I walk with a skip in my step and a song in my heart. I want to feel that. I may have felt this once before a long time ago, but I don’t really remember it.

    Every day I’m doing my best to smile and make the day better. I’m thinking positively, I’m taking big deep breaths when I need to. I’m reading inspirational blogs and quotes. I’m even listening to guided meditations.

    Today I went shopping and bought myself something nice. I know, a temporary fix. But it worked.

    It all works. For the moment. And then the moment is gone, and it all comes flooding back. All the turmoil, the anguish, the anxiety, the pain. I breathe deeply again. And I’m okay for a few more minutes.

    But for now, I’m doing my best. I know that everything in life is temporary. The good, the bad. Even life. It’s all temporary. If I can just get through today, I’ll be fine.

    I’m doing my best to see the bright side. I can see it some days. But it doesn’t take away the turmoil brewing inside of me. It only masks it with a Band-Aid. A temporary fix.

    Everything is just a temporary fix until I finally become brave enough to get to the bottom of my demons. I need to face them one at a time. I need to bring them to the surface, dust them off, address them, heal from them, and then let them go.

    This I know. But it’s such a daunting task. Just thinking about doing that is overwhelming and causes me a great deal of anxiety. I know it’s up to me to be able to say, “I’m fine” and really mean it.

    One day I will. When I feel strong enough to do so. Until then, I may say I’m fine when I’m really not. But I will try to find the courage to say, “Actually, I’m sad,” even though I know you don’t have a magic wand to take all my troubles away.

    Maybe just opening up and letting you support me will help. Maybe if I stop painting a smile on my face and telling you “I’m fine, really I am,” one day soon I will be.

  • Why “Find Your Purpose” is Bad Advice and What to Do Instead

    Why “Find Your Purpose” is Bad Advice and What to Do Instead

    “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.” ~Pablo Picasso

    I was fifty-two when I found my purpose. I wasn’t even looking. It literally just smacked me upside the head. That’s a funny thing about life. It throws things your way, and you either grab them and run with them or you turn a blind eye and walk on by.

    I used to turn a blind eye. I don’t anymore. These days I’m taking in all that life tosses my way. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

    How My Purpose Found Me

    I had just left an abusive relationship and declared bankruptcy. You could say my life was a complete mess. I had also just hit rock bottom and was starting the grueling climb out. It was frustrating and exhausting.

    During my healing and self-discovery journey I did something that changed the entire course of my life. I started volunteering at a homeless shelter.

    I’ll be honest with you, I did that for two reasons. One was selfish. The other, humanitarian (and sincere).

    I desperately needed to take my mind off all my problems, and I figured the only way to do that was to surround myself with people whose problems were way bigger than mine. And it worked. But something else happened.

    I fell in love with the homeless people I met and found a deep sense of purpose. Phew! I sure didn’t see that coming.

    I then made it my mission to do more of that. Help people, all people, even animals. I just wanted to help everyone and everything anyway I could, as often as I could.

    I had found my purpose, and that was to do my part to make the world a better place.

    I Never Understood the Meaning of “Find Your Purpose”

    I honestly thought that phrase was overrated and overused.

    It seems to suggest purpose is something outside ourselves that we miraculously stumble upon someday. “Oh, did you hear? Mary found her purpose today.”

    And it also creates a lot of stress and pressure to hurry up and figure it out. “I’m still looking for my purpose, and I’m frustrated that I’m having such a hard time with this.”

    I couldn’t understand why everyone was desperately seeking their purpose. I was just trying to navigate life the best way I knew how in order to have inner peace and be happy, while others were searching for this holy grail.

    I questioned myself. Should I be looking for this too? Do I need to find it before I die? Will my life be incomplete if I don’t? Will I die with regret then?

    I was confused. What’s the big deal about finding your purpose? It was starting to freak me out.

    My Aha Moment

    After my first night at the homeless shelter, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I wanted to do that for the rest of my life. Just give and serve and make people happy. I wanted to turn frowns upside down and get hugs and make people’s lives better, any way I could.

    Did I finally discover my purpose without even realizing it? Was this what everyone was talking about?

    I assumed it was. I assumed that this was it! I’d found my purpose and now my life was complete. Or was it?

    I was puzzled by something.

    Isn’t This Everyone’s Purpose?

    I couldn’t understand why me serving homeless people and helping humans and critters in any way I could was some special purpose.

    Shouldn’t we all be doing that? As humans sharing the same planet in the galaxy, shouldn’t we all be doing our part to help other human beings (and critters)?

    It’s more than that, though. It’s so much bigger than that. It’s about finding joy and peace in knowing you did your part to make the world a better place.

    That’s what the definition of purpose should be.

    Stop Looking for Your Purpose

    Maybe we should just ditch the word purpose and replace it with something that doesn’t sound so foreboding. Maybe instead of saying, “I’m trying to find my purpose in life” we should try saying, “I’m doing my part to make the world a better place.”

    It just has a nicer ring to it.

    There’s so much anger, hurt, hatred, and frustration in the world today. The world needs more love. People need more love. When we see things and people through the eyes of love and compassion something magical happens.

    We understand, we don’t judge, we feel for each other, and it brings us all one step closer to having inner peace and joy.

    So how can you make the world a better place?

    What special gift, talent, or skill do you have that you can offer the world?

    It doesn’t have to be what you do for a living, though that’s clearly the ideal, since we spend so much time at our jobs. Maybe it starts as something you do on the side and grows over time. Or maybe it doesn’t, but maybe having something that fills you up will help make your 9-5 more tolerable.

    The important thing is that you find some way to help people that leverages your unique passions and interests. Then even if you don’t love your job, you’ll feel a sense of meaning, and you’ll feel good about yourself and the difference you’re making.

    Maybe you love animals and can volunteer at a shelter.

    Maybe you make people feel good about themselves by simply sharing kind words to strangers.

    Or maybe you’re passionate about  knitting or sewing or singing and you can find ways to use those talents to brighten other people’s lives. I mean, the possibilities are endless.

    We need to do more things that spread joy, hope, and love to the people around us, even if it’s something small. Sometimes it’s the smallest acts that have the biggest impact.

    If you’re stressing about the fact that you are getting older and haven’t found your purpose yet, stop. It’s overrated. Instead, find ways to serve and in turn, inspire others to serve.

    It’s not about finding your purpose. It’s about living your life to the fullest and knowing at the end of the day that you did your very best to make someone else’s day brighter and better. It’s about doing that every day until you die. That’s a life well-lived. And if you want to call that your purpose, so be it.

  • 10 Things to Do When You Feel Sad, Hopeless, and Defeated

    10 Things to Do When You Feel Sad, Hopeless, and Defeated

    “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.” ~J.K. Rowling

    I’m no stranger to feeling hopeless and defeated. After many failed relationships, physical, sexual and emotional abuse my entire life, two bankruptcies, and the recent loss of my online business (October 2020), you could say I’ve been through enough to last two lifetimes.

    I’ll admit, there were many times I wanted it all to end. There were many days I just didn’t know how much more I could handle. My recent loss has devastated me beyond words. Everything I’ve worked so hard for in the last three years has completely been obliterated. I’m numb and feel defeated almost every day.

    At fifty-eight years old, starting over doesn’t interest me, but I have no choice. I know what to expect. I’ve been here before. It’s ugly, messy, frustrating, stressful, and exhausting. Every day I wake up I don’t really feel like getting to the computer to work.

    I don’t really feel like doing anything, to be honest, but lay in bed and cry. I go through serious waves of anxiety throughout the day. They hit me fast, hard, and without warning. I want to throw up. I want to curl up in a ball and die. I want someone to tell me this is all a bad dream and tomorrow things will be back to normal.

    None of that happens. And I force myself to get to work and start a new day.

    Your Struggles and Pain Are Real

    Pain is pain, chaos is chaos. No matter what it looks like to you. Never let anyone tell you your feelings are ridiculous. Don’t ever think that you’re overreacting. What your feeling is real, and you need to honor your emotions, feel all the feels. Just don’t stay there. The longer you stay down, the harder it is to get back up.

    Here are ten things to do when you are feeling defeated, hopeless, helpless, and sad—all things that have helped me, that I hope help you too.

    1. Cry your eyes out.

    Too many of us hold back our tears because we think it’s a sign of weakness. It is absolutely not, and it’s almost mandatory to get those tears out. Go back to the last time you had a good cry fest and try to remember how you felt afterward. I’m guessing you felt like a ton of bricks was just lifted off your shoulders.

    Crying is very therapeutic. Do it. As often as you have to. Scream and cry into a pillow if you have to but get those tears out.

    2. Call a friend.

    While this almost sounds too simple, most don’t even think about doing this either because they don’t want to burden their friends, or because they’re too stuck on their problems to consider talking about something else.

    Pick one person you absolutely love talking to and just chat your cute little face off. You can talk about your problem if you think it will help, or you can use this as an opportunity to get your mind off of things. Just talk!! About anything, everything, silly things and nothing.

    I remember the day my business crashed, and I was so angry and upset but also embarrassed because I didn’t want anyone to know what happened to me and that my business was gone. After a week I decided to call one of my dear friends, and not only was he great at comforting me but also reassuring me that things were going to be okay. It was such a huge relief to get this confirmation from a friend.

    Sometimes we need to hear comforting words!

    3. Volunteer.

    I tell everyone this. If you’re sad, go volunteer. Like right now. You can’t even imagine the power behind helping someone or something (aka furry critters) in need. Your heart fills up and then explodes, you cry happy tears, and it honestly just gives you so much joy.

    Find an organization that resonates with you and call them. Go spend an hour a week there. This will soon become your happy place and something you will look forward to every week.

    4. Write yourself a love letter.

    I’ll be honest, I haven’t written one in a while, but I think it’s time.

    A love letter to yourself is so powerful and therapeutic. In this letter you tell yourself all the amazing and awesome things about yourself. You list all the reasons you shouldn’t feel like a loser. You tell yourself to brush off your bum and pick yourself back up again.

    You can go on and on about how wonderfully amazing you are. Write out all the things you love about yourself and all your radiant and redeeming qualities.

    Now before you say, “Oh, I don’t love anything about myself,” stop right there.

    Go look in the mirror right now. I bet you have the most beautiful eyes and the most sweet smile ever. Or maybe you are a feisty, determined person. Or maybe you have a heart of gold! I bet there are a million awesome things about you. Find them and write about them.

    5. Put on some loud music and sing and dance.

    Oh yeah. Choose the loudest, thrashiest music you have (and love) and crank up the stereo. Or maybe you love country or jazz or whatever! Turn it up and rip off the knob. Dance, sing, jump around your house like a silly fool.

    Sometimes when I’m feeling down, I put on the saddest music with the hardest hitting lyrics, sing loud, cry my heart out, and remarkably afterward I feel a million times better!!

    Let loose and lose all your cares and woes in your favorite music. You’re gonna feel amazing, you’ll even get a little workout in, and your adrenaline will be pumped up a wee bit, so you’ll maybe even feel unstoppable! Go you!

    6. Go for a walk.

    Another simple thing to do that we often overlook. For many of us, when we’re feeling really sad, we don’t want to get dressed and go out. We want to stay inside and cry and eat junk food (more on that later), but you can’t stay there forever.

    You have to get yourself out of your dark place. You have to take action steps (pardon the pun) to move forward and be happy again.

    Get your shoes on and get outside. You never know who you’re going to run into or what kind of super cool things can happen to you. Be open to surprises and chance meetings. Or maybe you’ll just find and see little things that bring a smile to your face.

    7. Watch funny movies and eat junk food.

    Yes, I said it. Eat junk food, aka comfort food. They call it comfort food for a reason. Because that’s exactly what it does. And yes, I get that we may have a teeny sore belly in the morning, all depending on how much comfort food you consumed the night before, but really, chocolate and chips and donuts and cake really do the soul good.

    A small word of warning here, though: Only do this if you can let yourself enjoy eating and aren’t mindlessly binging to numb your feelings, and please don’t make this a daily habit. We all know eating junk food is bad for us. It’s a nice quick fix on a really sad day but not something you should do all the time. Remember, life is all about balance too. That includes your eating habits.

    So find your fave movies—I usually opt for funny ones or super action thrillers—and lose yourself in it. Forget your cares and woes even if only for two hours or so and let yourself indulge a little.

    8. Write a truth letter.

    Yes, I love writing letters. It’s the best therapy out there, I swear! Much like a love letter to yourself, a truth letter is a letter you will write to someone or something that is causing you grief and sorrow.

    This is where you get to write out all your anger, all your hurt; every damn emotion you feel about this person/thing, get it all out! I know some people who have written truth letters that were thirty pages long. You write until you can’t write anymore!

    This is something you can do every time you have hateful or angry thoughts about this person or thing. Eventually the thoughts won’t show up so often.

    9. Set a timer.

    We already know we can’t stay in this sad dark place for too long, or it will consume us. After a few weeks of feeling like this set a timer for fifteen minutes, twice a day. In this time slot, feel angry, sad, cry, scream, or do whatever else you have to do, but when the timer is up try to compose yourself and shift your attention elsewhere—on your work, a hobby, helping a friend, anything other than your own problems.

    Negative thoughts will arise outside of your time slot. But remember, you can choose whether or not to engage with them. You always have a choice to let your thoughts pass without getting caught up in your mental stories. That’s up to you to do.

    Yes, this is hard to do, but the benefit is that you are allowing yourself time to grieve without allowing your grief to totally consume you and dominate your days.

    10. Have a ‘me’ day.

    Even if you can’t take the whole day, try to take at least a few hours to pamper yourself. Get a manicure or pedicure or do one for yourself at home. Get your hair done, take yourself out on a date. Do something you enjoy, something that gets you into a state of flow.

    Whatever it is that you do, do it in honor of yourself and how amazing you are. Take this time to love yourself, as hard as that may be, and just be present with you and only you.

    —

    As I go through my difficult time, I keep telling myself that this is temporary, I’m gonna be okay, and to keep the faith. I believe everything always works out in the end, exactly the way it’s supposed to, whether we understand it or not, and this brings me comfort.

    But don’t deny your emotions.

    I think the most important thing to remember is that you must honor and feel your feelings, but you can’t stay there. It’s important to take steps to get back to your ‘normal,’ whatever that looks like for you, or to accept that it’s time to create a new normal.

    Baby steps are better than no steps at all. Do one or two little things every day and before you know it, you’ll be smiling and feeling better about yourself and life again.

    You got this, babe!

  • How I Found the Courage to Leave an Abusive Relationship

    How I Found the Courage to Leave an Abusive Relationship

    “Do something today that your future self will thank you for.” ~Unknown

    My whole life has been filled with toxic and abusive relationships, starting with extreme physical and emotional abuse from my parents, right up to the last relationship that I left in 2013. Abuse—physical, sexual, emotional, and verbal—is all I’ve ever known.

    My entire life. I knew it wasn’t normal.

    I desperately wanted to be loved, appreciated, and respected. I desperately wanted ‘normal,’ whatever that was. I longed for a fairy tale romance. I longed for happiness and peace. I just wasn’t convinced I would ever have that.

    And I feared being alone.

    Longing to Be Loved

    I spent most of my adult life giving myself freely to anyone who showed me the least bit of attention. I was in and out of unhealthy relationships, looking for love in all the wrong places. Mostly on dating sites. I was always sure the next guy was ‘the one.’ Until he wasn’t.

    My mission in life was to find someone who would love me the way I deserved to be loved and take care of me, and then we would live happily ever after.

    I sacrificed myself in unspeakable ways just to be loved.

    The problem was that I didn’t even know what real love was, or how to love myself. I had little to no respect for myself. I was looking for happiness in the form of another human being. I was sure a man would bring me eternal happiness and true love.

    It wasn’t until I left my last abusive relationship that I realized I would never find happiness and true love until I loved myself.

    My Last Toxic Relationship

    He started out as “Mr. Not So Bad,” and despite all the frantically waving red flags, I convinced myself he would be the one.

    The first year was touch and go. He lied to me and disrespected me many times, in many ways, but I ignored it. I clung on to him. He ticked off a lot of the boxes on my list. Surely, I could overlook his faults. Besides, I wasn’t perfect either.

    The verbal and emotional abuse became more frequent in our third year together. I endured that for five more years before I finally packed it all in.

    He belittled and bullied me almost on a daily basis. At the end of the day, he would apologize, and things would be better. He assured me he truly loved me, and he would improve. It gave me false hope, but hope nonetheless. I was sure things would get better.

    They never did.

    In our fifth year he took a job on a Caribbean island and left me. I was in total and complete shock. We had just bought a house, and I had just bought a hair salon. I couldn’t understand why he was doing this. Though our relationship was far from perfect, we were still doing okay-ish.

    He returned eight months later and, again, promised that we would work this out and we’d be okay. Things just got worse. He became a complete control freak, and the bullying was constant.

    Everything was always my fault. I became a “yes sir/no sir” girl. Whatever he wanted, he got. Whatever he wanted to do, we did. I no longer had any say in anything with regard to the relationship or household decisions.

    We did everything his way or no way at all.

    I became a shell of a woman clinging to the hope that things would get better. I mean, he always did apologize at the end of the day, so surely, he meant well. Surely, things had to get better. And we weren’t spring chickens anymore either. We were both on our way to fifty.

    “He’ll change,” I thought. “I know he will. I can help him with that. Show him his mean, evil ways and let him know how much they hurt. I know this will change him. He’ll get it one day.”

    That never happened either.

    I Was a Complete Failure

    By year seven I had probably already written ten “Dear John, I’m leaving you” letters that I never gave him. I couldn’t leave him. Where the hell was I supposed to go?

    By this time, I had to close my hair salon business because it was dying a slow death (much like our relationship), I had just declared bankruptcy, and I didn’t have two cents to rub together. He had purchased another home and built a small salon in it for me, but all my clients had already abandoned me.

    I was barely making any money and totally relying on him for financial security and stability.

    My life had become a complete disaster. Emotionally, financially, professionally. I had nothing left in me.

    I looked in the mirror and cried at the woman staring back at me. She was broke and broken in so many ways. The one-time bubbly, happy girl I used to know was now empty, hollow, and void of any emotion.

    I was fifty-one years old, and the thought of ending my life crossed my mind more times than I care to admit. I was nothing and had nothing. I couldn’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror anymore.

    I cried all the time. I became a meek, submissive, frail woman with no hope for the future. In my eyes, I was a complete failure.

    Something had to give.

    The Beginning of the End

    It was Easter weekend, 2013. We were having a family dinner at our house. All my family. He had none close by. My family liked him enough. I was sure it was going to be a beautiful dinner filled with love and laughter.

    What started out as a day with the two of us preparing things for dinner quickly turned into the biggest fight we had ever had, with him storming out of the house before the guests arrived.

    He returned home late that night after the guests had all left. I had had enough. I couldn’t do this anymore. I spent the night in the spare bedroom and started to write yet another “Dear John” letter, but this time, I was going to deliver it to him. I was done.

    I was an emotional wreck. I knew I had to leave, but I was terrified.

    I had nothing. I had no money, no job, and no belongings except the clothes on my back, and I was a shell of a human being. What I did have was a tiny thread of hope. I asked myself a hundred times that night, “Iva, if you don’t leave now, when will you leave? How much longer can you live like this?”

    I was scared of my future. There were so many unanswered questions. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. I wasn’t’ sure I could survive on my own. I had nothing. I had officially hit rock bottom.

    Then I realized the only way out was up. It was up to me to claw my way out and fix this disaster I called my life.

    My Healing Journey

    That night I handed him the letter, we talked very briefly, and two weeks later I moved out of the house. I put all my faith and trust in the universe and found the courage to rebuild my life, first working on my self-esteem and then self-love.

    Friends came out of the woodwork to help me get back on my feet. I was able to get my old job back at a salon I had worked at for years prior to me opening my own salon. People donated items and furniture. My sister lent me money to get an apartment.

    Things all fell into place magically.

    I still do remember the fear and uncertainty I felt on a daily basis. I couldn’t believe I finally left him, yet I still didn’t trust myself to make good decisions. My entire life was the result of all the bad choices I had made.

    I didn’t know how to love or respect myself. I had no self-confidence and very little self-worth. I needed to learn what boundary lines were and start drawing them. Thick! I needed to learn what love was, self-love, and how to find happiness in me.

    I had an awful lot to learn. Unplugging fifty-one years of limiting beliefs and being told, “You’re no good, you’re worthless, you’re stupid” was going to take some time and a lot of work.

    I was literally starting at zero and working my way up.

    And I had no clue where to start. I had never felt so alone and afraid in my entire life. Everything was now up to me.

    Learning to Love Myself

    I found and read self-help eBooks online. I found personal growth and self-improvement articles. I listened to motivational podcasts and watched inspirational YouTube videos until my eyes bled. My healing journey was exhausting, frustrating, messy, and beautiful all at the same time.

    Every time doubt crossed my mind, I’d shout it out, declaring that “I am worthy, dammit!” I did this daily.

    The more I read self-help, the stronger I became. Day by day, slowly but surely, I was finally learning to love and respect myself. My self-confidence was growing beyond anything I could have imagined.

    I was stepping out of my comfort zone and making changes that scared the poop out of me but added to my growth.

    I completely reinvented my life, trading in my twenty-five-plus-year hairstyling career to become a freelance writer. I write of my healing journey, giving hope and inspiring others that they too can have the life they truly want. A life of happiness, joy, and inner peace.

    I still have growing to do. We never stop evolving. It’s just not as scary anymore, and it’s absolutely beautiful.

    Change is Up to You

    I think back on my life and wonder where I would be had I not left that toxic relationship, and I shudder. My desire to change my life became stronger than my desire to live in my comfort zone.

    Yes, it’s scary. We all want to know what the future holds for us. We all want answers to our questions. We all want to know that we’ll be okay and life will get better.

    But life won’t get better until you make the decision to make those big changes. It’s up to you to do that. Hard and scary? Yes. Impossible? Absolutely not.

    You have to ask yourself this one question: “How bad do I want it?” You have to trust that life can and will get better when you decide to take control, step boldly out of your misery and comfort zone, and have faith.

    Things might not magically fall into place right away, as they did for me, but things will improve over time if you believe in yourself and keep moving forward, one day at a time.

    The life you want is one step away. Take the step. You are worthy. You are deserving of a better life. Do it for you, babe!

  • How to Release Your Attachment When You Can’t Let Someone Go

    How to Release Your Attachment When You Can’t Let Someone Go

    I’m gonna be honest here, I can honestly say that I’ve never had any cords of attachment to a person, place, or thing—that is, until recently. This cord crippled me and broke me down to a point where I questioned who I was and my own personal strength.

    I think before I tell my story it’s important to know what exactly a cord of attachment is and how it can hurt you. A lot.

    Afterward, I’ll tell you why cutting cords is not very effective and what you need to do instead.

    What is a Cord of Attachment?

    People come in and out of our lives constantly. Some are blessings, some are lessons. The latter come to teach us things about ourselves. They help us dig deep and heal old ugly wounds that we’ve buried for years.

    Some people stay and some leave.

    However, some of the ones who leave us, leave a mark. A deep mark. A cord if you will. For whatever reason, we just can’t seem to let go of these people. We think about them constantly, cry over them, and are borderline addicted to them. For most of us, this is a past lover.

    Are you with me here? Can you feel me?

    This is a cord of attachment. This person has left such a tremendous impact on our lives and we just can’t let go. It doesn’t matter if this person was toxic or not, the cord is rooted firmly and we’re completely attached.

    My Story

    In 2015 I moved to Guatemala from Canada and fell in love with the country and the people. I decided I was going to stay for the long haul. This was my new home.

    In the small town I lived in, the dating scene was almost non-existent. And then my second year in, a new man from the US showed up in town. He was tall, dark, and handsome and fun to be around. We dated for over a year and then he returned to the US.

    We stayed in contact (and still are in contact almost daily) and traded our romantic relationship in for friendship. Sounds easy enough to do right? Wrong.

    I was okay with being his friend and though I secretly wished we could be more, I knew it would never happen. We were so incompatible in a million ways, independent of the fact we got along really well. We just weren’t meant to be.

    But I couldn’t let go. I was addicted to him. All of him. I was so ridiculously attached to him it was borderline toxic to me.

    After a year he moved back to Guatemala and I knew this was going to be hard for me. We weren’t dating anymore, he was free to see whoever he wanted. I knew I couldn’t bear to see it or find out he was with another woman.

    So I did the only thing I knew would help me. I left the country and moved to Mexico to heal and to be away from him. The cord of attachment I had to him was so strong it was killing me.

    I began my healing journey in Mexico.

    Some would say I ran away from my problems. It may seem that way. I ran away to save my soul and my heart. It was something I had to do. I also knew I had to cut this cord once and for all.

    Guided Meditations Just Didn’t Work

    I tried to listen to guided meditations on cord cutting and while they seemed to make me feel better, they were temporary fixes. Band-Aids if you will.

    I journaled daily. I would make lists of all the things I wanted in a man and a list of all the reasons why “John” wasn’t good for me.

    I wrote, I cried, I called friends to talk to, cried some more, listened to meditations nightly, yet nothing seemed to work. I just couldn’t cut this cord and it was emotionally exhausting.

    And then something dawned on me.

    Why Cutting Cords Doesn’t Work

    Every time I practiced a guided meditation, the cord would sever and I would feel good for a day or two, then I’d be back to where I started. Attached, addicted, and miserable.

    I realized it was a temporary fix and the wound went much deeper. I realized I needed to fix me at the root.

    But not only that, I also realized I needed to not just cut this cord but completely obliterate it right at its root.

    I needed to find out where this attachment came from, what my deep wound really was, heal that, and destroy the root.

    Cord cutting simply helps you break free at the moment, in the present. It doesn’t take away the pain and hurt. That’s something we need to work on. Find out what it is, where it came from, and heal from it completely.

    Where My Pain Comes From

    I discovered that my pain and deep wound comes from a childhood of abuse and never being loved. I gave myself and my love away to anyone who would give me any sort of attention. My longing to be loved so badly was destroying me in so many ways.

    And I had no idea.

    “John” filled so many voids for me, regardless of how toxic our relationship was at times, and I clung on to that. He treated me well, put me up on a pedestal, and gave me all the attention I’ve been craving all my life.

    I didn’t want to let go. It felt so damn good.

    But it wasn’t good. It was toxic to me and breaking me down every day.

    I reached out to a therapist friend of mine because I desperately needed to talk to someone who could help me with this. I knew I needed to heal, and fast. But I honestly didn’t know how.

    She helped me sift through all my childhood trauma and the patterns I was following into my adult life. She helped me see the cord for what it really was.

    The Cord I Created and Why Cutting It Just Won’t Work

    This cord is something I created myself because of my need for love, attention, and affection. The object at the other end of the cord made me feel good. Filled a dark lonely hole in my heart.

    I needed to relearn how to love and appreciate myself for exactly who I was. I had to remind myself that I don’t need a person to fill my voids and that it was up to me to do that.

    I also had to learn how to destroy this cord, not just cut it.

    When you cut cords, the roots are still attached to your soul offering the cord a chance to regrow. Think about how you cut down a dying plant and then new sprouts and leaves form. We cut off the dead in order to make room for regrowth.

    It works the same way with a cord of attachment to a person. We can keep cutting the cord but eventually, the leaves will branch out again and form new growth.

    This is why we need to completely destroy the cord, right from the root.

    How to Destroy Your Cord of Attachment

    You first need to heal from the wound that has created this cord. Find out what still hurts you and shows up in the form of other people.

    Was it something from your childhood, high school, or an old boss? Dig deep and pull this hurt out, have a look at it, and then do what you have to do to heal from it.

    This will take time. How much time is up to you.

    While you are healing you need to address this cord that’s still sticking out of your chest. That’s part of your healing journey.

    Instead of cutting it, you need to pull it completely out of your chest and imagine yourself burning the root. When the full root has been pulled, seal the wound in your chest with the most beautiful material you can visualize.

    I use rose gold.

    Journaling is Important

    Write out your feelings. It’s so important to write out how you feel. Too often, we keep all our pain locked inside so no one can see it.

    But this is not effective and is hurting you more than you realize. Write all that sh*t out and get it off your chest, out of your heart, onto paper, and then burn it and let it go. Thank me later!

    So many of us have so much healing to do, yet healing is a long, hard, and somewhat ugly journey. If we don’t ever heal, the same patterns will keep repeating themselves in our lives and we will never truly be free or happy.

    Do yourself a favor, heal.

    I began my healing journey in 2012, and though I’ve come an awfully long way since leaving my abusive relationship then, I am still constantly learning about myself, healing, and growing.

    It’s a never-ending journey, it’s exhausting and beautiful all at the same time.

    If you are still being haunted by the ghosts of your past, I want you to know you don’t have to be anymore. You can be free from them all. Make a commitment to yourself to start a healing journey.

    You’re so worth it!

    A Year Later

    I won’t say my healing journey is over, but I can say my cord of attachment no longer exists. I’m attached to me now and how much I love and respect myself. I still have a long way to go but I’m ready to move back to Guatemala where my heart truly is: with the people, the culture, the freedom, and the land.

    “John” and I still talk almost daily but I can see him in a totally different light now. I can safely say I see him as my friend. Nothing more, nothing less. And I’m perfectly happy with that.

  • How I Found Healing and Happiness in a Developing Country

    How I Found Healing and Happiness in a Developing Country

    “Your life does not get better by chance, it gets better by change.” ~Jim Rohn

    For years I dreamed of leaving the winters of Northern Ontario, Canada and basking in the warm golden sun somewhere in Central America from October to May. I would joke with my co-workers every winter “This is my last winter here, I swear!”

    I did that for years until finally, one year, it was my last winter there. But it wasn’t because it was the most brutal winter we had experienced so far. Oh no. It was much more than that.

    Rewind Back to 2012

    I had just walked out of my eight-year abusive relationship. I was beaten down, ripped apart, and left as a shell of a woman. I had nothing to my name materialistically or emotionally. Very few belongings and no self-respect, self-worth, self-love, or self-confidence.

    I left empty and numb. But at that time, it didn’t matter to me what I had or didn’t have. All I knew was that in order to preserve what little sanity I had left, I had to leave.

    Rebuilding my life took a lot of time. I had just declared bankruptcy and didn’t have two cents to rub together. With the amazing help of family and friends, I was able to get a job, find an apartment, furnish it, albeit very simply, and start my life over again.

    I was fifty-one years old. And scared out of my tree. I have never lived alone, ever, and wasn’t sure I could support myself or how I was going to live.

    My Journey out of Despair

    After I left my relationship I delved into the world of personal development. I needed to get my hands on things that were going to help me improve my life. I read eBooks and self-help blogs and watched YouTube videos by some of the greatest people on earth (Les Brown, Tony Robbins, Lisa Nichols, etc.)

    I had hundreds of Post-it notes with motivational quotes and sayings taped all over my tiny apartment. I read them aloud every chance I could. I had a lot of healing to do and was willing to do whatever I had to do in order to heal.

    I was broken, empty, and numb and I knew I had a purpose here on earth—and it wasn’t to be miserable for the rest of my life. I was not interested in subscribing to that life anymore.

    And then something wonderful happened….

    I Found Home in a Homeless Shelter

    One day I was having a conversation with someone I had just met, and they told me they volunteered at the homeless shelter and how amazing it was.

    I was all ears then. I wanted to know who, what, where, when, and why. All of it.

    The next day I found myself there applying to become a volunteer. And suddenly I had something to look forward to that took me out of my misery, helped me to forget my troubles, and opened my eyes to a whole new world.

    The volunteering gig, I soon discovered, was a huge part of my healing journey. I had no idea how my whole world was about to change simply by feeding homeless people dinner twice a month.

    I fell in love with these people. Each and every one of these broken, lost souls filled my heart with immense joy. It was here that all my troubles disappeared and my heart opened up.

    The more I helped, the happier I became, and I suddenly realized what my purpose was in life. It was right here with the poor, the broken, the helpless, and the hungry.

    Fast Forward to 2014

    Every day I became stronger and happier. I started falling in love with Iva. I found a new Iva. One who had something to look forward to. A woman who, once broken and beaten, was coming alive and had a zest for life.

    One year after I started volunteering at the homeless shelter, I became team captain and was there almost daily.

    But part of me still wanted more. I wanted to help more on a personal level and somewhere poverty, homelessness, and malnutrition was prevalent. I drifted back to my dream of going to Central America and suddenly had a major a-ha moment.

    If I could just find a way to support myself down there, I could go. Once again, I delved into the personal development world but this time with a different goal in mind. I was going to learn how to become a freelance writer so I could make this dream possible.

    But it was two dreams now: escape Canadian winters and help the hungry.

    Suddenly the Dream Became a Reality

    After much research, and submitting numerous amounts of guest blogs for free, I finally found a job as a freelance writer. It took me eight months of cutting hair for nine hours a day and writing for free for three to four hours a day, but I finally did it.

    In July of 2015 I resigned from my hairstyling job and had become a full-time freelance writer. The next step was to downsize, find a country in Central America, and move.

    It was all happening so fast. It seemed like just yesterday I was leaving my abusive relationship, and here I was looking at third world countries to move to.

    I was scared, excited, terrified, and finally happy. I had a new lease on life, and this lease didn’t just include me anymore. It was bigger than that.

    But I Realized Something Very Big and Important

    In October of 2015 I landed in Guatemala with two suitcases on a one-way ticket. I was terrified but knew I had to be here.

    I found organizations that needed help and found families on my own that I helped independently. I helped people on the streets, bought lunch for the young shoeshine boys, and sent kids to school.

    I loved life in the third world. It was simple, people were beautiful, and I was finally happy and at peace with my past and the traumatic life I had lived.

    That’s when I realized one very important thing: When we help others, we help ourselves. Through helping others we create deep connections, which helps prevent depression; we find a renewed sense of purpose; and, research shows, we reduce our stress level and boost our happiness.

    I realized that volunteering was the best thing I could have ever done for myself during my healing journey.

    When we take ourselves out of our own heads and lives and put ourselves in a place that not only rocks our comfort zone but gives us a chance to serve others, that’s when true healing occurs.

    That doesn’t have to mean moving to a third-world country or making any major changes. It can be as simple as volunteering for an hour once a week, or even once a month—or even just helping friends and neighbors in need.

    We heal by helping others. By bringing joy to others. And by sharing our stories of change, courage, and bravery.

    It’s four years later and I’m still in Guatemala, still helping and still growing personally. I don’t think I could ever move back to Canada. Living here has brought ridiculous joy to my life and so much love to my heart.

    It’s changed me in ways I never dreamed possible. And I couldn’t be happier.

  • Why My Abuse Is No Longer a Secret

    Why My Abuse Is No Longer a Secret

    “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” ~Anne Lamott

    To say I had a tough life would be a gross understatement. Growing up in a strict Catholic Italian family I endured my fair share of emotional and physical abuse. I was unloved and suffered great violence at the hands of both my parents, mostly my father.

    No one ever talked about this. On the outside, we were the ‘perfect’ family. Both my parents had decent full time jobs; Mom was heavily involved in the church and was the pillar of the community. Everyone respected and liked my parents.

    Growing Up Scared

    I spent most of my teenage years terrified of my parents. I hated them and wished I had a normal mom and dad like my friends did. I craved love, compassion, and affection. I so desperately wanted a normal life.

    I’ll admit, I wasn’t winning any “Teenager of the year” awards, but I’m sure my punishment never fit any crime I committed. Dad’s brutal force and mom’s lackadaisical attitude toward it all had me wishing I was dead. On many occasions.

    I have very clear memories of dad storming downstairs into my bedroom after an evening shift at work, ripping off my blankets, pulling me by my leg out of bed, and whipping me. He stopped when he was tired.

    I never knew when these random visits would happen. They just did.

    I feared coming home after school, I feared when they came home from work, I feared bedtime.

    Seeking Redemption

    Long after I moved out and had a child of my own, my mom became parent of the year. No one ever spoke of the abuse. It happened. It was their normal. And life went on.

    My mom finally became the mother I longed for. Dad wasn’t too far behind. Still unloving to me, he adored my child and with that, finally treated me somewhat like a human being. My parents would do anything for me and my son.

    I welcomed these new parents into my life. Loving, supportive, caring, and affectionate. Mom became my best friend. Dad became a father figure to my son. I appreciated this, as I’d separated from Julian’s father when he was just eighteen months old and we never saw him again.

    Through the Years

    As time went on I maintained a very close relationship with my parents. With my father it was mostly for my son; with my mom, it was simply because I let bygones be bygones. I forgave them both and we just moved on.

    I carried the trauma with me throughout my entire life. I spent a lot of time healing and growing. I needed to do that for me. I wasn’t the least bit interested in carrying all that heavy weight around. I had to learn to let it go. And I did.

    I let it go through writing, much to my family’s dismay.

    Finding My Voice

    I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but I discovered blogging. At first I was blogging about fun Feng Shui stuff. Then I slowly slipped into personal development, and there I found my voice.

    I would share my stories and my readers would reply. They felt me. They totally got it. I wasn’t alone in my healing, and I realized that people desperately needed to hear my stories so they could heal too.

    At first I would share stories of healing from bad relationships (Lord knows I had enough of them), and then I started sharing stories on self-confidence and self-love. The more I wrote, the more impact I was having on others.

    I had found this voice that was helping people around the world, and I was more than happy to use it.

    And Then It Was Time

    I held back for the longest time on sharing my family trauma. I wasn’t sure. Should I or shouldn’t I? Will I hurt people? Will I help people? I struggled with this for years, until one day I finally put it out there.

    I wrote of the trauma, the pain, and the abuse. I poured my heart out about the lack of love and encouragement in my childhood—two things every kid deserves from their parents. I spoke of random beatings and being terrified.

    The replies and emails I received from people around the world shocked me. They thanked me for helping them forgive. They cried. They asked me how I did it and how they could let go and move forward.

    Finally, something good was coming from all this pain. I was not only healing myself, but helping others heal too. The more I wrote, the more we all healed together. And it was a beautiful thing.

    Not Everyone Shared My Enthusiasm

    I was sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that none of my family would ever read my stuff. Surely none of them were open minded enough to read self-help stuff, especially mine. They didn’t read blogs.

    They followed the news and immersed themselves in negativity and drama. They craved and hung on to misery and trauma. They’re not going to read anything from me ever. I was positive of this.

    I was wrong.

    Someone read a blog. I’m not sure who it was exactly, but I have my suspicions. A cousin perhaps. I’ll never know and at this point, it no longer matters. Someone read a blog and shared it with other members of the family.

    It was a good one. It was a Mother’s Day blog, and I went on about how my mom wasn’t always the mother of the year. How she beat me and let my dad do the same. I talked about how not all moms deserve to be honored on this special day.

    However, in my defense, I closed this piece with how my mom later became my best friend and the mom I had always longed for. No one read that part apparently.

    I didn’t become aware that my relatives had read my post until my mom’s funeral in February of 2019.

    My Final Goodbye

    Mom had been suffering with Alzheimer’s for the last fifteen years. We were waiting for her to die. We wanted her suffering to hurry up and end. (Dad had passed away five years earlier).

    I’ve been living in Guatemala for the last four years and hummed and hawed about whether or not I should return to Canada for her funeral. I had said goodbye to her when I left Canada.

    Somewhat reluctantly, I made the decision to return, be with my sisters and family, and say my final farewell to mom. And besides, I hadn’t seen most of my family in a long time. I was looking forward to catching up with them.

    That never happened.

    Being Shunned at My Mother’s Funeral

    I arrived in Canada and spent the first few days catching up with friends and two of my sisters. I was looking forward to seeing the rest of my family over the next two weeks. The day of mom’s funeral I knew I would see them all.

    Not the best place for a family reunion, but isn’t that usually the way? Weddings and funerals?

    I walked into the church and greeted a few people. Then my eldest sister walked in and brushed right past me, uttering a very brief and cold “oh, hello” as she continued to walk away. That’s odd, I thought. We’ve always been pretty close.

    Then another family member walked by without even a word. Hmmm. And then another one. I was numb. What was going on?

    We all congregated in the church for mom’s service, and the whole time I was confused and saddened by the fact that my family was shunning me. Why was this happening? Especially on this day?

    The Final Straw

    After the ceremony, we all headed to the basement of the church for fellowship. There, even more family members ignored me. I’d say hi, and they’d turn and walk away, leaving me standing with my heart broken and my jaw on the floor.

    I still didn’t know why I was being treated like this, though I had my suspicions—that someone had read a blog. And sure enough, two days later, I found out.

    My family members wanted to strangle me. They were disgusted with me. I embarrassed the family. I was a disgrace.

    This is How We Heal

    I spoke to no one after that aside from one sister. She understood.

    I found my voice and lost my family. I learned how to use my voice to help others heal, but not everyone understands this or is ready to heal. Keeping family secrets is sometimes more important.

    I long to have them back. But I realized this is also part of my healing, since it’s led me to release things and people that no longer serve me or my higher good.

    It breaks my heart into a million pieces to know that my family will choose losing a relative over healing. It frustrates me to think that people would rather stay broken, tormented, and in silence than repair what needs to be fixed.

    But I know I’ll never make them understand any of this, or grasp the concept that anger is toxic, negativity is poison, and only in love and forgiveness can we heal what hurts and move beyond the past.

    What’s Your Story?

    Too many of us keep our stories buried deep inside, afraid to share them with the world. Afraid of upsetting the apple cart. Embarrassing our families. We keep the trauma and the pain to ourselves, hiding behind secrets and drowning in shame.

    I did that for years, but when I finally released the truth I was set free.

    What’s your story? What family secrets and lies are you keeping buried deep inside that are tormenting your soul? It’s in talking about them and sharing our stories that we can heal from the pain.

    It is also in sharing our stories of pain and recovery that we can help others find healing and freedom too. Generational curses can end when we speak up and speak out.

    Always remember, the truth will set you free.

    My Final Goodbye

    My time with my family has come to an end. They are no longer part of my life (aside from a few). My heart is broken and I know without a doubt, this healing will take a bit longer, but it’s necessary.

    I know how hard it is to forgive. I also know that some people will never choose forgiveness and would much rather live with anger and hate.

    My wish and sincere hope is that one day, they will see that forgiveness will set them free.

  • Forgiving Abusive Parents and Setting Ourselves Free

    Forgiving Abusive Parents and Setting Ourselves Free

    TRIGGER WARNING: This post deals with an account of physical abuse and may be triggering to some people. 

    “Forgiveness is not always easy. At times, it feels more painful than the wound we suffered, to forgive the one that inflicted it. And yet, there is no peace without forgiveness.” ~Marianne Williamson

    Growing up in the seventies and eighties with Italian immigrant parents definitely had its challenges. In a family of four girls, I was number three. That in itself was tough enough. Never as good as the first-born and not as loved and protected as the baby. Yes, it was challenging.

    On the outside, one would think that we were a picture perfect family. Our lives were as normal as normal could be.

    Both parents worked. We had a beautiful house in a nice, quiet neighborhood. We all went to good Catholic schools. Had fun family vacations in the summer. Our parents entertained a lot, so there was always a bustling of activity at the house. Picture perfect, indeed.

    Unfortunately, Mom and Dad lacked parenting skills. Sure, they provided food, shelter, and the necessities of life. Compassion, encouragement, and love? Not so much.

    Behind Closed Doors

    My mom was cold and mean to Dad, and often to us. My dad was cold and mean only to daughter number two and me. I never liked my dad. He didn’t get us. He was always angry with us. I’m pretty sure he didn’t even like me.

    And so began the misery.

    The beatings started when I was ten and continued until I finally fled at eighteen years old.

    I ran away several times throughout that period, always returning simply because, as bad as the beatings were, I had a nice roof over my head, food in the fridge and great meals, a nice bedroom, nice clothes, and all kinds of other luxuries.

    So in exchange for all these lovely things, I took the abuse.

    I never knew when I was going to get beaten either, which was the worst part for me. It wasn’t always like I knew I did something wrong, though I’ll admit, I wasn’t an angel.

    More often than not though, it was more like, if sister number two did something wrong and she wasn’t around to get beaten, they took it out on me. I was always on my toes. I never knew.

    There were many nights I would be in bed sleeping. Dad would come home late from work, bust through my bedroom door, tear off the blankets, and whip me til he thought I had learned my lesson. The problem was, I rarely knew which lesson I was supposed to have learned.

    I can recall one incident when my parents had company over for dinner, a lovely elderly couple, a minister and his wife. I loved them so much. They were the sweetest people you could ever meet.

    I came home from a friend’s house, Mom and Dad and John and Sally (not their real names) were sitting in the living room having coffee. I came running in, so very happy to see them, and Dad had that look on his face.

    I froze. Omg, you’re kidding me, right? He’s seriously not going to do this right here, right now, in front of these people, is he? Yup. He sure is. And he whipped me right there. He had an audience and no one stopped him. They just sat and watched. And once again, I had no idea what I had done.

    I hated my father and lived in fear of him throughout my teen years.  Constant fear of never knowing when the next beating was going to be.

    Forgive and Forget?

    As I grew older, I tried to have more of an appreciation for him, but failed.

    I tried to gain his respect and love as I grew into a beautiful, somewhat successful woman. That didn’t work much either. I gave him a grandson that carried the family name. That seemed to work a little. He respected me a little more then and actually even supported me more. Finally something.

    I spent most of my adult years trying to forgive him, like him, maybe even love him a little. The forgiving finally came. Liking and loving, not so much.

    It was clear in my thirties, forties, and into my fifties that I simply did not like my father. Not one bit. Because of that, I lived daily with this monkey on my back. This thorn in my side. Guilt in my soul.

    It ate away at me constantly. Why can’t I just let this go? Who knew that forgetting wasn’t going to be as easy as forgiving? I always thought that once you forgave something, you just naturally forgot about it. Nope. It was clear to me it just didn’t work like that. Not for me anyway.

    Step Up to The Plate

    Years later, Alzheimer’s had struck Mom and it was time to place her in a nursing home. Dad was eighty-four and home alone. This meant only one thing to me. It was my turn to look after dad.

    Daughter number one and I had a schedule worked out. She was retired; I worked full time, so my *duty days* with dad were limited to two to three days a week. That’s not so bad, right? Wrong! It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I cringed every single time I pulled into the driveway.

    My job was to sit and have dinner with him and keep him company for an hour or two. I had nothing to say to him, ever. I could barely even look at him. I had no patience for him, and the only thing I felt was pity.

    He was a pitiful old man, sitting alone in a house waiting for people to come visit him, and all I could think was, “Good for you! You deserve this, you miserable old man.”

    I know, shame on me.

    Two years later, we finally placed him in a nursing home. My visits were few and far between. I was overcome with guilt. I should be visiting him more often, right? He’s coming into his last years now and all he wants is love and company.

    I just couldn’t do it. There was nothing left in me.

    I went about once a month, maybe every two months. Still cringing. My only thought was “Geezus, when is this old man going to die?”

    Pretty sad, eh? Here was the man that gave me shelter, food, clothes, money when I was broke, took me on nice family vacations every summer, and all I wanted was for him to get out of my life.

    Fake It Till You Make It

    I struggled with these emotions for a long time. How is it that I, Iva, the sunshine happy girl that sprinkles pixie love dust everywhere, could possibly be having and thinking these horrible thoughts?

    It took some time but I finally learned to rewire my brain. Think new thoughts. “Fake it til you make it if you have to” I kept telling myself.

    I realized it wasn’t going to kill me to show him some love. Some compassion. Show him something for goodness sake, Iva! So I did.

    I hugged him when I went to visit him and said, “I love you daddy” when I left. Maybe it was a lie, but he didn’t know that. That’s all he needed to hear. Someone to tell him they loved him. In his last lonely moments of his life, dad just needed love. And I gave it to him.

    I dug deep down as far as I could and gave him the love he longed for all his life. It meant little to me but everything to him. That’s all that mattered.

    Understand and Set Yourself Free

    When Dad died at eighty-eight years old, I cried tears of relief and closure. But it wasn’t his death that set me free—it was the choice to forgive and treat him with more kindness than he offered me. I knew then the pain hadn’t scarred me for life; I had taken that pain and turned it into strength and wisdom.

    I forgave him because I could finally see he raised me the only way he knew how. That’s all he knew—it was how he was raised—and I felt sad for him.

    Did it make it okay? No. Understanding doesn’t mean we condone it when someone hurts us. It means we understand. And understanding and compassion are the keys to forgiveness.

  • 5 Life-Changing Lessons You’re Never Too Old to Learn

    5 Life-Changing Lessons You’re Never Too Old to Learn

    Older Hikers

    “Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.” ~Confucius

    My son was only a year and a half old when I left his father and began my journey as a single parent. I never in a million years thought I would be raising my child alone. But away I went, with no clue as to what I was doing. I figured I’d learn as I went.

    I knew I wasn’t going to be one of those moms that are too strict, too overbearing, and too controlling. I wanted my child to grow up with some freedom, some direction, but most importantly, some values.

    It was imperative that he treated everyone equally, including people begging on the street for change, and that he not be afraid to try new things.

    I have always had a “throw caution to the wind” kind of attitude (with a touch of fear), and as my son got older, I realized he was adopting it. Yes! Success!

    I wanted him to experience the good, the bad, and the ugly, and to learn from them. I wanted him to live and let live.

    As he grew into his teen and young adult years, I started getting a little more concerned. He was taking too many chances and doing things that scared me.

    Like that time he went to Florida with a group of friends and decided he wanted to go somewhere without them. Off he went, alone, hitchhiking. Yes, Mom was horrified.

    Then there was the time he and a friend drove to Boston to attend a music festival, got lost somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and ended up in some tiny village that probably would have been a good setting for a Stephen King movie. Yup, horrified again.

    “Mom, relax,” he would tell me, followed by “Wasn’t it you that told me to try new things?” Darn. It was me. The trouble was, he actually listened. I didn’t really mean it. Did I?

    I sometimes worked two jobs to make ends meet. Julian saw, appreciated, and totally respected that.

    He never wanted for anything, but he also never took it for granted. Unfortunately, he grew up in somewhat of a poor household. We struggled, but we were happy. Anything I couldn’t give him, he was fortunate enough to get from his grandparents.

    Once he was on his own, he worked hard, made lots of money, and hoarded it because he was scared of being poor again. He held on to it for dear life and wouldn’t let go.

    Until something happened.

    He got let go from his job and ironically enough, he couldn’t have cared less. Armed with more savings than a twenty-six year old should legally have, away he went on his worldly adventures. My anxiety kicked into overdrive.

    Over the last two years, Julian has lived the life most people only dream of. Along the way, he’s taught me a few invaluable lessons. I hope they enlighten you as they did me.

    1. Stuff is just stuff.

    This one was an eye opener for me. The things we hold onto, the things we buy, what’s it all for? I need a bigger TV. I think I need more clothes. I definitely have to have that chair. So much stuff. Do we really need it?

    In the event you ever decide to pack up and run away, what are you gonna do with all that stuff?

    I’ve downsized, and I’m ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, because Julian showed me that the less you have, the happier you will be.

    When he packed up his backpack to travel through Asia, he didn’t have to stress about what to do with his things because he had so little. He’s only ever had the bare necessities, and he’s always been happy.

    The simpler I live, the less stuff I have, the easier life is. I can honestly say I truly have everything I need. He’s right. Stuff is just stuff.

    2. People are people no matter where you go.

    How often do you wonder if the people in the Bahamas have a better life, or if the people in New York are more stressed, or maybe the people in Los Angeles really are richer? Who cares?

    As Julian learned in his travels, no matter where you go, everyone has the same problems. Work, life, kids, bills, sickness, poverty.

    We’re all people and we all have stories. We are all on this planet with the same goals. We all live, breathe, laugh, play, cry, and die. Be kind to each other. Treat everyone the same—with respect and compassion—no matter where you are. We are all in this together.

    3. The world is big and beautiful. Go see it.

    Julian posts the most amazing photos on Facebook and Instagram, and I look at them in awe. I can’t believe my son has seen these absolutely breathtaking places.

    His message to me is always the same: “Get out of that dump of a town you live in and go see places!”

    Not everyone has a huge savings to use for travels around the world, and many of us can’t up and leave our lives for years, but we can venture out beyond the world we know, whether that means visiting a new city, a new state, or a new country.

    As Julian says, if you want it bad enough, you’ll figure out a way to do it. He’s right. And I will.

    4. Things don’t need to be so complicated.

    I’m guilty of making mountains out of molehills. Things that really annoy me, anger me, scare me, and just freak me out usually end up being easily managed anyway. Things are rarely as bad as we make them out to be.

    Julian always tells me, “Relax, Mom. Just relax. Life is awesome.”

    I know it’s easy to say this when you’re young, not tied to anything, and you’re having the time of your life. But life truly is a lot easier and more enjoyable when you relax, keep your eye on the big picture, and focus on the good things instead of stressing out about everything that seems bad.

    5. Life is short. Be brave and take chances.

    Get out of your box and go do things. Many things. Adventurous things, scary things, fun things, not so fun things (because you won’t know that they aren’t fun until you try them).

    Seriously, get out of your comfort zone. There is a plethora of adventures awaiting you. Julian tackled deep sea diving and said it was the most beautiful thing he has ever done. That’s what I’m talking about.

    —

    At fifty-two years young I am now taking the advice of a twenty-seven year old. I’m more relaxed, I’m planning adventures, I’m finding ways where before there was just excuses, I’m minimalizing, and I have a new love for life.

    Deep sea diving? Maybe not, but I’m not opposed to zip lining.

    Seniors hiking image via Shutterstock

  • Finding Joy in Your Car and Kicking Road Rage to the Curb

    Finding Joy in Your Car and Kicking Road Rage to the Curb

    Road Rage

    “Sometimes it’s the smallest decisions that can change your life forever.” ~Keri Russell

    I’m a positive, happy kind of girl. I smile a lot and try to make people smile wherever I go.

    But I have a confession I have to make: I used to have crazy road rage. I turned into the spawn of Satan as soon as I got behind the wheel of my car. I can’t explain it. I don’t know why it happened. It just did.

    I didn’t go crazy and tailgate or rest on my horn or even flip the bird to other drivers. Nope, not like that. I yelled and screamed, mostly obscenities, and called other drivers horrible names. (Even spiritual, happy people drop *F* bombs from time to time—don’t judge.)

    I’m embarrassed to admit to this. I’m going to go out on a limb here, though, and assume that I wasn’t the only one in the world with this problem. I’m just one of the few that will confess to it. Nonetheless, I was one red light short of needing blood pressure medication.

    This was me: Get in the car. I’m in a hurry (as usual), quite possibly going to be late, again. I’m freaking out because the traffic is bad. I hit every red light, there are slow drivers in the fast lane, and “Ah man, is that a train?”

    I’m checking the dashboard clock like a maniac, thinking that it just may, in some magical way, stop ticking. It doesn’t, and I look at it every minute and thirty-five seconds.

    And this was my day, every day. Rush rush rush, check clock, late again, stress out, freak out, check clock. Everyone on the road is pissing me off and driving me absolutely crazy! Check clock again. Yup, I’m gonna be soooo late! F%#@!!

    In Comes Joy

    A few months ago I got in my car and discovered this little sticker on the floor on the passenger side that had fallen off of a project I was working on. It was a teeny-tiny sticker. Not quite an inch wide, a quarter of an inch high.

    It said one word: joy. Aw, how cute. My first instinct was to toss it. What am I going to do with it now anyway? The project is done.

    But for some reason, I couldn’t do it. Something inside me told me to do something with this little sticker. Anything! Just don’t toss it! I looked around the car. I could have placed it in the glove compartment for now. Maybe even put it in the cup holder (though I know how that would have ended).

    Boom! There it was. Practically right in front of my face. My nemesis: that darn clock. I was absolutely astonished that the size of the sticker was exactly the same size as my clock. I kid you not! Without much thought, I placed the joy sticker on the clock.

    And everything changed.

    I started my car and drove off. Within one minute I automatically looked at the sticker. At one point, this would have started the race to see how long it would take to feel so stressed I’d want a margarita to calm me down.

    But there was no time. Not this time. Not ever again. Only a powerful message: joy. And something wonderful happened. I giggled.

    And I felt it, slowly, leaving me. The evil that lurked inside of me that was once called road rage was slowly seeping out. This crazy, little, fun joy sticker was transforming me.

    I checked my clock seventy-eight more times during my drive only to see the word “joy.” The first sixteen times I continued to giggle. Now I just smile. Each and every time, I smile. I actually feel joy!

    It wasn’t until I did this that I realized some very important things.

    • Continually checking my clock while I’m driving to work or appointments is not going to ensure that I arrive on time.
    • It’s going to completely stress me out.
    • And it’s going to make me drive like a lunatic.

    The stress I was putting myself under while driving was ridiculous, senseless, and needless. I’ll get there when I get there and not a minute before! Period.

    And when I finally do get there, I’ll be happy and smiling and relaxed. Yes, yes I will.

    Your Turn (and Please Signal!)

    Sometimes the tiniest things can have the biggest impact. This sticker story is proof. Luckily for me, my sticker was the same size as my clock (though to this day, I’m still truly baffled by that).

    I’ve shared this story with many of my friends. They’ve tried this experiment and are amazed at the results.

    I know you can do this too. Use your imagination. Create your own. Stick it to the clock and have a happy day.

    Road rage image via Shutterstock