Dear Peter:

“The pull between detachment and engagement, between Yes and No to Life as it is. (common theme to my posts)… How do we remain present in the fire that is Life without being consumed?… Not seeking to silence the tension, but to let it sing through us.”-

These words struck something deep in me. They made me wonder:

How do we stay present with emotion—without clinging to it, numbing ourselves, or rushing to fix it? How do we let difficult feelings sing through us… instead of scream “Danger! Danger!” at every turn?

My earliest memory of fear came when I was five or six. It was the middle of the night, and I heard my mother scream at my father that she was going to kill herself. Then she left—into the dark. I believed her. I didn’t yet have the tools to understand whether it was a threat or a certainty.

What was objectively dangerous was the possibility of her death. But the fear of that danger became my constant companion. That fear grew too big to hold, too loud to hear clearly, so I did what many do—I tried to detach from it, numb it, or fix it. And I carried that habit with me for decades.

What I’m trying to say is: for some of us, especially when we’re young and vulnerable, emotion itself—especially fear—becomes what we fear. It becomes the danger. When it starts too early and lasts too long, we internalize that fear as something unbearable. And we spend our lives trying to outrun it.

Your words made me wonder whether you’ve ever written anything on July 2nd (I have a thing for numbers). I found a post from July 3, 2018:

“I was very shy and fearful growing up.”-

Like me, you were a fearful child. And from what I’ve lived, we don’t simply outgrow fear—we learn to dress it differently. Sometimes in intellectual clothing. Sometimes in silence.

Also, while scrolling through your posts, I noticed you’re a couple years younger than me 🙂

Back to that same post, you wrote: “The anxiety we feel is of our own making and all of it based on illusion.”-

I understand the illusion piece. But sometimes, the origin of anxiety isn’t illusion—especially when it’s rooted in real moments that overwhelmed a young nervous system. The loss of a parent—whether through abandonment, threat, or emotional absence—is biologically coded as dangerous. A child can’t be expected to sort imagined threat from actual danger.

You also wrote back then: “Every moment… every breath every moment a reincarnation.”- That line made me pause. I may not be able to kill the old fear, but maybe I can live beside it. Maybe I can make peace with it.

Your meditative practice offered a structure I want to try—not to silence the fear, but to witness it. Maybe I’ll meditate on it and let it sing rather than scream. I’d love to share what comes up here in your thread, if that’s okay with you. And if not, I completely understand—I’ll find space for it elsewhere.

I wonder, too: have you named your own fear—the one born in your own childhood? Might it help to let that voice be heard?

And before I close: congratulations on doing something new. Sharing a practice like this is a beautiful step forward—not just as a writer, but as someone living through the tension, rather than standing outside it.

Warmly, Anita 🤍

Dear CinCin:

You’re very welcome—and thank you for your kind words.

I really hear what you’re saying about the difference between simply being invited and feeling truly included. It’s not just about the plans—it’s about feeling wanted from the beginning, not added at the last minute. That’s a very real and important difference.

I admire how openly you’ve spoken with your wife, even when the answers aren’t clear. That kind of honesty takes courage. So does continuing to search for understanding instead of burying the pain.

You deserve to feel considered and included—not just invited. I hope this helps affirm that your feelings truly matter.

If it feels okay to ask, I wonder if this experience stirred up something even older—maybe from earlier in life? It’s so common for past hurts to echo through present moments, especially when they involve feeling unseen or left out. That kind of pain has deep roots, and if it ever feels right to explore it, I’d be here with care.

🤍 Anita

Dear Emma:

You are so very welcome—and thank you for your appreciation and kind words. Reading your message truly made my day.

And thank you for continuing to share so openly. Your reflections are filled with honesty and self-awareness—it’s a privilege to witness your process.

From what you’ve described here and in earlier messages, it does sound like you’re noticing patterns that may align with Relationship OCD (ROCD). The persistent doubts about Philip, the urge to explain yourself repeatedly, the difficulty letting go after the breakup, and the mental loops of “what if” and “what does he think of me now”—these are all experiences that many people with ROCD report.

Of course, only a qualified mental health professional can give a diagnosis. But your curiosity about ROCD is valid, and exploring it may help you understand yourself with more compassion. ROCD isn’t about not loving someone—it’s about the mind getting stuck in a loop of doubt, fear, and the need for certainty. And when that’s layered on top of a history with OCD, it makes sense that relationships become a place where those patterns show up.

What I find especially powerful is how you’re beginning to notice the why behind your actions. You weren’t disregarding Philip’s boundaries—you were trying to be understood, to repair, to reconnect. That’s not failure. That’s a deeply human response shaped by fear, longing, and hope.

And your honesty about boundaries—how scary they feel, and how you’re beginning to see their shape—is such an important shift. You’re not just learning about boundaries—you’re starting to feel why they matter: in your body, in your relationships, in your healing. That’s not small. That’s foundational.

I love that you’re putting reminders on your wall. That’s you building a new kind of inner home—one where your needs matter, your voice counts, and your growth is honored.

I wanted to share that I’ve experienced OCD too. I began struggling with it around age six and was diagnosed in my twenties. I no longer fit the diagnosis, so maybe—just maybe—there’s hope for you too.

And I have a sense that we may share something else: an invalidating parent or two. My mother used to counter every thought I had with condemnation. I was always “wrong,” always “missing the point,” never quite right. No wonder that internal voice—hers, really—kept on second-guessing me for so many years. It’s still there sometimes, but softer now. Life is so much simpler and gentler without that constant inner doubter.

I’m here, Emma—always—on this side of the ocean. And I’m so very glad you’re here too.

With warmth and care, Anita