Tag: wisdom
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What I Do Now Instead of Trying to Rescue People
“A leader leads by example whether he intends to or not.” ~Unknown
This past year has been a journey—one that cracked me open in ways I never expected.
It began with life-changing news: I was pregnant with my third child. In August, I welcomed my baby, and as I held that tiny, precious life in my arms, the weight of reality crashed over me. Something had to give. I could not keep moving at the same relentless pace, endlessly pouring myself into others, holding their pain as if it were my own, and giving until there was nothing left. If I continued like this, I would become a shell of myself—a zombie mom, moving through life on vibrate mode, disconnected, exhausted, and lost.
For years, I had been the person everyone leaned on. The healer, the fixer, the one who never said no. As a therapist, it felt natural to care deeply, to hold space, and to offer whatever I had to those in need. I became so adept at giving that I forgot how to hold anything back for myself.
I thought that was love. I thought that was worthiness—being the person who could carry it all. But with another baby on the way, I finally saw the truth: If I didn’t change, I would be consumed. I couldn’t keep running on empty, sacrificing myself at every turn, and still be the mother my children deserved. I couldn’t be lost to burnout and depletion.
So, I made a promise to myself. I would protect my energy. I would honor my own needs. I would stop trying to be a savior.
“I am not a savior; I am a leader.” This became my mantra, my anchor in moments of doubt and old patterns.
It reminded me that my worth wasn’t tied to how much I gave or how many burdens I carried. Real healing wasn’t about sacrificing myself; it was about guiding and empowering others—without losing who I was in the process.
But breaking free of old habits isn’t easy. The reflex to jump in, to rescue, to absorb others’ pain is deeply ingrained. It’s part of who I’ve been for so long that choosing differently feels unnatural, even selfish at times.
Recently, a friend reached out in distress. Every instinct screamed at me to drop everything and save her. That’s what I always did—rush in, fix it, try to make everything better, even if it meant leaving myself drained and overwhelmed.
But this time, I paused. I took a breath. I reminded myself: “I am not a savior.” So, instead of absorbing her crisis, I encouraged her to lean on other supports and tap into her own resources. I stayed present, but I didn’t make myself the solution.
And let me tell you, it was hard. Guilt clawed at me. Doubt whispered that I was abandoning her, that I was failing her. I felt my inner child—the one who learned love was earned through fixing—screaming that I was making a mistake.
There were moments when it felt like I might break. Watching her struggle triggered every fear and insecurity I carried. But then something remarkable happened—she found her way. She leaned on others, drew on her own resilience, and overcame the challenge.
By stepping back, I hadn’t let her down—I had lifted her up. I had given her the space to find her strength, to be her own hero. And in doing so, I had freed myself from carrying a burden that was never truly mine to hold.
The realization left me breathless. By not being the rescuer, I had broken a cycle—a cycle that kept me drained and others dependent. I had shown up in a different way, and it felt terrifyingly unfamiliar but profoundly right.
I felt pride, relief, and a deep, aching grief. I grieved for all the times I had sacrificed myself, believing it was the only way to be worthy. I grieved for the younger me who thought love could only be earned through self-sacrifice. But I also felt hope—hope that I could lead with compassion and strength without losing myself.
This journey isn’t easy. The pull to rescue, to absorb, to fix is always there, whispering that I need to be more, to do more. But I’m learning to listen to a different voice—the one that tells me my needs matter too. That I am worthy of care and boundaries. That I can lead without sacrificing myself.
As I hold my new baby and navigate life with three children, I know there will be times when I slip. Times when I fall back into old patterns, when guilt gnaws at me, and when I feel the weight of everyone else’s needs pressing down. But I’m committed to choosing differently. I refuse to become the zombie mom, lost in everyone else’s expectations and needs. I deserve more. My children deserve more.
When I protect my energy and honor my needs, I become the mother I want to be. I show up with love, patience, and presence. I am not a savior. I am a leader. And when I choose to break these cycles, I give others permission to do the same. I create space for those around me to find their strength. I lead by example—not by sacrificing myself, but by showing what it means to love deeply without losing who you are.
So, I keep going. I choose myself, even when it feels hard. I break old patterns, even when it hurts. Because I deserve to be whole. I deserve to be honored. And those I care for deserve a version of me who leads with strength, compassion, and presence—not a shadow of who I used to be. I am not a savior. I am a leader. And that, for the first time in a long time, feels like more than enough.
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The One Hidden Belief That Was Sabotaging My Business
“If you accept a limiting belief, then it will become a truth for you.” ~Louise Hay
When I first set out to create my business, I poured all my hopes and energy into it working tirelessly, learning, refining, and investing. Since childhood, I knew I wanted to do my own thing. Something that felt meaningful to me. But despite all my best efforts, the success and sense of support and steadiness I longed for always felt out of reach.
I chalked it to timing, or not doing enough, or missing something others had that I couldn’t put my finger on. But all along, what was behind the stuckness was a force I’d never considered—conditioning.
Conditioning is the learned behaviors and beliefs we adopt as children to feel safe, loved, and accepted. These patterns become so ingrained that we don’t realize they follow us into adulthood. But do they ever, shaping how we approach everything, including our ambitions and relationships.
My own deconditioning journey has spanned years and, my goodness, the layers… but one of the densest and most sabotaging was this: I was raised to believe that being misunderstood was unsafe.
My childhood experiences taught me that expressing myself with honesty or assertiveness could come at a mega cost, and I carried this lesson into my life and business (like nobody’s business), without even realizing it.
As I began to share my work with the world, I felt an anxious compulsion to prove myself and my approach exhaustively. I couldn’t shake the picture of a hostile audience judging every word I wrote or spoke, so instead of focusing on how my work could solve a problem for potential clients, I was caught up in an endless loop of over-explaining, justifying, and defending my ideas—before anyone even questioned them.
I wasn’t marketing my work as much as I was making a case in a courtroom of my own projection. It was the worst. It drained my energy, sabotaged my business, and made showing up for it feel like a rerun of a past I thought I’d outgrown.
Seeing this and other aspects of my conditioning for what it was (distinct from me and a coping mechanism from the past) took a lot work. My unique path included estranging from toxic family dynamics, moving from Brooklyn to a very calm corner of Italy, quitting alcohol and cigarettes, and hiring a coach who understood where I came from and where I wanted to go and could go as deep with me as I knew was required.
I don’t believe it’s a fair ask to release aspects of our conditioning (regardless of how limiting they are) when our lives and relationships don’t feel safe, and it took creating safety, cogency, and self-trust to start seeing all at the ways coping had kept me from thriving.
The first step toward breaking free of the anxious over-explaining pattern was noticing how it felt in my body. I’d feel the anxiety rise, and then survival mode would take over whenever I tried to communicate my work with directness.
More than once, my jaw would lock, my head would go fuzzy, and my throat would collapse if too much truth, confidence, or opinion came to the surface.
This wasn’t a personality quirk; it was an echo of the past, manifesting in the present.
Inner child work was the medicine for this—when those feelings welled up and the impulse to shut down or over-explain would come up, I’d picture little me sitting on my lap and I’d hold her through the fear, reminding her that she was feeling the past, not the present. That she wasn’t alone in this and wouldn’t be ever again. And then I’d lean in and say the thing.
As I sat with those feelings, acknowledging them instead of letting them direct my actions, something shifted. I was re-parenting that vulnerable part of me that had once believed it was dangerous to be seen and heard and showing her that we could walk past those fear thresholds together. And so, we have, more and more every day.
Letting go of this need to defend myself, I found both clarity and a sturdier sense of being safe in my own skin than when I only had the conditioning to protect me.
And when it came to my work and business, my focus could center on what truly mattered: serving my clients and making my work clear and accessible, not to the critic within but to people, real people who are looking for change.
The impact was immediate. Communicating with clients became smoother, and even tasks I’d once dreaded—like getting on sales calls—felt natural, grounded, and friendly. It opened the door to a new kind of productivity, one fueled by purpose rather than “headless chicken” survival. Thank heavens. Really.
If you’re finding it difficult to make things happen as you envisioned them, it may not be about working harder or finding the perfect moment. It could be that unseen patterns of conditioning are guiding your actions, just as they were guiding mine.
The beauty of recognizing these patterns is the freedom that opens up.
When you let go of outdated beliefs and create space to move forward from a grounded, present, clear-eyed place, ambitions start to feel within reach because the truth is, they kind of are.
What can feel impossible or out of reach or alignment becomes so much less charged and so much more achievable when we’re no longer fighting these unseen barriers.
It isn’t always easy work, and it requires a commitment to challenge familiar beliefs, reach for support, and sometimes make some big changes. But if you’re willing to face your hidden patterns, you might just find that what you want is far closer than it once seemed.
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Divorce: A Portal to Reclaiming My Authentic Self
“The only journey is the one within.” ~Rainer Maria Rilke
Navigating life after divorce has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but divorce also contained the best gifts I have ever received. My whole world was shaken up and rearranged. The shake-up included a loss of career and becoming a mostly solo parent on top of the divorce.
From the rubble of my old life, I got the chance to build something new, authentic, and fresh. Divorce was a painful portal to powerfully reclaiming myself and my life. Through the rebuilding process, I found strength and clarity in ways I never expected.
Before my divorce, I felt anxious all the time, trapped in a constant cycle of wondering if I could be happier and if the problem was me, him, or us. I stayed in an agonizing limbo of “not bad enough to leave, not good enough to stay” for about five years.
My husband at the time would ask, “Why can’t you just be happy with what you have?” The question hit me like a punch to the gut. Why couldn’t I? I was constantly questioning myself and my worth.
Looking back on it now, I see that was the wrong question. My husband at the time was largely deflecting from the issues I was bringing to him and making it about me being perpetually unhappy as some kind of default. But it was true that I had inner work to do, and it was up to me to figure out what would make me happy.
I tried everything to fix myself and the marriage—therapy, couples counseling, countless self-help books, and coaching. But the sense of loneliness persisted, especially around parenting, community, and spirituality.
The key challenges that made my marriage deeply unsatisfying for me were money, sex, emotional connection, and identity. For the first three we didn’t share the same values and there was constant friction. Underneath all of that misalignment in the relationship, though, was the fact that my identity had been swallowed up.
First in our company, which was his dream, but I worked tirelessly in it, and then in my role as a mom. But who was I, just for myself? That was the better question.
Eventually, what gave me the strength to leave the marriage was simply giving myself permission to want what I wanted based on knowing who I truly was and believing that whatever was best for me was also best for everyone in my life. I believe all the models of self-help and self-care that I tried contributed to this realization.
I had to believe that I could stand on my own, which was terrifying. But as I started taking small steps, each step, even the hardest ones, gave me the energy to keep going. I began to rebuild something real, authentic, and new.
Of course, it’s impossible to distill the five-year-plus journey into easy steps or “hot” tips. But I want to attempt to narrow it down to the six key insights that got me through, in the hopes it can inspire others too.
These are the six steps I took to use divorce as a portal to reclaim my authentic self.
1. I gave myself permission to want what I wanted.
For so long, I didn’t even know what I wanted. It was buried under years of trying to make everything work and thinking about what others wanted. It felt scary and uncomfortable to give myself permission to truly explore my desires, but once I did everything began to shift.
I admitted to myself that I was ambitious in my own right, that I wanted my own business, and I wasn’t satisfied playing the key supporting role in the family business. I uncovered the secret longing I had for an exciting and equal romantic partnership where I felt seen and valued for the insights, fun, and hard work I bring to my relationships.
Letting myself know what I wanted, taking those swirling locked-up longings from deep inside and forming them into solid words to be spoken out loud—that was the first step toward reclaiming my identity.
2. I identified my core values.
I took time to reflect on what truly mattered to me. Somewhere along the way I had merged values with my husband and his family. I needed to re-evaluate which ones were truly mine. This meant questioning everything from how I approached money to what emotional connection meant to me.
My core personal values of wholeheartedness and adventurousness weren’t engrained in my career nor were they present in my day to day. While there was nothing inherently dishonest about my life with my husband, our family wasn’t living in the deepest integrity that I longed for.
When I was able to let go of the values that no longer represented me, there was room to discover my true values, which I had suppressed.
3. I worked through old beliefs that were keeping me stuck.
The old narratives that had kept me stuck in my marriage for so long didn’t go away overnight. It took time to unpack them and let go of the guilt, fear, and limiting beliefs that were holding me back.
Particularly sticky was the belief that I was responsible for everyone’s feelings and coping abilities, even grown adults older than myself. Even after we separated, I felt responsible for how my ex was coping and the things he was choosing to do. But once I started working through these mental roadblocks, many of them newly emerging from my subconscious, I felt a sense of freedom I hadn’t experienced in years.
4. I allowed myself dream big—even when it felt impossible.
At the height of my separation, I was overwhelmed by tough decisions—parenting, finances, and the legal process. It felt ridiculous to even think about my dreams, but doing so gave me momentum. Dreaming big gave me a vision for a brighter future, one where I could live authentically. So my message for you is to allow yourself to dream, even when life feels heavy.
5. I set boundaries—both internal and external.
Learning to set boundaries, especially internal ones, helped me protect my energy and focus on rebuilding my life. Whether it was saying “no” to things that drained me or distancing myself from unhealthy dynamics, boundaries were crucial for me to maintain the new connection I had made with my authentic self. The new connection was tender and needed protection.
6. I took small, empowering actions.
Dreaming big was the most important step, but taking small actions was the only way to really feel like things were possible and manageable. Every little action created a ripple effect, surprising me with how much I could accomplish when I started small.
For example, I wanted to become financially free, a multi-layered goal that would take years, so I started with a one-year goal to read six financial literacy books and make a budget. I committed to the small action of reading for five minutes a day and simply recording current expenses on a spreadsheet. I logged my progress in a daily habit tracker.
For my big dream of finding an equal partner, I knew that I would need to be grounded and confident, so I committed to meditating ten minutes a day. There were other bigger leaps that had to be taken along the way of course, but those small daily habits really changed me. Now I read and meditate easily for hours a day, and I relish the time, but I remember when I first started how hard it felt to do even five minutes.
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It took me years, close to a decade, to reflect on and finally see the steps I took to get to where I am today. I hope it doesn’t take that long for anyone reading this who is navigating divorce. Please use these and apply them to your own situation. I hope they serve as a reminder that even though the journey is hard, there’s immense strength, growth, and rebirth waiting on the other side. Go get it!
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The Most Important Pieces of My Cancer Coping Plan
“Health is the greatest possession. Contentment is the greatest treasure. Confidence is the greatest friend.” ~Lao Tzu
When dealing with a serious health issue or life challenge, we can choose to navigate through it to the light or bury ourselves in its darkness. While it’s not always easy to find the light, it’s a much easier place to survive in and, in the long run, is much healthier. This way of being has helped me on my recent health journeys.
Twice in the past twenty-three years, I have received the news of a breast cancer diagnosis. Both incidences were completely different and unrelated. This is my story, and how looking for the light is so important in the face of adversity.
My first cancer diagnosis was in 2001 when I was forty-seven, received days before the horrific events of 9/11.
DCIS, an early form of breast cancer, was discovered through my annual mammogram. I was given the choice to have a lumpectomy and radiation or a mastectomy and reconstruction. I opted for the latter because I didn’t want to spend subsequent days, months, and years worrying about a possible recurrence. Plus, back then, radiation was more dangerous and not as refined and focused as it is today.
At the time, I was living in a small town in Florida and decided to travel to California for the best doctor to treat this type of cancer. It wasn’t easy being separated from my three children under the age of eighteen. In the end, it was the right choice and eventually led to a subsequent move to California, the place of my dreams. So sometimes going through difficult challenges can lead to better things.
After I had surgery, my husband Simon and I stayed in California for two weeks before returning home to Florida. I slowly got used to my new body’s landscape since my diagnosis and diligently continued to go for my annual mammograms, watching my only breast being squished between those two sheets of glass.
Tears would trickle down my face, triggered by the loss of the breast that fed my three children. During my meditations, I expressed gratitude for my life and remaining breast.
I tried to bring the light into my life whenever possible by engaging in self-care activities. I surrounded myself with loving and thoughtful people and tried to disconnect from those who had less hopeful attitudes.
Five years later, during a routine blood test, I found out that I had multiple myeloma, a rare type of blood cancer affecting the plasma cells. In short, it turns healthy cells into unhealthy ones.
I had no symptoms at the time, but was told that I’d need bloodwork every three months to make sure that the disease did not progress, and that down the road there was a chance I would need to undergo treatment for this incurable type of blood cancer.
The fear of enduring another cancer overcame me, and I researched the best integrative physicians in Los Angeles to help me navigate this new terrain. For eighteen years my myeloma was what was called “smoldering” because I had no symptoms, but my blood test continued to show high protein levels—a sign that the disease was present.
Each day I swallowed handfuls of vitamins to ward off any further disease progression. I met and consulted with the best doctors and researchers at the Mayo Clinic and Cedar Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. I was told that everybody’s case was different, but at one point treatment would be unavoidable.
My second breast cancer diagnosis came in 2024, not long before celebrating my seventieth birthday. I was feeling fine, and it was still a few months before my scheduled annual mammogram when I noticed that my right nipple had inverted.
A mammogram, biopsy, and MRI revealed lobular breast cancer, which is more aggressive than DCIS. I ended up having another mastectomy and reconstruction. Much to my chagrin, I also needed radiation. Thankfully, because my Onco Type DX Score—a score given from 0 to 100 indicating the likelihood of breast cancer returning—was low at only 9, I did not need chemotherapy.
I am not generally a fearful person, although I am prone to depression and holding feelings in. I continued to try to keep clear of those who were living more in the light than in the dark because it triggered feelings of depression. The entire experience triggered reminders of my first breast cancer experience, coupled with increasing fear and sadness.
Once again, I had to get used to my new personal physical landscape of implants taking the place of my real breasts. Much had evolved surgically in the twenty-three years since my last surgery, and the recovery seemed easier.
The radiation, however, took a lot out of me. In addition to shrink-wrapping my newly constructed breast, I encountered sheer exhaustion during the six weeks of radiation five days a week.
Unfortunately, during my hospitalization for this second mastectomy and reconstruction, my hemoglobin dropped significantly. This signaled to my doctors that my myeloma might be becoming active.
They scheduled a bone marrow biopsy and found that 90% of my marrow had cancer cells. This was shocking news. My oncologist had been suggesting treatment to ward off progression, but I declined and said that I would rather wait until I was symptomatic.
He had been very patient with me wanting to do it my way, combining Eastern and Western medicine, mainly because he knew that each case was different, and he honored my intuition about my body. However, he did tell me that there would be a time when he would say that I had no choice but to begin treatment, and unfortunately, it had arrived. He suggested I heal from my surgery before beginning.
The hemoglobin drop made me feel very uncharacteristically tired. I had been an active person, hiking and working out with a trainer, so having no energy was very difficult for me, plus being active is also a way to fend off depression.
I’d always been an advocate of listening to my body, and now I felt that my body was telling me that it was time for treatment that involved weekly injections at the hospital and taking a handful of medications at home to fend off any side effects.
I never really understood the concept of “chemo brain” until now, but I truly feel I cannot think clearly. It challenges my lifelong passion for writing and creating.
I’ve decided to continue to listen to my body—to rest when it asks to rest and move when it’s time to move.
During the course of my three cancers, I went from being mad at my body for putting me through all of this to respecting the temple that has kept me alive. I’ve accepted that I cannot be as productive, and that spending a day with one or all of my six grandchildren was more healing than writing any article or a book.
All in all, my healing had many layers—emotional, psychological, and physical. Compounding that with the fact that I was to live with an incurable cancer that would probably need treatment for the rest of my life, I was left feeling quite depressed.
I decided I could not manage alone without the assistance of an antidepressant, which would just keep my head above water. I wanted to thrive and just needed that little bit of support.
I maintained my sanity by deferring to self-care modalities, many of which I used in my younger years and during challenging times in my life, such as writing, meditation, listening to music, exercising, and connecting with friends.
There’s one song that inspired my way of being, and that was Gloria Gaynor’s song, “I Will Survive.” The lyrics became my mantra.
Cancer survivors can wear many faces. We might have a public face, and we might have a private face. True healing and recovery depend on the support of loved ones and trusted medical professionals.
My physicians were very caring and kind, and I’ll never forget the words of my first oncologist when he gave me my diagnosis: “If this experience doesn’t rivet you, nothing will. You’ll never look at life in the same way.” He was right.
My oncologist’s words continue to echo in my mind. From a physical standpoint, I can acknowledge and accept that my body will never look and feel the same. My daily glances in the mirror are a constant reminder of my journey. In spite of looking a little better when I’m dressed, when I’m unclothed, there’s no escaping the fact that I’ve had breast cancer—I have the scars to prove it.
I can hide under my clothing, my covers, or in my closet, but in the shower and during lovemaking, I cannot hide, so I’ve taught myself to accept my newly transformed body.
People say that scars give us character, and I’ve worked hard to convince myself of this supposed truth. I tell myself that the scars don’t really matter because the important thing is that I’ve survived, even though the moment I heard my doctor’s words, all I wanted to do was hide.
As survivors, we go through many mood changes, but in the end, I believe in the old adage, “From all bad comes good.” I’m cognizant of the importance of being mindful of life’s priorities.
As mentioned earlier, I’ve come to realize that my writing grounds me, makes me happy, and helps me survive. I also know that I need to surround myself with people who make me feel good about myself and who provide healing energy.
I suppose this is what intuitively happens when you come face-to-face with your own mortality—you try not to allow people into your life who drain you of the vital life force that is essential for your own healing. For me, doing so made me feel that I was shoring up my spirit’s natural defense mechanisms.
I’d always been a productive person, and my first cancer diagnosis brought with it a new sense of urgency to continue my writing practice and to share my words and passions with the universe.
While working on my latest memoir, I made a point of trying to relax and remind myself not to overdo it. I made sure to meditate and work out every day and get a massage and/or acupuncture when I was able to fit these forms of healing into my schedule.
I decided to express gratitude for my life and all the things I’d taken for granted, such as my family, friends, home, and the time I was able to spend in nature. Given my lifelong commitment to the care of others (I was trained as a registered nurse), I decided to turn that compassion inward and indulge in more self-care. For years I’d put everyone else’s needs first, so it felt good to offer gratitude and kindness to myself.
Of course, when we’re diagnosed with something like cancer, the possibility of a recurrence is always in the back of our minds—but we have no way to predict the future, so we can only do our best and be compassionate with ourselves and others.
I have repeatedly told myself that cancer was no longer welcome in my life. I realized that I would thrive as long as I continued to love and, like what psychic Sonia Choquette says, “When you name it, you claim it.” And I am naming to be in the light. That’s my choice.
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Lessons from Death and Awakening to an Authentic Life
“Life doesn’t owe us anything. We only owe ourselves, to make the most of the life we are living, of the time we have left, and to live in gratitude.” ~Bronnie Ware
Today, I’d like to tell a story about death.
It’s a word that tends to shift the energy in a room, isn’t it? People tense up, lean back, or grow silent. Death is often seen as morbid, something to avoid or fear. But I’ve come to see it differently. The more we speak about death with openness and reverence, the less heavy and frightening it feels.
My earliest experiences of death were when my grandparents passed away. I remember the moment my parents told us about one of my grandfather’s deaths. The atmosphere was so tense, so thick with unspoken grief. I was five or six and wanted to laugh. It wasn’t disrespect or indifference—I now realize it was my body’s way of releasing the unbearable tension in the room.
But the most profound experience of death came when my mother passed away. I was twenty-six. Almost twenty years ago. She had cancer.
I spent long, quiet days with her in that stark, clinical hospital room. I vividly remember the stairs—climbing them one at a time, deliberately slow, as if dragging my feet might delay the inevitable. Each step felt heavy, as though I could somehow resist the truth waiting on that floor.
I remember not knowing what to say or do, especially as she told me, “It’s hard.”
I think she held back her tears for my sake, just as I held back mine for hers.
Part of us denied the truth. Part of us clung to hope. And part of us knew the inevitable was coming.
Looking back, I wish we had cried together. I wish we had allowed ourselves to fully feel the grief, the sadness, the heaviness of it all. Instead, we put on brave faces, trying to protect each other. But what were we protecting? We were both struggling.
If I knew then what I know now, I would have approached her final days differently. I would have offered her a soft space to breathe, to release, to let go of the grasping. I would have guided her into that transition with love, reminding her she was returning to the beautiful energy of the universe, back to the souls she loved.
I would have told her I loved her. Many times over those last few weeks together.
I carried the weight of guilt for years, particularly over not being with her in the exact moment she passed. She transitioned in the middle of the night while my sister and I were sleeping at home.
But now, I choose to believe she wasn’t alone. Perhaps she was supported by the unseen forces in the soul field, her guides, and her loved ones on the other side. No one knows what happens after we die, but I find this thought comforting.
I’ve come to believe we need to talk about death—not to dwell on it but to embrace its truth. Death is part of life. It’s a cycle—a beginning, a middle, and an end.
When I returned to Florida after her passing, I was in shock. Everything felt different, small compared to the immensity of what I had just experienced. Parties and drinking no longer appealed to me. My relationship felt empty, and I couldn’t even remember why I was in it. My job felt meaningless.
Death had brought to my attention a way deeper understanding of impermanence, driving a quiet urgency to reevaluate my life. Not a frantic urgency but a deep realization that life is short. Life is precious. That realization was life-affirming.
Each breath matters. Each moment matters. It made me ask:
- Where am I spending my energy?
- With whom?
- What am I serving?
- What am I contributing to this world?
This questioning was the beginning of my expansion. It wasn’t linear—there were steps forward and plenty backward—but it set me on a path toward alignment with my evolving truth.
I believe we must live with an awareness of death. Not just intellectually but deeply, in our bones. When we truly embody the knowledge that we will die—perhaps even today—it reshapes how we live.
Buddhist teachings encourage meditating on death, imagining one’s own passing. It’s not morbid; it’s clarifying. If you knew you might die today, how would you live?
In The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, Bronnie Ware shares wisdom from her years as a palliative care nurse. These are the most common regrets she heard:
1. “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”
2. “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.”
3. “I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.”
4. “I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.”
5. “I wish I had let myself be happier.”
These resonate deeply with me. When my mother passed, I unknowingly began a journey to align my life with these truths. I’ll admit I’m still working on the five of them. Life has a way of distracting us from what matters most.
But this is my reminder to myself—and to you—as we near the end of the year:
Slow down. Take a step back. Reflect on how far you’ve come and where you want to go next.
My wish for you is to reflect on this. Let the thought of your mortality infuse your life with intention—not pressure, but clarity. Maybe you’ll realize that what matters most is spending time with loved ones. Maybe it’s pursuing a dream, letting go of a grudge, or simply savoring the gift of being alive.
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I Might Fail, but Time Won’t Just Pass Me By
“It’s not about time, it’s about choices. How are you spending your choices?” ~Beverly Adamo
You hit a point in life after which choices seem to become less and less reversible. As if they were engraved in stone.
No matter how many motivational posts about following your own timeline and going at your own pace cross your Instagram wall.
No matter how much you try to convince yourself that it’s never too late to start a new career, move into a new house, or find the right person. It’s not that you don’t believe it—it just does not work for you. It’s okay for other people to follow their dreams and dance to their own rhythm. But not for you.
You feel like you’re in school again, falling behind.
The more you tell yourself that you don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations, the more you realize the only person you’re afraid to disappoint is the one looking back at you in the mirror.
I used to listen to this song that goes,
I wake up in the middle of night
It’s like I can feel time moving
And I did. I did wake up at 3:00 a.m., haunted by question marks.
And to think that I was doing everything right! I had graduated, moved in with my boyfriend, and started working as a teacher. I had a spotless resume.
Still, I was obsessed with the idea of time moving. Of time unstoppably reaching the point after which I simply would’ve had no choice but to stop seeing my situation as temporary and resign to the fact that no greater idea had come to my mind—and that I was stuck with that.
With my daily life in the classroom.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those people who ended up teaching because they couldn’t get a better job. On the contrary, teaching has always been my passion. It still is.
The classroom, on the other hand…
There was not a single day in my four years as a teacher during which I really thought this could be a good fit for me in the long run. Not once.
There were bad days, good days. “Easy” classes, tough classes. Small victories, daily failures. Parents who wanted to sue me and students who wanted me to adopt them—one of those end-of-the-school-year letters still hangs on my fridge. But each and every one of those days, I knew I wanted this to be temporary.
I didn’t want to stay in the classroom forever.
It’s hard to pin it down. All I wanted to do was to be myself and teach something I love. But, as a teacher, you and your students don’t exist in a bubble. You’re very much intertwined with the complicated, emotionally loaded context of the classroom. So, you’re forced to impersonate the role of the Teacher.
Unlike me, the Teacher was able to come to terms with the pressing matter of relevance. I knew that most of the curriculum I had to teach, and the way in which I had to teach it, was so far removed from the reality of my students that no amount of interactive lesson plans and student-centered methodologies could help me get the point across.
As the Teacher, I was supposed to feel comfortable in the role, to identify myself with it rather than question it every step of the way. I just didn’t feel at ease. As a facilitator, as a guide, as a tutor, I’d always felt whole—not as a teacher. As much as I admired and respected those who did, I couldn’t do the same.
I really, really did everything I could to solve my issues.
I tried to fake it ‘til I made it. I read all the books. Attended all the courses. Shared my thoughts.
Every time I told someone how I felt, they would reply with all the right things.
That it’s just the first few years, until you get used to it, and I’m sure it is true—for me.
That you’re actually really doing something for the kids, that you’re making a difference—and I don’t doubt that teachers do make a difference. Just not me.
That you need to come to terms with the fact that, no matter what your job is, it is not supposed to be fun or fulfilling. But, as whiny as it might sound, that’s what I needed it to be.
Maybe not perfect, maybe not idyllic, but please, please, please not meaningless.
And then the intruding thought: “What, ‘cause you’re special? ‘Cause you’re too good to just get by, day in and day out, like everyone does?”
I’ve always worried about being difficult, and I really wanted it to work, so that sensation of having to crawl into someone else’s skin every day when I got into the classroom—I just tried to push it aside. To swallow it down and get myself together.
Still, it was there, and the only way to stop it was to think that it could be temporary after all.
Just until you find a better job.
Just until you come up with something else.
Just until you find out what the hell is wrong with you.
The only thing that managed to distract me was studying. I would come home and study, trying to keep my mind alive, trying to keep it dreaming, trying to keep it learning.
I invested time and money, draining all my energies. I was constantly tired from the effort of basically being a full-time student on top of a full-time job. Luckily, I had the support of my boyfriend—later, husband—who had no idea what it all would amount to but could see that I needed it.
It’s not like I had a project, though. I ached for meaning. I needed to learn something that felt real to me.
That’s how I started to dig into languages. Here was something that felt relevant, immediate. You could learn it and use it straight away. You could communicate—something I just wasn’t able to do in my classroom teaching.
I passed exams. I passed more exams. I kept piling up certificates and prayed that one day it would all start to sort of look like a plan. Before it was too late, before I had to admit to just being an overachieving, overqualified teacher.
I knew the danger—some people, when they’re unhappy, just give up and become passive. Others, like me, do the opposite. They keep spinning their wheels because, as long as you’re busy, you don’t have to face the reality of how you feel.
That’s what hit me every time I woke up at three am. How much time did I still have to change tracks? How long before it was too late for me?
It’s like I can feel time moving…
I wish I could tell you that I finally found my way and that this is a story of success. The truth is, I don’t know if it will ever be.
Last Christmas I suddenly realized my personal hourglass had run out of sand. I just knew that if I set foot again in the classroom in September, it would no longer be temporary. I felt this was my last chance to try and do something different before giving up for good.
I stopped waiting for the universe to reveal its mysterious plans and took my fate into my own hands. Teaching outside the classroom was something I had always vaguely dreamed of doing but never dared to.
What if I’m not good enough?
What if I don’t earn enough?
What if it feels even worse than in the classroom—and would that mean that the problem was really just me all along, no matter what I do and where I do it?
What if I messed up my plan B, too? What then?
I just finally said, “To hell with it.” There must be a bit of truth in all those Instagram motivational posts, right?
As of now, I am trying to build a career as a tutor and language teacher for adults, and I have no idea if I am going to make it.
I closed my eyes and jumped right in, expecting the water to be icy cold, but it wasn’t. I braced myself for the anxiety this new uncertainty would bring with it, just to find that I actually feel at peace.
There are plans to make, problems to solve, no financial stability, and no guarantee of success—something my perfectionist self can hardly manage. And still, it feels far less daunting and menacing than time slowly gnawing at me.
I wish I could tell you that this story has a moral.
That you should stop listening to good advice and common sense and just follow your gut, and that you may be surprised by how much unexpected support you receive or how little you need.
That you shouldn’t try so hard to be something you’re not.
That there are many ways to find meaning, and no one can tell you how to do it for yourself.
That sometimes giving up takes more courage than sticking with something that doesn’t fulfill you.
But, to tell the truth, I don’t feel like it was brave of me to change paths. It wasn’t about choosing the easiest or the hardest thing—it was about choosing the honest thing.
I wish I could tell you I no longer wake up in the middle of the night, but the truth is, I do, because I’m so caught up in this new adventure that I really can’t stop jotting down ideas and looking for job opportunities.
I know I don’t have to prove myself to anyone, and I also know that I can’t help but feel like I should, and that’s okay too.
I know I might fail, and I’m not so bold as to plainly say I don’t care if I do. I actually do care, a lot.
But one thing’s for sure—I no longer live in the fear of time passing me by.
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How to Ease Anxiety and PTSD: 3 Somatic Exercises to Try
“The body knows how to heal. It just needs the proper conditions.” ~Peter Levine
After ten major reconstructive hip surgeries and almost six cumulative years in a full body cast, I emerged from childhood into my teenage years. My start in life was quite different from those around me. My body would never be like everyone else’s, and I was living in the aftermath of trauma.
I not only had a slew of trauma symptoms but was also deeply wrestling with my identity and had massive amounts of shame, depression, and social anxiety. As you can imagine, I had a hard time fitting in and connecting with others. Feeling comfortable in my own skin was something I never knew.
The discomfort I felt was unbearable, and I knew the only way to feel better in life was to try to figure out how to heal and get to the other side. I held on strongly to the belief that healing was possible, so naturally I started with talk therapy.
Therapy is great, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t providing the relief I was searching for. I quickly realized that talking about my experiences helped to broaden and balance my perspective on things, but it wasn’t changing how I felt in my day-to-day life. So I went on a journey exploring and studying many forms of healing. I delved into energy healing, breathwork, art therapy, tantra, and Yamuna body rolling and finally found somatic experiencing.
With much trial and error, I found my way. Some things worked and others didn’t. I learned that there isn’t a ‘one size fits all’ when it comes to healing.
Anxiety and PTSD symptoms are never fun, and they show up in very specific and different ways for each person. I’ve learned that anxiety is energy that is deeply held in the body, and the way most people try and manage it is to brace their body to try and stop it from happening. This pushes it deeper into the body.
It’s important to slowly allow this energy to move. To do so, we need to soften the body and open the energy channels.
I have found these three somatic tools to be quite effective. Maybe they will be for you as well.
Before starting each exercise, I highly recommend you ask yourself, “On a scale of one to ten, how anxious am I?” Give yourself a number, and then at the end of the exercise see if the number has decreased.
1. Slowly articulating the joint
Starting with one foot, slowly move your foot in a circle ten times in one direction. Really focus your mind on the feeling of the ankle joint moving. Then switch directions.
Do this for the other foot and ankle.
If you are lying down on your back, you can do this again for the knee as you hold your thigh, slowly moving your lower leg in a circle ten times before switching directions. Then repeat on the other leg.
If you are standing, you can place your hands on your knees and together slowly move your knees in circles.
Again, remember to give your mind the job of focusing on the knee joints and feeling them move. This helps give the mind something to do while the body can move the energy that has been trapped inside of it.
If standing, you will do this again, making hip circles ten times in both directions.
After this, pause and notice how the lower body feels in comparison to the upper body. It’s crazy the difference you will feel.
Next, you will do this with your wrists, making circles with your hands. You can do this one at a time or both hands—whatever you prefer.
Then your elbows.
And then your shoulders, continuing to do ten circles in one direction and then ten in the other.
Lastly, you will do head circles in both directions.
2. Deep breathing with a voo exhale
A voo exhale? What is that?
That is exactly what I would be asking.
Deep breathing is sometimes helpful, and sometimes it isn’t. But if you try making a voo sound for the entirety of the exhale, it can smooth the chest and abdomen, where most of the anxiety is felt.
So, for this exercise, you will place one hand over your heart and one hand over your belly and take a deep breath. On the exhale you will make a voo sound, all the way to the end of the exhale, similar to saying om in a yoga class. As you do this, think about making the voo sound from your abdomen, not from your throat.
This is an indigenous practice that actually has scientific effects in calming the vagus nerve and the sympathetic nervous system. It moves people into their parasympathetic nervous system, which is the rest and digest part of your nervous system. Making different sounds has different effects on the nervous system, and for anxiety and PTSD, the voo sound is the most effective.
Go ahead and try this for five cycles and see how this is for you. It can be really calming.
3. Visual resourcing
Resourcing is anything that is calming, supportive, or comforting for a person, and it can be done through many avenues. This includes things like talking to a caring, supportive friend, taking a hot bath, or using a weighted blanket.
Visual resourcing is focusing on something visually pleasant. For some people this can be a sparkly or shiny object, and for others it can be watching the leaves gently blow in the breeze.
Note that for some people, if they look off in the distance, it has an even greater calming effect, and that others might prefer looking at objects that are closer to them.
Go ahead and look around you and find the most pleasant and pleasing thing to look at. Then hold your gaze here and notice the effects this has for you.
This somatic tool can easily be combined with the prior tool listed above.
In Conclusion
When we experience trauma and are wrestling in the aftermath of symptoms, life can feel daunting. Many people feel very discouraged and overwhelmed with where and how to start healing. But try and find the courage to get to the other side. Healing is possible, and it could be one of the most beautiful and sacred journeys you choose to go down.
Trauma symptoms always have psychological and physiological components that happen simultaneously. So, if some of the mindfulness practices don’t work, see if you can find some relief and stabilization with somatic body-based tools.
Wishing you so much love and grace on your journey to recovery.
