Tiny Buddha

Tag: wisdom

  • From Pain to Peace: How to Grieve and Release Unmet Expectations

    From Pain to Peace: How to Grieve and Release Unmet Expectations

    “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” ~Rumi

    Before 2011, I had heard many spiritual teachers talk about “accepting what is.” It sounded nice in theory, like good mental information to chew on. But it didn’t feel embodied. I understood it intellectually, but I wasn’t living it.

    Then I attended a weekend intensive with a teacher I deeply respected, and something in the way he explained it hit deeper. It wasn’t just talk. The essence of his words turned a spiritual idea into something I could start to live.

    In that talk, he shared a story about a father whose son had become paraplegic. The father was devastated because he had so many expectations—that his son would go to college, graduate, get married, and have children. But those dreams died the day of the accident.

    The father was still living in a mental loop: “I should be going to his graduation.” “I should be at his wedding.” He couldn’t let go of the life he thought his son was supposed to have.

    The teacher explained that the father needed to grieve his expectations, not just in his mind, but in his body. That hit me hard. It was like an athlete expecting to win a championship and then getting injured. They’re stuck in that same mental trap: “I should have had that career,” and they suffer for years because life handed them a different card.

    That story cracked something open in me.

    The Weight of ‘Shoulds’ on the Body

    I’m someone who tends to be idealistic. I had high expectations for myself, others, and how life was supposed to go. And when people didn’t live up to those ideals, whether in business, relationships, or everyday interactions, it really hurt. I believed people should be honest, ethical, and truthful. They shouldn’t lie; they shouldn’t manipulate. I had a long list of “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts” that governed how I expected life to go.

    When life didn’t meet those expectations, I felt disappointed, angry, even hateful at times. My body held the tension. I had chronic stress, emotional pain, and health challenges. For six months, I was even coughing up blood, and doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. Looking back, I see now that I was holding on so tightly to my expectations that my body was breaking under the pressure.

    This is what that teacher was pointing to: that to truly accept what is, we have to grieve our expectations on a body level. It’s not enough to tell yourself affirmations like “just accept it” until you’re blue in the face. You have to feel where your body says, “No.”

    That means noticing: does your body feel heavy? Is your heart tight or tense? If there’s anything other than lightness or peace, then there’s something you haven’t grieved or released.

    By staying present with those sensations, without trying to fix or change them, you start to feel shifts. The signs of release are subtle but real: yawning, tears, vibrations, or a sense of energetic movement. It’s like something in your nervous system finally says, “Okay, I can let go now.”

    Letting Go Became the Practice

    After that retreat, I spent the whole summer sitting with these “should” beliefs. Every day, I made time to observe my thoughts and emotions. I noticed how often I was clinging to ideas like “I should have done this” or “they shouldn’t act that way.” It was uncomfortable at first. I didn’t realize how much I had been carrying around.

    I committed three to four months to this work. Being self-employed gave me the space to dive deep, and I felt it was necessary to do my own inner work before I could help others with theirs. I probably put in hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours during that time.

    Through that commitment, I released huge chunks of subconscious programming I didn’t even know were there. I realized I had inherited a lot of my “should” thinking from my upbringing. My mother also had strong expectations; when things didn’t go her way, she’d have intense emotional reactions. I had absorbed that pattern without realizing it.

    At the end of those few months, I felt like I had begun the real journey of embodying spiritual growth. Not just reading about it. Living it. Accepting what is became something I could feel in my bones, not just think about.

    But that was just the beginning.

    Acceptance Happens in Layers

    Over the next ten years, I noticed a pattern: about every six months to a year, a similar trigger would arise. Same emotion, same resistance, but less intense. The duration of my suffering shrank, too. What used to upset me for weeks now only remained for a few days, then a few hours.

    I came to understand that accepting “what is” happens in layers, like peeling an onion. At first, I released the more obvious emotional charges held in the heart or gut. But as time went on, I discovered deeper, more subtle conditioning stored in the nervous system, bones, tailbone, even in my skin and sense organs.

    The body doesn’t release it all at once—maybe because doing so would overwhelm the system. With each layer that releases, it feels like the body grants permission to go deeper.

    To find and clear these deeper layers, I learned muscle testing from the Yuen Method of Chinese Energetics that helps uncover subconscious resistances. Muscle testing was quite a powerful experience, teaching me to intuitively talk to the body to find and release unconscious ancestral conditioning and forgotten traumas that are decades-old or generational programs located in different body areas.

    My Personal “Should”: Loved Ones Should See My Good Intentions

    For example, I used to hate it when my father made negative assumptions about my good intentions or deeds. Instead of appreciating my efforts, he would criticize them, leaving me with the feeling that no matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough for him.

    This took me many years to work through, and each year, with each trigger, I discovered so much conditioning. I would have emotional meltdowns; my body would be tense and angry, just like my mom, because that’s how she is. From working on these triggers over the years, he can hardly get a reaction out of me anymore.

    I was essentially reacting in a hardwired way. When my father made negative assumptions about my mom, she would often respond with emotional meltdowns and angry outbursts. I realized I had inherited the same pattern.

    Over the years, each time my father pushed a button, I had to do continuous work on the different layers of conditioned reactions in specific areas of the body. His button-pushing became a gift: it constantly revealed more hidden layers of emotional reactivity.

    These days, if he makes negative assumptions, it might still bother me a little, but it’s nothing like the angry, hateful emotional reactions I used to have. If my body still reacts slightly, it’s giving me feedback, making me aware that there is still unconscious conditioning that needs to be released.

    If you do this work, over time, you will notice your loved ones may still push the same buttons and sometimes even say unkind words or behave in ways that used to deeply hurt you. But your triggers and reactivity can be significantly reduced.

    You won’t take their words or actions as personally anymore. Instead, there’s a growing sense of love and acceptance—for yourself, the situation, and your loved ones, regardless of what they do. Doing this work feels like moving closer to unconditional love, or at least as close as we can get.

    The Ongoing Unfolding of Acceptance

    This process taught me that accepting what is isn’t a one-time breakthrough. It’s a slow unwinding of everything we were taught to expect, demand, or resist. It’s a return to what’s actually here, moment by moment, breath by breath.

    Even now, I still get triggered. But I’m better at meeting those moments with curiosity instead of judgment. I know the signs in my body. I can feel when something hasn’t been grieved yet.

    If you’re like me, if you have a long list of “shoulds” about yourself, about others, about life, maybe it’s time to sit with them. To feel where they land in your body. To grieve the life you thought was supposed to happen.

    Because healing doesn’t come from controlling life. It comes from letting go of the fight against it. It comes from feeling into what is, with an open heart and a patient presence.

  • Those Who Chose to Walk Slowly with Me

    Those Who Chose to Walk Slowly with Me

  • Why You Can’t Relax and How to Let Yourself Rest

    Why You Can’t Relax and How to Let Yourself Rest

    “Rest and be thankful.” ~William Wordsworth

    A few years ago, I caught myself doing something that made no sense.

    It was late evening, my kids were asleep, the house finally quiet. I’d been counting down to this moment all day—dreaming of sinking into the couch, wrapping myself in a blanket, maybe even reading a book without distractions.

    But when I lay down and closed my eyes, something inside me lurched. Within seconds, I reached for my phone. I didn’t even have anything urgent to check—just mindless scrolling. Five minutes in, I was already half-sitting up, wondering if I should fold the laundry or answer one last email. Before I knew it, I was back on my feet, tidying up the kitchen.

    I remember thinking, why can’t I just rest?

    The Invisible Weight That Keeps Us Restless

    Maybe you’ve felt this too. You plan a quiet evening—maybe a bath, a book, or just lying down in silence—but your mind buzzes with things you should be doing instead.

    Did I reply to that message? Should I wipe down the counters? Maybe I should check my notifications—just in case.

    It’s so easy to blame ourselves: I have no discipline. I’m addicted to my phone. I can’t sit still. But the truth is, our difficulty with rest runs deeper than bad habits or busy schedules.

    Sometimes our bodies and minds have learned that stillness isn’t safe.

    Why Does Rest Feel So Uncomfortable?

    I used to think I was just bad at relaxing—like I’d missed a class everyone else had taken. But over time, I realized there were reasons why lying still felt so wrong.

    Here’s what I’ve learned—and maybe you’ll see yourself here too.

    1. We equate stillness with danger.

    Deep down, part of our nervous system still believes we’re in the wild—where lying still too long could make us vulnerable. Even if our physical world is safe, our inner world might not feel that way.

    Many of us grew up in homes where we had to stay alert—watching moods, avoiding conflict, keeping busy to feel useful or unnoticed. Being on guard felt safer than relaxing.

    Even now, when the house is calm, our bodies may still whisper: Don’t settle. Something could happen.

    2. We tie our worth to doing.

    Growing up, I learned that being “good” meant being helpful—doing the dishes before being asked, getting top grades, staying busy. Rest wasn’t modeled as something normal; it was a luxury you earned only after everything was done perfectly.

    So when I lie down on the couch, an old voice pipes up: Have you really done enough to deserve this? Even now, I still catch myself folding laundry at 10 p.m. or working on my blog instead of just letting myself rest.

    3. Rest brings up uncomfortable feelings.

    Stillness creates space. And sometimes, that space fills with things we’d rather keep buried—worries we ignored all day, sadness we don’t want to name, thoughts that make us feel alone.

    So instead of resting, we keep busy. We scroll, clean, or half-watch TV while half-doing chores. Movement feels safer than meeting whatever rises in the quiet.

    4. Our brains crave the next hit.

    Our world feeds this cycle. Apps, notifications, endless news—tiny dopamine bursts that keep our minds buzzing. Even when we’re exhausted, our brains crave just one more swipe, one more update.

    So when we try to rest, it feels like a mini withdrawal. The silence can feel almost unbearable.

    The Good News: Rest Is a Skill We Can Relearn

    If you see yourself in any of this, you’re not broken. There’s nothing wrong with you. Rest just feels unfamiliar because your body and mind learned to survive without it.

    The good news is you can gently retrain yourself to feel safe doing nothing. Not by forcing it—but by meeting your restlessness with small, doable shifts.

    Small Ways to Make Rest Feel Safe Again

    1. Start tiny.

    I used to think rest meant lying still for an hour—meditating, deep breathing, total quiet. That was way too much.

    Instead, try building up your tolerance for stillness in small ways:

    Sit for ten slow breaths before grabbing your phone in the morning.

    Pause for a few seconds before switching tasks.

    Lie down for two minutes with your eyes closed before bed.

    I started with just a few slow breaths while breastfeeding. It helped both me and my baby settle a bit more.

    Tiny moments teach your body: Stillness doesn’t have to be scary.

    2. Notice the thoughts that rush in.

    Sometimes when we try to rest, thoughts pop up:

    You’re wasting time.

    You should be doing something useful.

    Just one more thing, then you can relax.

    When you notice these thoughts, name them. Gently remind yourself: Rest is useful. Doing nothing is not the same as being nothing.

    3. Give your body a gentle cue.

    Rest doesn’t have to mean lying statue-still. If stillness feels like too much, try calming your nervous system with small, soothing actions:

    Sip warm tea and notice its warmth. I love slowly brewing tea and taking a moment just to smell it before I drink.

    Wrap yourself in a blanket and sway gently.

    Sit in a rocking chair. Rocking can feel safer than stillness.

    4. Turn rest into a ritual.

    It helps to make rest intentional—a small, predictable act of care.

    Maybe you light a candle when you sit down. Or play soft music. Or put away your phone and focus on the warmth of a bath.

    A ritual makes rest feel like a gift, not wasted time.

    5. Let discomfort be there.

    Sometimes when we rest, feelings surface—sadness, guilt, unease.

    Instead of pushing them away, practice sitting with them for a few breaths.

    Try telling yourself, “I feel restless. That’s okay. I don’t have to fix it right now.”

    Like any feeling, it passes more easily when you stop fighting it.

    What Rest Really Means

    When I look back, I see that my struggle with rest wasn’t really about laziness or distraction. It was about trust.

    Learning to rest means trusting that the world won’t fall apart if we stop. Trusting that we’re worthy, even when we’re not “useful.” Trusting that what rises in the quiet won’t destroy us.

    It’s not easy work—but it’s gentle work. And every tiny moment you spend just being—without doing, fixing, or producing—teaches your body a new truth: You are allowed to rest.

    —

    If you find yourself mindlessly reaching for your phone when you planned to do nothing, pause. Take one deep breath. Feel the weight of your body on the couch. Remind yourself: It’s safe to pause.

    Rest is not the opposite of living. Rest is what lets us show up fully for life.

  • How Self-Portraits Brought My Messy, Honest, Beautiful Self into Focus

    How Self-Portraits Brought My Messy, Honest, Beautiful Self into Focus

    “And then I realized that to be seen by others, I first had to be willing to see myself.” ~Anonymous

    In a world that teaches us to be visible only when we’re polished, productive, or pleasing, I found something unexpected on the other side of my camera: myself.

    But not the filtered version. Not the composed one or the “smiling because I’m fine” version.

    I found the person I’d forgotten—the one who had spent years loving, giving, showing up for everyone else but rarely turning any of that tenderness inward.

    I didn’t pick up the camera to take pretty pictures. I picked it up because I was afraid I’d disappeared.

    I Didn’t Want to Be Seen; I Needed to See Myself

    The idea of photographing myself didn’t come from a place of vanity. It came from absence.

    One evening, while trying to upload photos for a dating profile after years of single parenting and heartbreak, I realized I had no photos that felt like me. Not the version of me who had weathered so much. Not the version I was becoming.

    So I quietly set up a tripod. Brushed my hair off my face. Took a deep breath.

    Click.

    The first photo felt awkward. The second felt posed. But by the third, something shifted. I saw a glimmer—not just of who I had been, but of who I might become.

    This wasn’t about being photogenic. It was about presence.

    Each Click Became a Quiet Homecoming

    Soon, I started photographing myself regularly. Alone. Unrushed.

    Some days, I wore mascara. Other days, I didn’t even brush my hair. And some days, I cried.

    But every day, I tried to show up as honestly as I could.

    Slowly, I began to notice things I’d overlooked for years:

    • Strength in my eyes
    • Grace in my aging hands
    • Resilience in my stillness

    They weren’t just pictures. They were whispers. Visual love letters. A way of saying, “I’m still here.”

    And I wasn’t invisible. I’d just been looking through the wrong lens.

    I Thought I Was Taking Pictures, but I Was Actually Healing

    We live in a culture that celebrates busyness and output. But it rarely teaches us how to witness ourselves—especially in stillness.

    In those quiet moments behind the lens, my camera became a gentle teacher. It held space for the version of me that didn’t always feel put together. It didn’t ask me to smile. It didn’t judge. It just saw.

    And in being seen—truly seen, by my own eyes—I began to heal.

    My camera became more than a tool. It became a mirror. Not the kind that criticizes or compares, but the kind that says, “You’re allowed to take up space. Just as you are.”

    Here’s What I Learned (and Keep Learning)

    Through this experience, I learned:

    • I wasn’t invisible. I just hadn’t looked at myself with curiosity in a long time.
    • I had looked with judgment. With fatigue. With shame. But not with compassion.
    • These weren’t selfies. They were self-portraits—acts of reclamation.
    • I didn’t need to be beautiful. I just needed to be honest.

    Each session became a quiet act of rebellion—against perfectionism, against invisibility, against the pressure to perform.

    And slowly, a truth emerged: I didn’t need to wait for a milestone to be worthy of attention.
    I didn’t need a transformation. I needed permission. Permission to see myself. Permission to say: This is me, now.

    From Healing to Helping Others

    Eventually, something unexpected happened.

    I began to share pieces of my story. And people started reaching out.

    • “I feel like I’ve lost myself, too.”
    • “I haven’t seen a photo of myself I actually like in years.”
    • “I don’t remember the last time I felt comfortable in front of a camera.”

    So I started photographing others—not for branding or special events, but for healing.

    In natural light, in safe spaces, we’d create images that captured something more than appearance.
    We captured presence. Belonging. Truth.

    One woman whispered after her session, “I feel like I’ve come home to myself.”

    I knew exactly what she meant.

    You Don’t Need a Special Occasion to Be Seen

    If you’ve ever felt like you’ve gone a little quiet inside…

    If you’ve ever looked in the mirror and wondered when you stopped recognizing the person staring back…

    If you’ve ever felt like the world sees only a fraction of who you really are…

    I want you to know this: you don’t need to wait.

    You don’t need to lose ten pounds or gain a promotion or start a new relationship to become worthy of your own gaze.

    You already are.

    So if you’re feeling invisible, here’s a gentle invitation:

    Set up your camera. Let the light fall on your face. Be still. Click.

    The first photo might feel strange. The second may feel forced.

    But keep going.

    Eventually, someone will show up in that frame. And when they do, you’ll remember: you’ve been here all along.

  • Emotional Maturity

    Emotional Maturity

  • When You Finally Return to Yourself

    When You Finally Return to Yourself

  • The Power I Now Carry Because of My Illness

    The Power I Now Carry Because of My Illness

    “Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it. Always work with it, not against it.” ~Eckhart Tolle

    For years, I thought strength meant pushing through. Getting on with it. Holding it together no matter what. Not showing weakness. Not needing help. Not slowing down.

    Even when I was diagnosed with a chronic illness, I wore that mindset like armor. I was determined not to let it define me—let alone derail me.

    But eventually, it did. Not because I was weak. But because I was human. And that was the beginning of a different kind of strength.

    The Diagnosis That Didn’t Fit My Story

    I was thirty-two when I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. It’s a chronic inflammatory condition that can be painful, unpredictable, and exhausting. There is no cure.

    At the time, I had three young kids and a to-do list longer than my arm. I was busy, stretched thin, and moving fast—chasing achievement like it could protect me from everything uncertain.

    The diagnosis didn’t land like a crisis. It landed more like an inconvenience. I had no time for illness. No space for it. No story in which it belonged.

    I started medication, but the side effects were rough, and the results were inconsistent. I quickly became obsessed with finding the “right” diet, the “right” routine, the “right” alternative therapy to manage it all myself.

    Strength, Control, and the Problem with Hyper-Independence

    Looking back, I can see that control was my coping mechanism. Control over my body. Control over the narrative.

    I didn’t want to be “someone with a chronic illness.” I wanted to be someone who could handle a chronic illness and still perform at a high level. Someone who could live life on her own terms—without needing medication, or help, or rest.

    So when things stabilized a little, I made a quiet decision: I’d stop the medication.

    I told myself I could manage it naturally. I adjusted my diet, doubled down on my routines, tried to control every variable. But inevitably, flare-ups would return. And when they did, I’d end up back on steroids. They worked—but made me manic. So I’d taper off. The cycle continued.

    Somewhere in the midst of this, we moved countries for my husband’s job. I left behind my career ambitions, my social network, and my medical team. I started to quietly adapt to a life of background symptoms: pain, exhaustion, urgency.

    I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t cancel things unless I absolutely had to. And when I did, I worried people thought I was flaky or rude or just didn’t care.

    In truth, I was trying so hard to be “fine” that I was hurting myself.

    The Turning Point: Meditation & Stillness

    Eventually, I got tired.

    Not just physically—but emotionally, spiritually, existentially. Tired of the constant vigilance. Tired of trying to outrun my own body. Tired of believing that if I just tried harder, I could conquer this thing on sheer willpower.

    I had built an identity around being capable, reliable, strong. Hyper-independent. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t want to need anyone—or anything, especially not medication. Illness felt like weakness. And weakness was unacceptable.

    But that relentless self-sufficiency didn’t save me. It wore me down.

    That’s when I found mindfulness. Not as a fix—but as a kind of quiet company. A way of softening the grip I had on control. A way of meeting myself as I actually was, not as I thought I should be.

    At first, I treated mindfulness the way I treated everything else: as something to master. But over time, the practice worked on me. It started dismantling the war I had declared on my body. I began to see: my body wasn’t failing me. It was in conversation with me. And I had never truly listened.

    That changed everything.

    Mindfulness helped me stop seeing my illness as something to battle and started teaching me how to respond—with self-compassion instead of control. With care instead of critique.

    The diagnosis was still there. The symptoms came and went. But something in me had started to soften. I was no longer treating every flare-up as a personal failure or a crisis to conquer. The illness was real, but maybe it didn’t have to be a war. I wasn’t fully at peace, but I was learning to pay attention. And then came the call that changed everything.

    The Wake-Up Call That Brought It All Home

    It had been more than five years since my last colonoscopy, and based on my medical history, my primary care doctor recommended I schedule one. I agreed, of course. I felt fine—strong, even. I was training on the treadmill at home for an upcoming marathon, proud of what my body could still do.

    The procedure itself felt routine. But one evening shortly afterward, around 8 p.m., the phone rang.

    It was the doctor who had performed the colonoscopy—calling me personally.

    He didn’t sound casual.

    He told me I was in trouble.

    If I didn’t get on medication right away, my condition could worsen dramatically—and start impacting other systems in my body, even my eyesight.

    I was horrified. And humbled.

    This wasn’t something I could outrun. This wasn’t something I could discipline away. This was my body, urgently asking to be heard.

    Letting Illness Be a Messenger, not a Failure

    I got back on medication. This time, the right kind. And I committed to it—not from a place of defeat, but from a deeper alignment with care.

    That was almost two years ago. Since then, my body has slowly begun to heal. My most recent colonoscopy—early this year—showed dramatic improvement. The inflammation is down. The symptoms are manageable. I’m tolerating the medication well, even with the added complexity of reactivated TB, a side effect of the immunosuppression that I’m now treating with another course of medication.

    It’s not perfect. It’s not linear. But it’s honest. It’s mine.

    And most importantly, I’m no longer at war with my body. I’ve stopped bracing against what is and started responding with care, clarity, and compassion.

    Because real strength isn’t pushing through at all costs.

    It’s listening. It’s allowing. It’s staying with yourself, even when it’s hard.

    Mindfulness didn’t fix everything. But it became an ally—steady and unshakable.

    It taught me I can’t control the storm, but I can anchor myself within it. And in that anchoring, I found something I never expected: power.

    Not the power of force, but the quiet, unwavering power of presence. Of meeting life on its terms.
    Of knowing I can be with whatever comes—and still be whole.

    That’s the power I carry now. Not in spite of illness. But shaped by it.

  • Your Partner Will Affect…

    Your Partner Will Affect…

  • The Truth About My Inner Critic: It Was Trauma Talking

    The Truth About My Inner Critic: It Was Trauma Talking

    “I will not let the bullies and critics of my early life win by joining and agreeing with them.” ~Pete Walker

    For most of my life, there was a voice in my head that narrated everything I did, and it was kind of an a**hole.

    You know the one. That voice that jumps in before you even finish a thought:

    “Don’t say that. You’ll sound stupid.”

    “Why would anyone care what you think?”

     “You’re too much. You’re not enough. You’re a mess.”

    No matter what I did, the critic had notes. Brutal ones. And the worst part? I believed every word. I didn’t know it was a critic. I thought I just had “realistic self-awareness.” Like everyone else had a little tape playing in their head on repeat, telling them how flawed they were. Turns out, that voice was trauma talking, and it never seemed to stop.

    My Inner Critic Wasn’t Born, It Was Built

    CPTSD doesn’t just mess with your sense of safety. It hijacks your internal dialogue. When your early life feels unsafe or unpredictable, criticism becomes your compass. You learn to scan for danger, to anticipate what might trigger rejection or anger. You start blaming yourself for things that weren’t your fault, just to keep the peace.

    Over time, you don’t need anyone else to tear you down; you’ve got that covered all on your own. The critic lives inside. It’s relentless. It’s like a hyper-alert security guard that’s been working overtime for decades. One who has a bone to pick.

    My inner critic wasn’t trying to be cruel. It was trying to protect me. Twisted, but true. It believed if it shamed me first, I’d beat everyone else to it. If I kept myself small, or perfect, or invisible, I wouldn’t become a target. If I could control myself enough, maybe the chaos would leave me alone.

    That voice became familiar. And familiarity, even when it’s toxic, can feel like home.

    The Turning Point: When I Realized That Voice Was Lying

    Healing began the day I noticed a strange disconnect. The people I cared about didn’t talk to me the way my inner critic did. They weren’t disgusted when I made mistakes. They didn’t roll their eyes when I showed up with all my messy feelings. They didn’t act like I was a problem to be solved or a disappointment to be managed. In fact, they were… pretty warm. Even when I wasn’t “on.”

    This realization felt like looking in a funhouse mirror and suddenly seeing my true reflection. If they weren’t seeing me through the lens of judgment and shame, who was I really listening to? That voice in my head, or the people who cared?

    That was the moment I started to doubt the inner critic’s authority. Because that voice? It wasn’t truth. It was trauma. A protective but outdated part of me that no longer needed to run the show.

    How I Actually Started Healing (the real first steps)

    The very first real step wasn’t dramatic. I noticed the mismatch, my head yelling “you’re a mess” while everyone around me treated me like a person, not a problem. Once I noticed that disconnect, things shifted from “this is just how I am” to “oh, maybe this is something I can change.”

    So my early moves were small and boring, but they mattered.

    I booked a therapist who knew trauma work and stayed long enough to stop the band-aid fixes. I learned one therapy that actually landed for me, Internal Family Systems, which helped me stop fighting the critic and start talking with it. I started writing, not to fix myself, but to give that voice a page to vomit onto so I could see how ridiculous and repetitive it sounded in black and white.

    I also leaned on a few safe people, friends and a therapist who would call me out when the critic lied and remind me I wasn’t actually the person I believed I was, over clouded with shame.

    The harder work, though, was going underneath the critic. The voice was just a symptom. What sat beneath it was grief, anger, and fear I’d carried since childhood. For the first time in therapy, I wasn’t just trying to outsmart the critic, I was learning to sit with those younger parts of me who never felt safe. That’s when healing really started to shift: not by silencing the critic, but by finally listening to the trauma underneath it.

    I Didn’t “Silence” My Inner Critic, But I Did Start Questioning It

    Some days, that voice still shows up, loud and obnoxious. Healing didn’t make it disappear. It’s still there, popping up like an annoying pop-up ad you can’t quite close.

    For years, the critic zeroed in on my appearance. I carried so much shame and self-hatred that I didn’t need anyone else to tear me down, I was already doing the job for them. Trauma and CPTSD made sure of it. Even when no one said a word, the critic filled in the silence with insults.

    But I learned to give it a pause button. Instead of obeying it automatically, I started getting curious.

    One morning, I caught my reflection and the critic immediately sneered: ‘You look disgusting.’ Normally, I’d believe it and spiral. But that time, I paused and asked: Whose voice is this really? It felt like my child abusers. What’s it trying to protect me from? Probably the fear and shame rooted in that abuse. Is it true, or just familiar? Familiar. That shift didn’t erase the shame instantly, but it gave me a crack of daylight. Instead of hating myself all day, I was able to shrug and think, yeah, that’s the critic, not the truth. That tiny pause was progress

    Sometimes I imagine my inner critic as a grumpy, overworked security guard who’s stuck in the past. He’s cranky and exhausted, working overtime to keep me “safe,” but he’s also out of touch with the present. I don’t hate him. I just don’t hand him the mic anymore. These days, I keep him behind the glass with metaphorical noise-canceling headphones on. He can rant all he wants, but I’ve got Otis Redding and boundaries turned all the way up.

    What Actually Helped Me Push Back

    Therapy: Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy helped me see the critic as just one part of me, not my whole self. It gave me tools to speak with that part, instead of battling it.

    Writing: Putting the critic’s voice on paper was a game changer. Seeing those harsh words in black and white helped me realize how cruel they really were.

    Safe People: Talking openly with trusted friends and therapists helped shatter the illusion that I was unlovable or broken.

    New Scripts: Instead of empty affirmations, I practiced gentle reality checks: “It’s okay that part of me feels that way. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

    Compassion: Learning to treat myself like a friend rather than an enemy—clumsy, imperfect, but worthy.

    Why This Matters: The Cost of Believing the Critic

    Believing that inner voice isn’t just uncomfortable, it’s dangerous. It shapes how you show up in the world. It keeps you stuck in self-doubt. It makes you shrink when you want to grow. It convinces you to stay silent when your voice needs to be heard.

    For years, I hid behind that critic’s fog. I avoided risks, pushed down feelings, and avoided intimacy because I thought I wasn’t enough. That voice stole years of my life. I lost people I cared about because I couldn’t believe I was good enough or deserving of love, and that does a number on you.

    Healing isn’t about erasing the critic, it’s about learning when to listen, when to question, and when to change the channel.

    I’m thankful that, with therapy and the work I’ve put into my healing, I’ve been able to reclaim some of that space for myself. It’s by no means easy and there are a lot of starts and stops, but it is worth it. I am here today testament to that.

    If You’re Living With That Voice Right Now

    If your inner critic sounds convincing, like it has a PhD in your failures, I get it. I lived there. But here’s the truth:

    You are not the sum of your worst thoughts. You are not the voice that calls you a burden.You are not unworthy just because you’ve been told that.

    That critic might be loud, but it’s not honest. It’s scared. And scared doesn’t get the final say.

    You get to question it. You get to rewrite the script. You get to take up space, even if your voice shakes. Even if it whispers, “Who do you think you are?”

    Because the answer is: Someone healing. Someone trying. Someone finally learning that voice isn’t the truth anymore.

  • Helpful Tip

    Helpful Tip

  • The Best Version of You

    The Best Version of You

  • Why AI Can Never Replace Us: The Truth About Being Human

    Why AI Can Never Replace Us: The Truth About Being Human

    “AI accidentally made me believe in the concept of a human soul by showing me what art looks like without it.” ~Unknown

    What is intelligence?

    I’ve asked this question all my life—as a teacher, a filmmaker, a researcher, and now, as someone losing my vision to macular degeneration.

    I ask it when I watch students find their voice.

    I ask it when I listen to a close friend of mine, a world-renowned cosmologist, whose knowledge seems limitless but whose humility runs even deeper. He can discuss black holes one minute and quote the Tao Te Ching the next. He doesn’t just know facts—he knows how to listen. He knows how to explain something complicated without making you feel small. That, to me, is real intelligence.

    And yet… I’ve started to notice something strange.

    Artificial Intelligence is beginning to resemble people like him. It can write fluent sentences. It can summarize books I haven’t read. Sometimes, it surprises me. And I find myself wondering: is this also intelligence?

    What AI Gets Right—and What It Will Never Feel

    Let me say this clearly: I’m grateful for AI. This very essay was shaped with its help. I have advanced macular degeneration. Proofreading my own writing is difficult—sometimes impossible. Tools like this are not a luxury for me. They are a gift. A lifeline. Without them, I wouldn’t be able to keep writing. For that, I’m thankful.

    But there is a kind of intelligence that AI will never know.

    It won’t feel the panic of forgetting your lines onstage, or the rush of remembering them mid-breath. It doesn’t lie awake at night wondering whether your work matters. It doesn’t weep when your mother no longer remembers your name. It doesn’t get nervous before a job interview. It hasn’t failed, or recovered, or loved.

    It can help express a feeling, but it cannot have one.

    A Tool, not a Mind

    We call it “artificial intelligence,” but it’s more like artificial fluency. It’s fast. It’s competent. It can impress you. But it doesn’t know in the way we know. It hasn’t spent years practicing an instrument in the dark or teaching a student who doesn’t believe in themselves—until one day, they do. It doesn’t grow from experience.

    It doesn’t grieve. It doesn’t heal. It doesn’t change.

    So when people say, “AI is going to replace us,” I always wonder—which part of us? The part that fills out forms and writes reports or does other rutinary tasks? Maybe. But the part that authentically and honestly tells a story no one else can tell? Never.

    Teaching Students to Show Up

    In every class I’ve taught, I’ve said some version of this:

    “Don’t stop at the research. Don’t stop at what AI gives you. Learn to show up in your work.”

    Some students hide behind information. It’s safer. But I tell them: you are the meaning. You are the insight. You are the risk.

    I once had a student who wrote a technically flawless paper. But it had no voice. When I asked her what it meant to her, she hesitated. Then she told me about her father, who had lived through the war the paper was about. Her entire relationship to the topic shifted in that moment. That was the real intelligence. Not the citations. Not the syntax. The courage to speak from the heart.

    When Sight Fades, Something Else Comes into View

    Losing your vision is not just about reading less. It’s about seeing differently. It’s about slowing down. Listening more. Learning to trust what you can’t verify with your eyes.

    It has also deepened my appreciation for tools like AI. I rely on them every day. But I also notice their limits. They help with form, but not with essence. They clean the window, but they can’t show you what’s outside. That still requires you.

    Intelligence Is Not the Same as Wisdom

    My brilliant cosmologist friend once told me, “The more I learn, the more I realize how little I understand.”

    AI doesn’t say things like that.

    It doesn’t know humility. Or mystery. Or awe.

    Intelligence, in the deepest sense, is not about control or answers. It’s about how we carry ourselves in uncertainty. It’s about grace under pressure. Presence in pain. Humor in despair. Kindness without reward. None of that shows up in a prompt.

    The Final Lesson: Tools Don’t Replace Soul

    If there’s one thing I’ve learned—through teaching, through vision loss, through using AI—it’s this:

    A tool can help you build something. But it can’t tell you why it matters.

    So yes, use the tools. Use AI. Let it support you. I do.

    But never forget: you are more than the tool. You are the story behind the sentence. The silence between the notes. The reason the work matters at all.

    That’s not artificial. That’s real.

    And it’s irreplaceable.

  • Teach Your Children…

    Teach Your Children…

  • Brilliant, Not Broken: A Powerful Reframe for Neurodivergence

    Brilliant, Not Broken: A Powerful Reframe for Neurodivergence

    “It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.” ~Audre Lorde

    For most of my life, I asked myself a quiet question:

    What’s wrong with me?

    I didn’t say it out loud. I didn’t have to. It was stitched into how I moved through the world — hyperaware, self-correcting, and always just a little out of step. I knew how to “pass” in the right settings, but never without effort. Underneath it all, I was exhausted by the daily performance of normal.

    Looking back, it’s clear where it started.

    I grew up in a home marked by emotional chaos and unpredictability. Like many kids with developmental trauma, I became hypervigilant before I even had words for it. I learned to track mood shifts, tones of voice, the silences between the words. While other kids were absorbing math lessons, I was reading the room.

    In elementary school, I wasn’t the loud kid or the front-row overachiever. I was the quiet one in the middle row—not bold enough to be in front where people might see me, and not defiant enough to risk the back, where the “bad kids” got called out, punished, or ignored. I learned early that safety meant staying in the middle: visible enough to avoid trouble, invisible enough not to stand out.

    I didn’t know what the lesson was. But I knew who the teacher favored and who she didn’t. Who had a rough night at home. Who was trying too hard. Who had checked out. And who was silently hurting the way I was.

    I was always paying attention—even if they said I was unfocused—just not in the way the teacher wanted me to.

    I also daydreamed. Constantly. I lived in fantasy worlds that I made up in my head, complete with characters, backstories, and dialogue. I wasn’t trying to avoid reality—I was trying to survive it. And those imagined worlds were often kinder than the one I was stuck in.

    So when people say things like, “That child is so distractible,” I want to pause them.

    Sometimes, what you’re seeing isn’t a disorder. Sometimes, it’s a child adapting to a world that feels unsafe.

    What We Call Disordered Might Just Be a Different Kind of Wisdom

    As I got older, I started to realize how many of the things we pathologize—especially in women, neurodivergent folks, and trauma survivors—are actually adaptive or even gifted traits. But because they don’t fit the dominant mold of what “healthy” looks like, we call them broken.

    Let me say this clearly: Different doesn’t mean disordered. And even when support is needed, that doesn’t mean the person is lacking.

    Take ADHD. It’s often reduced to disorganization or forgetfulness, but for many people, it reflects fast-paced, pattern-jumping brains that crave stimulation and thrive in high-innovation spaces. That same brain might struggle in school but light up in entrepreneurship, the arts, crisis work, or tech.

    Take anxiety. Yes, it can be overwhelming. But beneath it is usually a sensitive nervous system attuned to energy, risk, nuance. In trauma survivors, it often reflects the ability to read between the lines—to sense what’s not being said, to prepare for every possible outcome. They keep themselves and others safe by seeing the risks before the bad thing happens.

    Take autism, especially in girls and women. What gets labeled as rigidity or social awkwardness might actually be deep authenticity, truth-telling, and sensory brilliance in a world full of noise and social masking.

    Even depression can be a form of wisdom—a body demanding rest, a soul refusing to keep performing, a nervous system finally saying “enough.”

    What Neurodivergence Really Means

    Neurodivergence isn’t one thing. It’s a big umbrella. It includes conditions like:

    • ADHD
    • Autism
    • Learning differences (like dyslexia or dyscalculia)
    • Sensory processing differences
    • Mood disorders (sometimes)
    • PTSD and C-PTSD (especially when they cause long-term brain changes)

    For some, it’s hardwired. For others, it’s trauma-shaped. And for many of us, it’s both.

    In my own family, neurodivergence runs deep.

    My mother lived with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. My oldest son has ADD and anxiety. My youngest is autistic, has an intellectual disability, and also lives with ADHD. I’ve carried complex PTSD, anxiety, depression—and honestly, probably undiagnosed ADD too.

    We are not broken. We are not less.

    We are a line of deeply sensitive, differently wired humans trying to survive in a world that doesn’t always recognize our kind of brilliance.

    I know what it is to be the outcast.

    I watched my mom become one—judged and misunderstood by her own family, dismissed by society because her bipolar and schizophrenia made people uncomfortable. I’ve watched my youngest son become one too. He’s autistic, has an intellectual disability, and ADHD. And I know—deeply know—that if I hadn’t chosen to value his wiring, the world might have crushed him. For a little while, it did.

    But this kid plays the drums like nobody’s business.

    He is fiercely protective, wildly loyal, and more emotionally intuitive than anyone I’ve ever met.
    And every once in a while, he’ll say something so specific, so strange, so piercingly true, I swear he’s reading my mind — or someone else’s.

    We don’t talk about this kind of intelligence enough. The kind that doesn’t show up on standardized tests or IQ charts, but lives in the bones. In the music. In the knowing.

    Neurodivergence simply means your brain functions in a way that diverges from the norm. That’s not bad. That’s essential—because the “norm” was never built with all of us in mind.

    The Bigger Picture

    We live in a culture that rewards sameness: attention that stays linear, emotions that stay tidy, learning that happens on schedule.

    But real life is messier than that. And real people are more complex.

    Some of the most powerful thinkers, healers, leaders, and artists I know live with labels that would’ve sidelined them if they hadn’t learned to translate their differences into power.

    Different doesn’t take away from the conversation. It adds to it.

    And the next time you wonder if something is “wrong” with you,  pause.

    What if that part of you isn’t broken?

    What if it’s just misunderstood?

    What if it’s trying to show you something the world forgot how to hear?

  • Why You Might Not Notice Your Progress

    Why You Might Not Notice Your Progress

  • Overwhelmingly Grateful

    Overwhelmingly Grateful

  • Some of You Are Walking Love Letters

    Some of You Are Walking Love Letters

  • Could Curiosity Be the Best Medicine for Chronic Illness?

    Could Curiosity Be the Best Medicine for Chronic Illness?

    “Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t, you’re right.” ~Henry Ford

    We’ve all been there: happily ticking off life’s checkboxes, certain we’ve cracked the code, until—bam!—life decides otherwise. Divorce papers, layoffs, grief, or unexpected illness—life’s curveballs don’t discriminate.

    For me, it was a sudden mystery illness at sixteen. What should have been a simple infection changed the trajectory of my entire life. Doctors were at a loss, tests offered no answers, and I was left navigating an uncertain reality, desperately clinging to control as my lifeline.

    One day I’m cheering at the Friday night football game, and the next I’m navigating a seemingly endless string of endoscopies, colonoscopies, biopsies, EEGs, EKGs, psych tests, countless blood tests, and still no answers.

    I remember the day it all went wrong.

    I was in high school watching a movie at a friend’s house when we burned the popcorn. Annoying, sure, but not a cause for concern. Except for me, the room started spinning, and my head felt like it was going to explode, so I stepped outside to get some air.

    Next thing I know, the cute boy I had a crush on found me passed out in the driveway. This was the beginning of chasing symptoms that were only getting more mysterious and increasingly worrisome.

    Navigating a chronic mystery illness as a young adult felt impossible, devastatingly unfair, and inconsistent. One week I would think the worst was behind me, finally able to put my life back together, and the next I was blindsided once again by some new symptom.

    My friends were getting jobs, going to parties, dating, and discovering who they were while I was curled up on the bathroom floor. By my twenties, leaving important meetings at work to throw up blood in the bathroom was my normal.

    The hardest part was never knowing if I could trust my own body. Was I going to wake up healthy or in excruciating pain?

    I spent years in victim mode, trying to “get it right,” believing if I tried hard enough I could control my way out of the problem. If I could just anticipate every twist, I’d never feel blindsided again.

    Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. My health spiraled, my relationships suffered, and financial problems and self-medication replaced self-compassion and security. No amount of control shielded me from the inevitable messiness of being human, especially a human with a chronic illness.

    Along the way, there were so many rock bottoms I’m not sure I could choose one pivotal moment. By the time I was approaching thirty, I had been on state disability and was taking so many meds that I was having paranoid, suicidal thoughts. It was clear that whatever uphill battle I was fighting wasn’t working, but I didn’t see another way out, and I was too young to give up. I think they call this being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

    There was nowhere to go for advice or more answers, and that is the loneliest I have ever been. The unknown was sitting there, staring me in the face, playing a game of chicken.

    Despite any evidence that I was going to win, I wasn’t going to back down either. So I walked away from traditional treatment plans, which weren’t working anyway, and focused on what I could control: my mindset and my attitude. It was time to learn how to make proverbial lemonade from a batch of rotten lemons.

    To preserve the small amount of sanity I had left, curiosity became my lifeline. Since resisting or controlling reality didn’t work, what if I got curious about it instead? This wasn’t about blind optimism, toxic positivity, or magical thinking. Frankly, manifesting and cosmic trust felt too far-fetched for someone who didn’t know if they would be able to physically or mentally get out of bed.

    I needed something practical, something that felt grounded and possible. “What if?” helped me suspend reality just long enough to see things in a different way. It shifted from a challenging self-experiment to my new guiding principle.

    • What if my body wasn’t betraying me but teaching me something crucial?
    • What if every upheaval wasn’t punishment but an invitation to deeper self-awareness?
    • What if I could find a way to be happy, even if life wasn’t what I thought it would be?
    • What if I wasn’t broken; I just needed to do things differently than other people?
    • What if it didn’t need to be this hard?

    Over time, curiosity helped me open a new reality, one where my biggest pain was also my greatest teacher. I was forced to practice sitting in the discomfort of the unknown and am all the better for it. Eventually, I was diagnosed with a mitochondrial disorder, but at the time, treatment options were limited, so my diagnosis didn’t provide any more certainty than before.

    The road was long and bumpy, to say the least. I mean, there was an entire decade I was hopeless, jobless, and puking blood on the daily. But along the way, my medical journey forced me to embrace a new narrative, one where I didn’t see myself as sick. I changed my relationship to not only my body but also to how I look at life. What felt like a limitation was the key to unlocking my liberation—I just didn’t know it at the time.

    While not a magic pill, this shift helped me heal and stay healthy for almost ten years. Little did I know that another curveball was waiting for me on my fortieth birthday.

    After suffering mold poisoning due to a water leak in my apartment, my mitochondrial disorder came back in full force. I was puking blood on the bathroom floor and all. This time, I wasn’t sixteen, and I had the tools to reclaim my power when everything around me was falling apart. Instead of spiraling about my lack of control or the unfair circumstances, I had the framework to move forward.

    This didn’t change my very real and painful challenges. It didn’t lessen the financial blow or logistical upheaval to my life. But it did allow me to traverse a relapse with the curiosity I needed to move forward calmly and confidently, despite this new uncertainty.

    If you’ve struggled with Hashimoto’s, perimenopause, gut issues, chronic fatigue, back pain, depression, or any other unwanted diagnosis, maybe you can relate. That’s the thing about chronic illness—the symptoms may be different, but the pain of knowing how to move forward is usually the same.

    My lessons were hard-earned, but they helped me transform pain into possibility when everything felt uncertain, and hopefully, they can help you too.

    My three steps to navigating life’s uncertainties:

    1. Curiosity is the door to possibility.

    When life inevitably disrupts your carefully laid plans, allow yourself the space to grieve the loss of your expectations. Let yourself feel the pain because acceptance is key to moving forward. Then gently ask, “What if?”

    This can feel disruptive at first because, if you’re like me, you’ll cling to the reality you know like a life raft in a stormy sea. But if you can’t even entertain a different outcome for a moment, then nothing will ever change.

    • What if my body isn’t failing but asking me to slow down?
    • What if ending this relationship allows space for a deeper connection?
    • What if losing my job is forcing me not to settle for good enough?
    • What if this situation is asking me to finally face a hard truth I’ve been hiding from?

    This isn’t naive positivity; it’s a powerful cognitive shift. Curiosity disrupts habitual thinking and creates space for new truths you previously couldn’t imagine. When you explore different realities, you can start seeing opportunity where before all you saw was pain.

    Action: List your current struggles. Beside each, write down one bold, curiosity-driven “What if?” question. It isn’t wishful thinking—it’s challenging yourself to open your mind to a new possibility.

    2. Radical responsibility is your personal power.

    We’re all storytellers, weaving meaning into the events in our lives. For years, my narrative was, “This isn’t fair,” “Why did this happen to me,” or “I’m sick, so something’s fundamentally wrong with me.”

    While not great for my mental health, this narrative provided comfort because there is safety in certainty—and if you’re the victim of your own story, you don’t need to change. But comfort came at the cost of my agency. Even if it isn’t your fault, you are responsible for the state of your life because what you don’t change, you choose.

    Over time, I recognized that while the limitations of my illness were real, my identity didn’t have to be defined by them. Radical responsibility doesn’t mean blaming yourself or anyone else for life’s twists. It means reclaiming your ability to choose how you interpret and handle those events.

    I eventually chose to rewrite my narrative: my illness wasn’t proof I was broken; it was evidence of my resilience, a catalyst for growth, and my greatest teacher. This allowed me to create a reality where I wasn’t just enduring a chronic illness; I was thriving and learning how to become the best version of myself.

    Action: Write down a belief that’s keeping you stuck. Rewrite it starting with, “I choose to believe… because…” Then decide if that belief is serving you, or if you want to make a different choice. Notice how this shift feels. You control the narrative, not the circumstance.

    3. Community is the key to courage.

    Facing uncertainty alone is overwhelming and counterproductive. Who you surround yourself with not only provides support; it shapes your reality profoundly. I learned quickly that surrounding myself with people who validated my struggles instead of my growth kept me spinning in cycles.

    Statements like “Life isn’t fair,” “There is never enough,” or “That’s just how things are” are everywhere, but they become silent saboteurs. What you say and who you spend time with shape what you believe is possible for yourself and others.

    Finding people, places, and hobbies that support your curiosity, challenge your perception of what is possible, and encourage your evolution are essential. I’ve been moments away from quitting countless times, only to be saved by those who reminded me of my strength and progress. I look at the people around me with deep love, gratitude, and respect because how they show up in the world reminds me of what’s possible.

    Action: Reflect honestly on your relationships. List people who inspire courage and growth and those who reinforce limitations, even if they mean well. Prioritize nurturing the supportive connections.

    The Takeaway

    My experience navigating a lifetime of chronic illness has taught me that you can’t fight the inevitable, messy parts of life. They aren’t always fair (or fun), but you can find freedom instead of fear during the liminal spaces. Embracing uncertainty, however uncomfortable, has shown me that when everything is unknown, anything is possible.

    If you’re skeptical, I understand—I’ve been there. But what if the unknown isn’t something to fear but something to explore? What if embracing uncertainty is the secret superpower you’ve been looking for?

    Whether it’s dealing with chronic illness or any other unexpected plot twist life throws your way, stepping into the unknown isn’t easy, but trust me, it’s so worth it. On the other side is a life that is authentically, unapologetically yours—messy, imperfect, and profoundly liberating.

  • We’re Living on Borrowed Time

    We’re Living on Borrowed Time

  • When Someone You Love Shuts the Door

    When Someone You Love Shuts the Door

    “It is one thing to lose people you love. It is another to lose yourself. That is a greater loss.” ~Donna Goddard

    We didn’t mean to fall into anything romantic. It started as friendship, collaboration, long voice notes about work, life, trauma, and healing. We helped each other solve problems. We gave each other pep talks before difficult meetings. He liked to say I had good instincts; I told him he had grit.

    We shared vulnerabilities like flashlights in the dark—he told me about getting into fights, going to jail, losing jobs because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. I shared about growing up in a home with yelling, hitting, and silence, and how I used to chase validation in relationships just to feel seen. Somewhere in there, something sparked.

    By early May, the friendship shifted. There was a night we were sitting together, talking about emotional sobriety, when I felt it: the weight of his gaze, the stillness between us. We kissed. And then we didn’t stop. I didn’t expect it, but I also didn’t resist it. It felt natural, like picking up a conversation we didn’t realize we’d already started.

    But like many things built on intensity, it became complicated fast.

    He opened up about wanting to explore something sexually that I couldn’t. It may have felt like shame to him, but that wasn’t my intention—I was simply clear: I wouldn’t feel safe there. He was hurt. Said I’d stepped on his vulnerability. And I didn’t respond perfectly. I froze. That’s what I do when I feel pressure or threat. I don’t yell or lash out—I go quiet, retreat inward, try to understand what’s happening before I respond.

    Still, I thought we’d moved past it. I gave him space while traveling, and when we reconnected, he told me he was in love with me. That he accepted my situation. That it was worth it. That he’d be patient.

    So I met him in the middle. I softened. I opened a little more.

    He was a recovering alcoholic—sober for nearly nineteen years. He had wrecked two long-term relationships in the past, he told me. He’d been arrested multiple times, fired for outbursts, and said he was trying to do better now. I believed him. I saw the way he loved his dog training clients, how he was trying to build something on his own terms.

    I shared my own journey—how I’d sought approval in the arms of others when I felt dismissed or invisible in my marriage. How I went to SLAA and learned to sit with my feelings instead of running from them. How I founded a company, Geri-Gadgets, inspired by caring for my mom during her dementia journey. He understood the grief of losing a parent slowly. His mom had dementia too. We bonded over what that does to you—how it softens certain edges while sharpening others.

    We had history, shared values, hard-earned wisdom. That’s why I was so unprepared for how it ended.

    It started with a question. I asked him what I should wear to dinner with his sister and brother-in-law after a meeting we were attending together. He responded by sending me a photo of a woman in a short leather outfit, over-the-knee stiletto boots, and a dominatrix pose.

    I stared at the image, confused. Was it a joke? A test? A dig? Given my past—the abuse, the trauma, the very clear boundaries I’d communicated—I didn’t find it funny. I felt dismissed. Mocked, even. I made a comment about the woman’s body, not because I cared, but because I was triggered. Because I didn’t know how to say, This hurts me.

    That set off a chain reaction.

    We were supposed to be working on something together—a potential hire for his business—but the conversation turned tense. I felt myself shutting down. I needed time to process. I called to talk, to break through the tension with an actual voice, but he wouldn’t answer. He refused to talk to me—until he’d already decided to be done.

    By the time we finally spoke, it was over. He’d already shut the door. The ending didn’t come in one moment—it came in his silence, his refusal to engage when I needed him to. It came when vulnerability met a wall.

    This kind of ending triggers old wounds. The kind that taught me to freeze when someone withdraws love. The kind that makes me overfunction to earn back safety.

    I was the child who was hit and then ignored. My father would scream and slam a strap against my legs, then bury his head in the newspaper and pretend I didn’t exist. Those are the things that shape a nervous system. Those are the stories we carry into adulthood, whether we want to or not.

    In past relationships, I chased. I made excuses. I convinced myself it was my fault. I’d think: If only I were more accommodating… less sensitive… sexier, smarter, cooler… maybe they’d stay. But not this time.

    This time, I sat with the ache. I let it wash over me. I didn’t rush to fix it or fill it. I didn’t reach out. I didn’t beg for clarity or closure. I cried. I journaled. I went to meetings. I talked to trusted friends. I worked. I kept my boundaries intact.

    Because here’s what I’ve learned: I am worth calm. I am worth communication that doesn’t punish. I am worth someone who doesn’t confuse intensity with depth.

    He said I pivoted. But what he saw as inconsistency was actually growth. I was honoring a boundary. I wasn’t trying to wound him—I was trying to protect myself. And yes, sometimes that looks messy. Sometimes healing doesn’t come in a neat package with perfect communication and the right amount of eye contact. Sometimes it means making the best decision you can in real time with the nervous system you have.

    I had let him in. I trusted him with my story, my body, my boundaries. I showed up with care and effort and consistency. But I can’t control how someone receives me. I can only control how I respond when they shut the door.

    And this time, I didn’t run after it. I let it close. Gently, painfully, finally.

    Losing him hurt. But losing myself again would’ve hurt more.

    If you opened yourself up to someone and they rejected you, remember it’s not a reflection of your worth. And sometimes when someone walks away, it’s for the best if them staying would have meant you abandoning yourself.