The one who smooths things over.

The one who sees both sides.

The one who believes that if everyone would just sit down and have an honest conversation, we’d realize we have more in common than we think.

It’s one of the things I love most about myself.

It’s also one of the things that has hurt me the most.

For most of my life, I’ve felt responsible for keeping the peace.

Not because anyone asked me to.

Because I genuinely hate conflict.

I hate watching friendships fall apart.

I hate tension in a room.

I hate knowing that two people I care about aren’t speaking.

Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself it was my job to fix it.

The funny thing is...

It’s also what makes me a good leader.

I’ve always been able to understand where someone is coming from, even if I don’t agree with them. I can usually see both sides of an issue, and that helps people feel heard.

I think it’s also why people tend to open up to me.

Friends tell me things they’ve never told anyone else.

Coworkers pull me aside because they know I’ll listen without judgment.

Even strangers somehow end up sharing pieces of their lives with me.

Last December, outside AmFest, a group of young men recognized me from a street interview I’d done months earlier in Tampa. They came over just to say hello and told me they appreciated that I had treated them with respect, even though we didn’t agree politically.

That meant more to me than they probably realized.

I’ve also had videographers tell me I have a gift for getting people to open up on camera.

I think it’s because people know when they’re being genuinely heard.

And don’t confuse being a peacekeeper with being a people pleaser.

They’re not the same thing.

I don’t tell people what they want to hear.

I don’t compromise my values to keep everyone happy.

I simply believe people deserve to be treated with dignity—even when we disagree.

But every gift has a shadow side.

For years, I believed that if I could just explain things a little better... if I could just help people understand each other... eventually everyone would meet in the middle.

I’ve learned that’s only true when both people actually want to meet there.

You can’t build a bridge if someone else keeps removing the planks.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn is that not every relationship can be saved.

Not every misunderstanding can be cleared up.

Not every conflict is yours to carry.

And perhaps the hardest lesson of all...

Keeping the peace should never come at the expense of your own.

For years, I thought sacrificing my own comfort made me compassionate.

I thought staying quiet made me loyal.

I thought absorbing everyone else’s emotions made me a good friend.

Now I see things a little differently.

Compassion doesn’t require self-abandonment.

Loyalty doesn’t require silence.

And being a good person doesn’t mean becoming everyone’s emotional shock absorber.

Some relationships aren’t meant to be salvaged.

Some jobs aren’t worth sacrificing your inner peace.

And some friendships simply aren’t meant to last.

That doesn’t make you a failure.

It makes you human.

I still believe people are fundamentally good.

I still believe conversations can change hearts.

I still believe empathy matters.

Those parts of me aren’t changing.

What’s changing is this:

I’m learning that peace isn’t something I create by keeping everyone else happy.

It’s something I protect within myself.

Maybe that’s what growing up really is.

Realizing that you can have a kind heart … without carrying the weight of the whole world on your shoulders.

Not always gently.

Sometimes it forces you to see things you desperately hoped weren’t true.

If you know me, you know one thing about me:

I’m loyal as fuck.

Sometimes to a fault.

One of my biggest weaknesses is expecting people to treat others the way I would. I believe loyalty should be returned. That honesty matters. That if someone has a problem, they’ll have the conversation instead of letting you wonder.

Life has taught me that not everyone is wired that way.

And that’s okay.

It’s disappointing, but it’s also incredibly clarifying.

The same thing happens in friendships.

You meet someone and think, “This person is going to be in my life for a long time.”

Then one day you realize you’re the only one investing in the relationship.

As much as it hurts, those moments have a purpose.

They make room for the people who truly belong.

Business is a little different.

There’s a paycheck involved. Responsibilities. Expectations.

In almost any job, there comes a point where you have to decide whether to follow directions, even when you might not completely agree with them. That’s the reality of working for someone else. If you refuse to do the job you’ve been hired to do, there’s a good chance you won’t have that job for very long. So most of us keep our heads down, do the work, and trust that our effort will speak for itself.

Sometimes, though, things still end for reasons you’ll never fully understand.

I’ve stopped trying to solve puzzles that don’t belong to me.

As far as I know—I showed up, I did the work, and I gave it everything I had.

That’s enough for me.

I’ve realized that not having all the answers is oddly freeing.

I don’t have to understand every decision someone else makes.

I only have to decide what kind of person I want to be after those decisions affect me.

Looking back, this isn’t even the first time life has surprised me.

When I was in high school, I worked at a neighborhood pharmacy.

One day I showed up for my shift only to discover another employee had been called in to replace me. We were both confused.

A few minutes later, the manager called me into his office and fired me.

He told me my cash drawer had been off by hundreds of dollars on multiple occasions.

The strange part?

I had watched my drawer get counted after every shift, and no one had ever mentioned a problem.

I walked away confused, embarrassed, and wondering what I had done wrong.

A few months later, that same manager was charged with embezzling money from the pharmacy.

Suddenly, everything made a lot more sense.

That experience taught me something I’ve carried ever since:

Not every injustice is resolved immediately.

Sometimes life needs a little time to tell the whole story.

I don’t wish for revenge — I don’t need it.

Life has a funny way of balancing the books all on its own.

I’ve seen it happen too many times to believe otherwise.

So if life hands you rotten cherries...

Don’t waste your energy trying to convince yourself they’re sweet.

Toss them aside.

Keep walking.

Because every once in a while, just when things feel like they’re falling apart...

the universe has a habit of quietly upgrading your fruit basket.

Then there are seasons when the current changes without warning.

I’m reminded lately that life has its own ebbs and flows, much like the ocean has its tides or the wind carries clouds across the sky. We can fight against the current, or we can trust that eventually it will carry us somewhere new.

People are much the same.

They come into our lives for reasons we don’t always understand. Some stay for decades. Others are only passing through. Some leave us better than they found us. Others leave us with wounds that take time to heal.

As I close this chapter, I can honestly say I’m not sad to be walking away from an unhealthy environment. But I am incredibly grateful for the people I met because of it.

Over the past week, my phone has rarely been quiet.

The texts checking in.

The unexpected phone calls.

The ridiculous memes sent just to make me laugh.

The nonstop group chats.

Every notification has been a reminder that while organizations come and go, relationships are what truly matter.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again:

Family is chosen.

Sometimes life places us in unhealthy environments so we can recognize what healthy relationships actually look like. Sometimes we have to experience the worst in people before we fully appreciate the best in others.

Ironically, one difficult season has introduced me to some of the most compassionate, generous, funny, and fiercely loyal people I’ve ever known.

That’s a trade I’ll take every time.

This experience has also forced me to look inward.

I’ve always been an eternal optimist. I naturally look for the good in people. I believe that most people have good intentions. I lead with my heart, give everything I’ve got, and genuinely want everyone around me to succeed.

I know not everyone is wired that way.

Some people are builders.

Some people are takers.

Some people inspire trust.

Others see trust as something to exploit.

For a long time, I viewed that as one of my greatest weaknesses. I wondered if I was too trusting, too forgiving, too willing to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Lately, I’ve realized it’s actually one of my strengths.

The goal isn’t to become cynical.

The goal is to keep my heart open while becoming wiser about who earns access to it.

Another thing I’ve learned about myself is that I’m a peacekeeper.

I hate conflict.

I hate watching friends drift apart or coworkers turn against one another. My instinct is always to bridge the gap, smooth things over, and help people see each other’s humanity.

Sometimes that’s my superpower.

Sometimes it’s my downfall.

Not every conflict can be fixed by the person standing in the middle. Sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is step away and let people choose the path they’re going to take.

That’s been one of the hardest lessons for me.

But maybe one of the most important.

As painful as change can be, I’m choosing to focus on what remains instead of what I’ve lost.

The friendships.

The laughter.

The late-night conversations.

The people who reached out without expecting anything in return.

The people who reminded me that I’m not walking this road alone.

Life has a funny way of clearing away what no longer serves us, while leaving behind exactly what we need.

I know this season won’t last forever.

It never does.

This too shall pass.

Whatever it is, it’s been a rollercoaster.

Being told that you no longer have approved hours for a job you’ve poured yourself into for the past eight months—and that someone else will just do the work themselves—is a pretty hard pill to swallow. Especially when there had never been any indication they were unhappy with your performance. Especially when you watched someone else repeatedly be told they weren’t pulling their weight, while you quietly kept showing up and doing yours.

It’s insulting.

But if I’m being honest, it wasn’t entirely surprising.

I’ve seen these behavior patterns before. I just chose to ignore them because I believed in the mission, and because I was getting paid to do work I genuinely enjoyed. I kept my head down. I stayed focused. I convinced myself that if I just worked harder, stayed loyal, and avoided the drama, everything would be fine.

Loyalty can be a beautiful thing.

It can also blind you.

Over the past year, I found myself defending decisions I wasn’t entirely comfortable with. I stayed silent when maybe I shouldn’t have. I participated in choices that hurt people I cared about because I believed the bigger mission mattered more.

I even weathered my own internet cancellation over a decision that wasn’t mine to make. To this day, I still don’t fully understand why so many people on the left seem determined to destroy each other rather than focus on the actual fight ahead. But that’s a conversation for another day.

The point is this:

I was loyal to a fault.

And for what?

To be discarded like last week’s trash.

There’s an irony in that which almost makes me laugh.

Almost.

Because it isn’t actually funny.

One of the hardest parts wasn’t even losing the job. It was having to be the one who delivered difficult news to students and volunteers who had trusted me. I had built real relationships with young organizers across the country. They deserved honesty and communication. Instead, I found myself cleaning up messes that weren’t mine to make.

That part still hurts.

The silver lining, if there is one, is that experiences like this have a way of clarifying things.

I’ve learned some difficult lessons.

I’ve repaired relationships that I feared were broken forever.

I’ve taken a long, hard look at my own choices and where I compromised my own values in the name of loyalty.

None of that excuses my actions.

If I hurt you, I’m genuinely sorry.

I know an apology doesn’t erase disappointment or repair trust overnight. But I hope it can reopen the door to a conversation. Growth doesn’t happen by pretending we got everything right. It happens when we’re willing to own the parts we got wrong.

As for the people who think I’m an idiot...

That’s your opinion.

I did what I thought was right with the information I had at the time. Some of those decisions turned out to be mistakes. I’ll own every single one of them. That’s more than a lot of people are willing to do.

Now comes the next chapter.

Job hunting isn’t exactly how I planned to spend the end of summer. It’s scary, frustrating, and humbling all at once. The irony is that I actually loved much of the work I was doing. I loved mentoring students. I loved organizing. I loved helping build something bigger than myself.

But sometimes life has a funny way of removing you from a situation before you realize how unhealthy it had become.

I’m choosing to believe that this isn’t an ending.

It’s a redirect.

For now, I’m taking it one day at a time.

I’m meditating.

I’m taking care of my mental health.

I’m spending time with people who remind me who I am outside of a job title.

And I’m trusting that the next opportunity won’t just be another paycheck—it will be a place where loyalty is reciprocated, honesty is valued, and doing the right thing isn’t treated as optional.

Sometimes the biggest curveballs force us to stop gripping so tightly to what wasn’t meant to last.

Maybe that’s where the real story begins.

For a split second, I honestly thought they were going to tackle Rook to the ground.

My heart started racing. Instinct took over, and I pulled out my phone to record. So did Robby. So did Ceci. So did Shmoo. Between all of us, we captured the arrest from multiple angles as they cuffed Rook.

Then they turned their attention to Ceci.

“She was in on it too. She opened the bag, and he stuck a dildo in the fence.”

And then...

They looked at me.

“She has a dildo in her hand.”

It took every ounce of self-control not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the statement.

Doesn’t that actually prove I didn’t do anything?

The dildo was still in my hand.

I hadn’t left it behind.

I hadn’t “failed to use a receptacle.”

Apparently, simply existing while holding a purple dildo was enough to become a suspect.

But the moment I’ll remember most from that night wasn’t the detention.

It was Ceci.

She was desperately trying to explain to the officers that I hadn’t done anything wrong. She stumbled over her words, trying to defend me, refusing to let them lump me in with accusations that simply weren’t true.

Then, as they started marching us away, she let out this little frustrated huff and stomped her foot before turning to walk. Her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side as the National Guard escorted us to the US Park Police.

It was such a small moment.

But it meant everything to me.

As I followed behind her in handcuffs, one thought crossed my mind:

Are we going to be cellmates?

Will they let us stay together if they take us to jail?

Thankfully, we never found out.

After roughly 90 minutes of being detained, we were issued federal citations, and released.

But let me be clear: these aren’t ordinary littering tickets.

These are federal, criminal citations, requiring us to return to Washington, D.C., to appear in federal court.

If nothing else, the appearance should be entertaining as we explain to the judge why we had a bag full of dicks with politcal messages on them!

Somehow, I don't think they covered that in law school.

Note: If you'd like to support us, we've set up a GoFundMe to help cover the travel, lodging, and legal expenses required to return to Washington, D.C., and fight these federal citations. Every contribution helps. Thank you for standing with us.

Then I felt the thick, swampy D.C. air shift as they ran past me.

“You’re being detained.”

Within seconds, members of the National Guard were surrounding us, claiming we had vandalized federal property.

“Did I damage something?” Rook asked as they pulled his arms behind his back. He still had a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth while they snapped on the cuffs.

A female Guardswoman pointed at me.

“She has a dildo in her hand.”

She wasn’t wrong. I was holding a purple dildo in my left hand while recording Rook and Ceci with my phone in my right.

“But... I didn’t do anything,” I stammered.

“You had a dildo in your hand.”

“Yes...”

Last time I checked, possessing a dildo wasn’t a federal crime.

Our evening had started much differently.

After a long day of protesting at the Capitol, a group of friends—some I’d known for years, others I’d only recently met that night—decided to wander over to the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool.

Someone mentioned that the night before, another group had left a handful of dildos in the temporary fencing surrounding the Reflecting Pool.

These weren’t just random dildos.

They were political props.

Each one had a message written on it:

• If found, return to JD Vance.

• Fuck Trump.

• Fuck ICE.

• Chinga La Migra.

• 8647.

Pink. Purple. Clear. Brown. An entire rainbow of silicone in the name of political expression.

Naturally, we laughed.

Someone joked about the unmistakably phallic shape of the Washington Monument, and before long we were taking photos comparing the monument to the colorful collection in our hands.

Then we slowly walked back up the steps ... still giggling about the shape of the monument.

Within minutes the National Guard descended on us as though we had just attempted to overthrow the government.

One purple dildo.

Three people detained.

Ninety minutes in custody.

Transferred to the U.S. Park Police.

Federal citations.

All because, apparently, the lore of a dildo had just entered American history.

Note: If you'd like to support us, we've set up a GoFundMe to help cover the travel and legal expenses required to return to Washington, D.C., and fight these federal citations. Every contribution helps. Thank you for standing with us. 🍆

The truth is, the whole world has felt unbearably heavy lately. Every headline, every scroll, every conversation carries this low-grade hum of grief, fear, and exhaustion. For a while, it didn’t feel right to write about my own heartbreak or dating drama—like my feelings were too small, too indulgent, too self-pitying in the grand scheme of things. But then it hit me: maybe naming the human stuff is the relief. Maybe a little honesty, a little vulnerability, a little levity is exactly what we need right now. If nothing else, maybe it helps my small corner of readers feel a little less alone in whatever they’re quietly carrying.

My heart needed some time to repair and reset. I still can’t quite believe how emotionally exhausting a short-lived relationship can be—but I suppose when there’s no real closure, that’s exactly how it feels.

It’s also deeply unsettling to learn that someone you genuinely believed was a good guy was cheating on you… and planning it right in front of you while you slept in his bed next to him. That’s a whole other level of deceptive—maybe even self-serving—behavior. Whatever the label, it messes with your head.

In some ways, I feel like I got played. He wasn’t who he presented himself to be. And yet, in hindsight, he actually did tell me who he was—over and over again. He repeatedly said he was a piece of shit and didn’t understand why I cared to be with him. I chalked it up to insecurity. It didn’t faze me at the time.

I wasn’t looking for a lifelong partner. I just wanted someone I could enjoy being with for the foreseeable future. We had fun. We laughed. We shared space easily. I genuinely believed he cared about me. And maybe he did—on some level. He just didn’t know how to connect in a healthy way, and instead chose to sabotage things before they got too real.

Since then, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole of learning about avoidant attachment—something I had never experienced before—and wow… enlightening doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Going on the UFA Tour in December helped me reconnect with my chosen family, which is always good medicine for the soul. I’ve also been getting more involved in my community, which has helped pull my focus back to myself and the things that ground me.

I did reactivate my dating app… and oof. I had forgotten just how exhausting that world can be. Living in the middle of nowhere, small-town rural America does not exactly offer a robust dating pool. Everyone either looks like Jesse Pinkman from Breaking Bad (and not Aaron Paul—Jesse Pinkman, IYKYK) or gives off a mild serial-killer vibe.

So yeah… it might be a while before I go on another date. But don’t worry—I’ve got plenty of Phoenix stories tucked away, and I’ll be sharing those soon enough. 💗

After nearly a decade out of the dating pool, I decided to dip my toes back in. The first few months? A parade of losers — if I’m being honest. About a dozen dates, give or take—and only one real standout. Those odds aren’t exactly encouraging.

But that one sweet guy gave me hope.

He was in his early 30s, kind of an unexpected match—and somehow we shared the same birthday. What are the odds? He was sweet, kind, a true gentleman. He made me feel sexy and seen, and we genuinely enjoyed our time together. Ultimately, life pulled us in different directions—he had a lot going on, and I was in the midst of losing my dad. We parted ways gently. We still text occasionally when something reminds us of the other. He’ll always hold a soft place in my heart.

Then came June, when I moved to a small town.

Let’s just say the online dating pool there was… less than desirable. But I did meet someone in my RV park. I saw the red flags. I knew better. But I told myself I was only looking for something casual—not a life partner—so I ignored them.

That was a mistake.

He turned out to be a full-blown narcissist who thrived on control. When I wouldn’t give him a reaction—or simply disengaged—it drove him absolutely crazy.

In August, I met another guy in the park. He was kind, caring, and treated me like a princess. We started spending time together every day after work, and unsurprisingly, that sent the previous guy into a full spiral. The harassment escalated, making both of our lives miserable.

By the end of September, my new guy moved to a different camp for his work. I relocated to a new RV park in October. We kept seeing each other, and I’d visit him for a week or so at a time. Things felt good. Easy. Real. We were figuring each other out. We even talked—casually, but sincerely—about me possibly moving out there in a few months if things continued to go well.

And then… everything blew up.

His ex caused drama and told me to run.
I discovered he had cheated on me weeks earlier with a woman he told me was a friend. And because he’s an avoidant, he wouldn’t talk about it. He even straight-up denied it at first.

The next day he drove me home, gave me the best hug—one that, in hindsight, felt like a goodbye he’d already processed—and then he disappeared. I told him I wasn’t angry. I wanted to talk. I was willing to move past what happened.

He wasn’t.

That lack of closure was brutal. Probably the hardest breakup I’ve ever experienced—not because of the betrayal itself, but because he avoided the ending entirely. No accountability. No emotional responsibility. Just silence. I was left wondering what had happened. How it had gone from amazing to over in a matter of hours.

Since then, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole of understanding avoidant attachment styles, and all I can say is… wow. In the long run, I probably dodged a bullet. But that doesn’t make the short-term pain any easier.

If this year taught me anything, it’s this:

Dating younger men often comes with inexperience—but less baggage.
Dating men my age comes with a lot of baggage—and the ability to hide their true character far longer than I ever expected.

I’m usually a good judge of character. My intuition rarely fails me—
unless, of course, I choose not to listen to it.

And that might be the biggest lesson of all.

The silence is what keeps me up at night.

Has he already moved on to someone new?
Does he hate me?
Does he even care how I feel?

I know these thoughts aren’t rational.
They’re not coming from my brain — they’re coming from my heart.
Because I cared deeply, so it hurts deeply.
Avoidants don’t process emotions the same way. They don’t understand their feelings, let alone express them. They retreat instead of repair.

What I want — what would help — is closure.
A final conversation.
A moment of mutual understanding, respect, maybe even love.
But I may or may not ever get that.
I’m learning I have to accept that, even though I don’t want to.

He was the first man I allowed into my heart in a decade.
Ten years of walls, independence, solitude, and choosing myself — and somehow he slipped through.
So of course it’s going to take time to heal.
I just wish it hadn’t ended this way… or ended at all, if I’m honest.

Because I was willing to move past what happened.
I was willing to talk through it, learn from it, and rebuild.
But he went straight into avoidant shutdown mode — dealing internally with shame, guilt, trauma, and whatever stories he’s told himself about why he doesn’t deserve love or why it always “goes wrong.” And when an avoidant shuts down, nothing and no one can get through.

What I miss most isn’t the relationship — but the connection.
The rare ease of being with someone without expectation.
The comfort of quiet nights on the patio.
The daily texts.
The shared jokes.
The intimacy.
The way we could just exist next to each other and feel… right.

I miss his strong arms.
His warm embrace.
His soft, gentle kisses.
The way he reached for my hand.
His ability to make me feel completely safe and seen — something I didn’t realize I’d been craving until I finally had it.

I have no doubt someone else exists who can give me those things — without avoidant attachment issues.
Someone who won’t run the moment things get real.
Someone who won’t shut me out the second their shame gets triggered.

But I still have that longing for him.
For what we shared.
For what I thought we were building.
And I don’t know how long it will take to move on from that.

And that’s okay.

Healing doesn’t follow a schedule.
It follows the heart.

And mine is still catching up.

I love deeply.
I love intentionally.
I love with a softness and a sincerity that I know is rare in this world.

I’m a nurturer — anyone who has spent even a small amount of time around me knows that:
I communicate.
I give clarity.
I give respect.
I don’t play games.
I don’t manipulate.
I don’t run hot and cold.
I don’t lie.
I don’t breadcrumb.

I’m generous with my affection, steady with my intention, and honest about what I want and what I can give. And because of that, I expect the same respect in return. Not perfection — just reciprocity.

And with him, I really did trust.
He made me feel safe.
He made me feel cared for.
He made me feel like I was someone special — someone worth choosing.
And maybe that’s where everything went off the rails.

Maybe he never actually wanted more than a friend-with-benefits.
Maybe he wanted the closeness without the accountability.
Maybe he wanted the comfort of exclusivity without the responsibility of it.

But that’s not what he said.
From the beginning, he was the one who didn’t “do casual.”
He was the one who wanted exclusivity.
He was the one who said he didn’t share well.
And I believed him.

What hurts the most isn’t the cheating, or even the betrayal — it’s the loneliness that comes after.
The empty space where his presence used to be.
I miss talking with him every day.
I miss the way our evenings unfolded on the patio — music playing, the desert air, the soft comfort of simply being together without needing to fill every second with words.

I miss the familiarity.
The ease.
The quiet joy of having someone in my orbit.

And yes — I know it’s him.
I know this is his wound, not mine.
He needs to heal himself before he can offer anything resembling real love.

He warned me in subtle ways:
Women always eventually leave me.
I always fuck up.
I’m a piece of shit.
I never do anything right.
I’m selfish.

Those weren’t jokes.
They were confessions disguised as self-deprecation.
A preview of the heartbreak that was coming.

What I didn’t expect was the cheating.
The betrayal.
The ease with which he shifted blame onto me to avoid his own shame.
The story he wrote where I was the villain, simply because I saw the truth.

I didn’t want to fix him.
I didn’t want to change him.
I just wanted to meet him where he was, as he was, and see what could grow there.

But love — even soft, casual, undefined love — cannot bloom in soil where someone doesn’t love themselves.

And that, painfully, is the truth I’m left holding.

My friends don’t understand why I even care.
Why I would still take him back and try again.
Why I’m still tangled up in the pieces of this.

They think I should just move on — quickly, cleanly, decisively.
But they didn’t see the man I saw.
The soft, gentle, caring parts of him.
The way he made me feel safe in a year when safety felt impossible.
The way he held me, laughed with me, cooked with me, listened to music with me.
They didn’t see the tenderness woven into those early weeks — the parts of him that were real, even if they weren’t sustainable.

And they also don’t understand how exhausting modern dating is.
How much emotional labor it takes just to find someone you genuinely enjoy being around.
How many ghosters, breadcrumbers, avoidants, and liars you have to wade through just to stumble into a tiny moment of connection.

It’s not easy to simply “move on” when you finally found someone who made you feel comfortable in your own skin — someone who made you feel safe, wanted, and sexy again.

My mind says run.
My nervous system says protect yourself.
My intuition says this was a lesson.

But my heart — the part of me that loves deeply and fully — whispers stay.
Not necessarily stay with him.
But stay open.
Stay tender.
Stay willing to believe that the care I felt was real, even if he couldn’t sustain it.

I hurt because I loved. And I loved because I’m human. And maybe that’s the whole point — to keep letting our hearts expand, even when it aches.

So let’s rewind.

About a month ago, I went to Vegas with my tour. The week before, I’d stayed with him — cooking together, sitting on the patio listening to music, talking about life. We were effortless, comfortable. And then, when he dropped me off, the energy shifted.
I felt it. My gut felt it.
It always does.

While I was gone, the texts turned short and distant — one-word answers, the occasional emoji. When I asked if something was wrong, he said he was stressed and needed space because he had to go to Phoenix to deal with issues with his daughter.
Give me space for the weekend, he said.
Okay. I did that.

What he didn’t say was that he had told everyone but me that we were “on a break.”

“I need space” and “we’re on a break” are not the same sentence.
Not in my world.

Then I returned, and we spent two weeks together that felt incredibly good. We were talking, laughing, reconnecting. Everything felt healed… until his ex got in my face one night and told me to run.

That’s when intuition — my oldest, most loyal friend — screamed to look deeper.

So I looked.
And I found it.

What I found was shocking.

Messages to a woman he knew.
A planned sexual hookup in Phoenix.
Sexting that started while I was still there … sleeping in his bed — and continued while I was in Vegas.

The betrayal was painful.
But what came next was worse.

Because when I confronted him, he didn’t deny it.
Instead, he flipped the script.

Suddenly, the issue wasn’t the cheating.
It wasn’t the secrecy.
It wasn’t the lies he told everyone but me.

It was me looking. I was the problem.
That was the “line I crossed.”
That was the unforgivable act.

Not him, not the betrayal. Me.

He can’t face his own actions, so he makes me the villain for finding the truth.

And here’s the irony so sharp it should come with a warning label:

He was the one who asked us to be exclusive.
Not me.
He was the one who told me he “doesn’t share well.”
He was the one who initiated the boundary — then broke it — then blamed me for discovering it.

I told him, honestly, that I wasn’t angry. That I still cared. That I wanted to move forward and get back to who we were. I told him I knew the fling didn’t mean anything. I told him I wasn’t going to punish him.

I was trying.
Trying to see the human under the shame.
Trying to stay when every part of me wanted to run.
Trying to communicate instead of react.

But trauma — his trauma — had already taken the wheel.

He couldn’t tolerate the guilt, so he painted himself as the wounded party… and me as the villain. He needed a story where he wasn’t the one who broke trust. So he created one. If he repeated it loud enough “we were on a break, I didn’t cheat” then it must be true.

It’s heartbreaking how fast someone can go from caring to cutting.
How fast they can rewrite history to protect themselves.
How fast they can forget the softness you showed them.

Those three months together meant something to me.
The laughter.
The conversations.
The late-night snuggles.
The “good night” texts.
The cooking together.
The quiet moments that felt healing.

I thought we were rebuilding.
Turns out, I was rebuilding alone.

And the part that hurts the most isn’t the fling.
It’s that after he asked for exclusivity… after he built the container… after he invited me in… he wanted out the moment I saw the truth.

That tells me everything.
Not about me.
About him.

Because I wanted to believe he cared.
Because I still tried to meet him with compassion and emotional maturity.
Because part of me hoped he’d realize how hard I was trying to love him through the mess — even when he wasn’t capable of loving me back.

But that’s the hardest lesson of all, isn’t it?
That you can do everything right — be patient, loyal, forgiving — and still not be enough for someone who hasn’t learned to love themselves.

It started with mean girls — yes, they still exist in your fifties, and even in the yoga world. The kind of women who smile to your face one minutes, and then sharpen their knives behind your back the next. After the Iowa Yoga Conference last fall, it felt like the community I had poured my soul into suddenly had no room for me in it. That betrayal cut deeper than I ever expected.

Then came the unraveling.
The magazine started struggling. Income plummeted. One by one, my staff and volunteers quit, leaving me to hold it all together with trembling hands. These were people I considered friends, but left me in the cold without so much as a conversation.

Facebook froze my creator funds for almost three months — three months of panic, of not knowing how to keep food in my fridge. I lost 20 pounds from sheer stress, panic, and anxiety.

And just when I thought I couldn’t take one more thing, my dad had a stroke.
Then he died.
There’s no way to write that sentence gently. He was my anchor. And losing him — the one person who loved me without condition — cracked something in me that I haven’t yet been able to fully mend.

After that, it all blurred together — losing my truck, getting a 30-day notice to vacate my friend’s property, being forced to move again because a man I had a fling with turned out to be a true psychopath — the kind who thrives on chaos and control. I escaped, but not without some emotional bruises.

And then Jeremy.
I really thought he was different.
For three months, I let myself believe in our evenings on the patio, tender moments, and the kind of safety I hadn’t felt in years. Until the truth surfaced — that I wasn’t the only one he was being intimate with. Finding out he cheated shattered something sacred. Not just my heart, but my hope.

How do I trust anyone again, after all the heartbreak (not just in romance, but in friendships as well)??

It’s been loss after loss. Blow after blow. Every time I thought I could finally breathe again, another wave hit harder than the last.

• This past year has been a master class in survival.

• In losing people I thought were my forever.

• In watching dreams I built with my own two hands teeter on the edge of collapse.

• In grieving the man who raised me, and the men who broke me.

• In realizing that sometimes, rock bottom isn’t one moment — it’s a season that keeps on giving.

I wish I could say I found peace. I haven’t.
But I am still here — raw, restless, and writing my way through the wreckage.

Maybe that’s enough for now.

If you’ve had a year that tried to break you too, I see you.
The quiet ache, the questions, the exhaustion — it all counts as survival. Leave a comment, send a note, or just know that somewhere out there, someone else is still standing too.

Someone who shows me care, kindness, and compassion without expecting anything in return.

He didn’t sweep me off my feet; he quietly crept into my peace.

In a year full of loss, frustration, and challenges—a year that’s made me question if I even wanted to keep trying—it’s been a welcome reprieve to have someone to snuggle with, to talk to every evening, to simply be with. No masks. No false pretenses. Just me, as I am.

We’re both realists. We’ve had the talk that this probably isn’t forever—and that’s okay. He’s here for a few years for work, and who knows when I’ll be able to hit the open road again. So instead of overthinking it, we’ve decided to just enjoy the now.

We sit on the patio, listen to music, laugh about nothing, and talk about everything. We find comfort in each other’s company without needing to define it. He reminds me that being cared for doesn’t have to mean losing my independence—it can simply mean letting someone in.

He’s nothing like I expected. And maybe that’s exactly why this feels different. His calm balances my energy. His work ethic mirrors my dad’s—steady, grounded, and kind. They share that simple approach to life… and the same love of cars, tractors, and grease, while I can barely change a tire without complaining about getting dirty.

In a year full of detours and hard lessons, this connection has been the unexpected soft place to land. I didn’t think I was capable of feeling much anymore—but here I am, feeling all the feels.

Maybe that’s the Universe’s quiet reminder: sometimes what we need most doesn’t come charging in. It drifts in softly, sits beside us, and reminds us we’re still capable of joy.

Life really does have a funny way of sneaking up on us when we least expect it. 💗

When a narcissist can no longer control you, they’ll try to control how others see you. And that’s exactly what happened to me.

He started spreading lies — the kind meant to sting, to discredit, to isolate. He told my dear friend of nearly fifteen years that I was a liar, a manipulator, that I’d been kicked out of RV parks before and it was “a pattern.” That I caused trouble wherever I went. That I had a drinking problem. That even my family had cut me off.

He even tried convincing her that the male voice she’d heard calling me derogatory names — the same voice that shouted “f*ucking trash” out a truck window — was my new partner, not him. (Because of course, accountability isn’t in a narcissist’s vocabulary.)

And when that didn’t work? He threatened her too. Told her he’d have his friends in her town leave bad reviews about her business.

That’s what abusers do.
When they can’t get to you, they go after the people who love you. They try to isolate you, discredit you, and destroy your support system — because if they can’t break your spirit, they’ll try to break your connections.

But he picked the wrong friend.
She stood up for me — fiercely. Because she knows me. She knows my truth. And she saw right through his lies.

So for anyone reading this who’s been there: trust your intuition. When the mask slips and the manipulation starts, believe what you’re seeing. It’s not your fault. You didn’t cause it. And you’re not crazy for standing up for yourself.

Because sometimes surviving abuse means not just escaping the person — but reclaiming your story.

This is why speaking up matters.

Abuse thrives in silence—it feeds on fear, isolation, and shame. But when we start telling our stories, we take that power back. We expose the patterns, the manipulation, the lies. We shine light into the places they thought they could keep hidden.

I share my experience not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary. Because someone reading this might see themselves in it and realize: this isn’t love, and it isn’t normal. Emotional abuse, psychological manipulation, coercive control—these are all forms of domestic violence.

If this sounds familiar, please know you are not alone. You are not “crazy.” And you do not deserve to be treated this way.

💜 If you need help:

• National Domestic Violence Hotline (U.S.): 1-800-799-7233 or text START to 88788 — thehotline.org

• Find international hotlines: findahelpline.com

Your story matters. Your safety matters. And your peace is worth protecting.

I was married to an alcoholic who would come home from the bar at 2 a.m. and try to pick fights with me while I was half-asleep. But I never labeled it “abuse.” I convinced myself he would change once we graduated college, once he had a real job, once life required him to wake up at 6 a.m. instead of closing the bar.

That’s the thing about “functioning alcoholism,” though—they can function. They can show up to work, hang out with friends, seem totally fine to everyone else. His friends thought he was “fun.” But they didn’t see the 2 a.m. version of him that I did.

So when I found myself, years later, in a strange and disorienting relationship, it took me a minute to recognize it for what it was: classic emotional abuse by a narsisicst.

This man was constantly trying to control the narrative.
He’d put me down in ways that cut deep:
“You’re bad at sex. That’s why your hookups never call again.”
“You smell so bad you can’t complain about my cigarette smoke.”
“You’re selfish. No one wants to be around you.”

It was constant, and it was crushing. I would ask him, “Do you even read the texts you send me?” and he’d snap back, “You’re such a narcissist. That’s exactly what a narcissist would say.”

I’d call it gaslighting, and he’d turn it right back on me. He’d yell, and I’d sit in silence, because what’s the point in trying to reason with someone so irrational? He’d accuse me of “shutting down,” then tell me he was a good communicator, that he was just “telling me how he felt.”

But nothing I said was ever right.
Any attempt at self-defense was met with more criticism, more blame. He’d even tell me other people in my life probably felt the same way about me.

And then, just like that, he’d calm down and get sweet again.
He’d smile, hold me, tell me he cared.

That was the side of him I liked.
That was the side I kept hoping would stay.
But that’s how the abuse cycle works.

I pride myself on being a feminist, an independent woman. He tried to twist that, too. He’d sneer, “You’ve never been put in your place by a man.” And I’d respond, “And I never will.”

But now I realize—I was allowing him to do exactly that.

His frustration with my independence would boil over. He’d tell me I “had a problem with men,” as if feminism was the enemy. He’d complain that women usually spoil him and why hadn’t I cooked him a hot meal yet?
(I don’t even cook for myself.)
When I told him that, he said, “And that’s why you’re single.”

As if my singlehood was a flaw instead of a choice.

I never wanted a relationship with him. From the beginning, I was clear—I wanted a casual, friends-with-benefits situation. And at first, it seemed fine.

But the insults crept in everywhere. He told me I was “nothing special” in bed, that I didn’t do enough to make him feel special. Meanwhile, he was perfectly happy playing director the entire time we were together. I had no complaints about our sex life, but it wasn’t exactly the earth-shattering experience he seemed to believe it was. (Though I’m sure, somehow, that’s my fault too. Sarcasm.)

I now understand why women have a hard time leaving abusers.
I couldn’t quite grasp it before.

It’s the calm after the storm.
The way they pull you close when the yelling stops.
The way you think, Maybe this time it’s really over. Maybe it won’t happen again.

But it always does.

Maybe not that day.
Maybe not that week.
Maybe not even that month.
But it always happens again.

Just like an alcoholic will always take another drink, an abuser will always find another reason for an outburst.

And I will never let someone convince me again that the warm hug after the storm is care.
It’s not.
It’s control.

He was charming at first. Charismatic, even. The kind of guy who knows how to win people over. But as time went on, the veneer began to wear off. The charm slipped, and what I started to see underneath was less flattering—and far more dangerous.

I had a casual relationship with the manager of the RV park where I lived. It wasn’t exclusive, and that was fine. Until it wasn’t. Until I realized he had a pattern of preying on vulnerable women—especially those without cars, those who he felt didn’t have many options. And when I walked away, that’s when everything changed.

When I pushed back, I gave him what I now understand was a narcissistic injury. Translation: he couldn’t control me anymore. And when men like that lose control of you, they try to control the situation. His way of doing that? Not extending my stay at the park. Retaliation, plain and simple.

And it didn’t stop there. He spread lies about me to other tenants and to management, painting me as the one causing problems in the community. Suddenly, I was the troublemaker. I was the disruption. Meanwhile, he was the one preying on multiple women in the park.

It was textbook manipulation: discredit the woman so no one believes her when she speaks up.

When I started seeing someone else—someone who treated me kindly, someone who made me feel safe—the harassment began. He cornered my new guy in the laundry room and told him I was the park slut, bad in bed, selfish, and that I hated men.

But it didn’t stop there. He drove by when we were on the patio almost every night, calling me names out the window, laughing creepily, flipping me off, even playing a private video I had once sent him (btw — revenge porn is a criminal offense). Another time, he walked up to our truck and told my guy to “make sure you take that stinky f*cking trash with you when you leave.” Then he looked me right in the eyes and doubled down: “Oh, there’s the trash right there.” As he walked away he continued to loudly call me all the names in the book. I couldn’t understand why he was so angry, when I hadn’t done anything or even engaged with him.

That’s when it clicked: this wasn’t immaturity or pettiness. This was abuse.

I tried reaching out to upper management at the park. Called. Emailed. Left messages. They made it clear they didn’t want to hear my side of the story. They didn’t want to know what their manager was doing to women who live in their park. They were fine looking the other way. (ps — it’s going to continue happening, people like him don’t just stop).

So I went to the police to try to file a harassment report. And here’s what I learned: you can’t. Not until you explicitly tell the person, “Do not contact me again.” Only then will the police consider it harassment if they reach out again. Do you know how unsafe that is? To look your abuser in the eye and give them that kind of ultimatum? It’s like throwing gas on an already burning fire.

That’s why so many women don’t report their abusers. Because the system requires us to put ourselves in more danger in order to be taken seriously.

I’ve learned a lot in this process: That narcissists hate losing control. That retaliation is just another form of abuse. And that institutions—whether it’s management or law enforcement—often fail to protect the very people who need it most.

What I want more than anything is simple: to feel safe where I live and that I won’t be kicked out. To not be harassed for walking away from someone who thought they owned me. To not have my safety threatened just because I refused to play along.

He may think he’s won by forcing me out, but he’s wrong. Because when the dust settles, I will most definitely have the last laugh.

______________________________________________

If you are an owner/operator or in a position of authority reading this: you owe it to the people who live under your brand to investigate, to act, and to protect—not to stonewall one resident while believing rumors generated by the person who has the most to gain. If you are a neighbor or friend of someone who is being harassed: believe them. Offer a witness statement. Offer a safe place. Offer to go with them when they report it (thank you to the one person who did this for me).

And if you are someone who has ever hesitated to report because you feared it would make things worse: I see you. I was you. Reporting doesn’t always make things safer in the short term—systems are imperfect—but doing nothing is not a solution. Find a local advocate first; they can help you report in a way that considers safety, evidence, and escalation risks.

Abuse thrives in secrecy. Power thrives on inaction. For DV Awareness Month, let’s not look away. Let’s name it. Let’s document it. And let’s change the systems so people don’t have to risk their safety to be heard.

If This Resonates With You:

If you’re reading this and it feels a little too familiar—please hear me when I say: you don’t deserve this. None of it. Not the manipulation, not the gaslighting, not the shame.

Whether it’s physical, verbal, or psychological, abuse has a way of making you believe you’re the problem. You’re not. And you don’t have to go through it alone.

Reach out to a friend you trust. Talk to someone who can hold space for you. And if you need immediate support, there are people ready to listen—day or night:

• National Domestic Violence Hotline (U.S.): 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or text START to 88788, thehotline.org

• RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673, rainn.org

• Outside the U.S.? Check findahelpline.com to connect with support in your area.

You are worthy of love. You are worthy of safety. And you are worthy of peace.

But the Universe, in all its mischief, sometimes has other plans.

So of course, I met someone I truly enjoy spending time with.
We’re complete opposites in so many ways—but maybe that’s why it works.

Most evenings you’ll find us on the patio, sipping a drink and listening to music. We cook together, laugh together, and share pieces of ourselves we didn’t expect to. And then—because the Universe is also a bit of a jokester—he’s moving in a few weeks for work.

It feels like one of those cosmic nudges: haha, I just wanted to test you.

But I’m not bitter. Because in this short time, he’s reminded me of things I’d forgotten:
✨ That I deserve to be treated kindly, with manners and respect.
✨ That someone can openly share their worries and still hold space for mine.
✨ That it feels really, really good to be wanted—not just in private, but in public.

He holds my hand. He snuggles in close. He opens the truck door for me (and maybe sneaks a playful grab as I climb in). He makes me feel sexy, and tells me I am.

I haven’t felt any of that in over a decade. For so long, I shut those feelings down—convinced myself I didn’t need them, because I wanted to be independent … I didn’t want to get attached. And yet here I am, a little attached.

But I won’t be devastated when he moves. We’ll still see each other on weekends, and I know this connection—however long it lasts—was meant to happen.

It’s a chapter. An important one. For both of us.

Because maybe it’s not always about finding “forever.”
Maybe it’s about finding right now. The people who show up to remind us what we deserve, what we’re capable of feeling, and that our hearts aren’t as closed off as we thought.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel quite so lost.

Don’t get me wrong, I have my best friend of almost 40 years—but she’s over 2,500 miles away. And truthfully, she’s one of the few people left in my life who I know, without question, has my back.

The older you get, the more you realize how many friends have drifted in and out of your life.
Life ebbs and flows. People come and go.
They have babies, careers, and families, then one day they’re empty nesters again.
Sometimes you pick up right where you left off, and other times, you never reconnect.

But the loneliness—the craving for someone to sit with, swap stories with, laugh over shared memories with—lingers heavy in the air.

Maybe it’s worse right now because I’m missing my truck. (And my dad.)
Without it, I have to rely on other people to get where I need to go.
And without that freedom, I can’t do the one thing that has always grounded me: escape into nature.

Nature has never failed me.
Mother Earth has never once let me down.
Even when I’ve been at my lowest, a hike through the trees, a splash in the ocean, or a slow drive through the countryside has always made me feel held—like the world was wrapping me in love.

And this moment in life wasn’t supposed to be stationary.
I was supposed to be traveling across the country—soaking in the joy of the open road with my home trailing behind me. But I hit a major detour.
I have to trust that the universe has taken me off the beaten path for a reason, even if I can’t see it right now.
There’s a lesson I’m meant to learn, or a person I’m meant to meet—something bigger than me.
And while I’m feeling lonely and restless, aching to get moving, I know I’m right where I’m meant to be… for now.

It’s hard to explain, but nature and solitude have always been my happy place.
Even when I’m lonely.
Even when I’m aching for human connection.
Because somehow, being surrounded by the quiet beauty of the earth reminds me—
I’m never truly alone.

Life gives us lessons and choices. It’s up to us to interpret them, to do our best with what we know at the time. And I truly believe—even when it doesn’t feel like it—that the Universe is always trying to work in our favor. Sometimes the lesson is obvious (like when it literally hit me over the head with a TBI), and other times it’s subtle, a whisper you can barely hear unless you’re paying attention.

I’ve made choices, like taking myself out of the dating pool for almost a decade. That decision has rippled through my life in ways I’m still uncovering. Yes, I’ve felt lonely and isolated at times. But I’ve also loved the freedom: doing what I want, when I want, on my terms. With no one telling me what’s “stupid,” or what I should or shouldn’t do.

I love my independence. I love sleeping in my own bed every night. But I do crave connection—intellectual conversations, gentle flirts, holding hands, light kisses, casual glances, genuine laughs.

Sometimes my own independence and determination get in my way, and I settle for less than I deserve. That’s on me. But I don’t regret any of it. Even the poor decisions have been teachers. They’ve helped me understand what I do and don’t want from a partner. And through it all, I’ve learned who I am.

To some, I’m smart, witty, and fun. To others… well, I’m not their cup of tea.

And that’s okay.

Because everyone is carrying their own trauma and past experiences. The least we can do is meet each other with patience and kindness—whether it’s a stranger on the street or someone we’re dating.

But here’s what it’s never okay to do:
It’s never okay to treat someone poorly to make yourself feel better. It’s never okay to use control tactics to keep someone from leaving. Or to manipulate someone into doing something they aren’t comfortable with.

That’s not love. That’s drama. And life is complicated enough without all of that.

Life is best when it’s uncomplicated and honest.

I’ve never been one to keep secrets—I suck at lying, and it stresses me out. So I choose the truth. Even when it stings, even when it might hurt someone for a moment. Because at least then, they know where they stand. And honestly? That’s the only place I want to stand, too.

If I had to name my own toxic dating trait, it’s this:
I expect people to act the way I would.

I expect them to mean what they say, and say what they mean.
To communicate clearly.
To follow through.
To show up.
To be decent.

And I know—that’s naïve. I’ve been taught the lesson over and over that most men (and some women)… just don’t.

They ghost.
They breadcrumb.
They say things they don’t mean because they think it’s what I want to hear.
They set expectations they have no intention of meeting.

And still, every time, I find myself caught off guard. Like, really? This again?

My other toxic trait? I keep falling for men who can’t keep up—with my mind or my body.

I can’t tell you how many have promised, “There’s no way I’ll tap out first.” Spoiler alert: they always do.

And intellectually? I don’t need you to be a Rhodes scholar, but damn—know what’s happening in the world. Be curious. Be conversational. A little mental foreplay really turns me on.

Instead, I get monologues about jobs I didn’t ask about, life stories I didn’t need to hear all at once, and men who think dominating a dinner conversation somehow makes them interesting. He will spend a full 40 minutes talking non stop before even considering I might have something interesting to say.

They’ll say I’m selfish for not hanging on their every word.
But here’s a tip, fellas: If I lose interest mid-sentence, it might be because you’re not actually trying to connect—you’re just performing.

Leave me curious. Leave space for discovery. Let’s make it a two-way street.

I’m not perfect. I have my patterns, my expectations, and yes, my toxic traits.

But selfishness isn’t one of them.
Settling for less than what I give? That just might be my big one.