I’m Leo sun and Aries rising. (Capricorn moon, for those of you who need all the deets.)

Leo sun, like my pop-star-spirit-animal, Madonna.

Aries rising, like the real-life stage angel-princess, Stevie Nicks.

Whatever the reason, I’ve always loved “playing dress-up.”

As I’ve written before (about when I went trick-or-treating as “A Famous Movie Star”—a costume that 100% of the neighborhood parents could not guess “who I was supposed to be” upon observing my long, fancy gown and feather boa), Halloween was always the golden opportunity for a dress-up-obsessed girl like me to have her way with as much lace and jewelry, and as many flounces as possible.

Growing up, my Leo mama would often put me in one of the red velvet dresses trimmed with handmade lace that she had lovingly preserved from her own childhood.

Even better than the velvet, however, was a taffeta dress. With ruffles. The more ruffles, the better!

At age nine, I got to be in my dad and stepmother’s wedding. I was in dress-up heaven—a polyester princess, floating down the aisle and standing prettily next to my father and stepmother as they said “I do.”

As much as I loved being in a wedding (shout-out to Reina, my childhood nanny, who dressed me in a mint-green polyester princess gown, dotted with tiny silky rosettes, for her wedding to Jorge!), I didn’t need a parent or a designated occasion to transform me into the princess of my dreams. I had all the imagination necessary.

I just needed clothing. A tutu. A dress.

My mother helped. She spent hours hunting for treasure at local yard sales. Purchasing cast-off wedding dresses, evening gowns, and bridesmaid outfits, she would then gift them to me for my birthday or Christmas. (Yes, we were Jewish, and yes, we celebrated Christmas like it was going out of style.)

It’s funny, looking back at old photos. There is a clear delineation between the dress-up-obsessed me and the badly-wants-to-fit-in me.

I was around 10 years old when I began to absorb the aesthetics of my new school’s fifth graders: it was not acceptable to wear lace gloves, flouncy frills, or tutus on the regular. (Unless it was Halloween; see black & white photo taken on the Georgetown Day School patio, above!)

If you’ve been a longtime reader, you know I long dreamt of being a professional model. Between the acting/modeling pursuit and dressing up for Cocktail Club, I did succeed in finding my way back into societally acceptable ways to princess-it-up.

The older I get, the more comfortable I need my clothes to be when I’m chilling at home. But I still turn it on once in a while.

For example, if you have me in your contacts (or you happen to check the thumbnail for my Substack), you can’t not see the image of 50-something-year-old me, posing for the camera in my white bustier and hot pink Cyndi Lauper tutu.

I admit, one of the best parts of getting to perform live with my band (GirlBand USA) is the dressing-up part. I’d like to say I’m doing it in order to give permission to younger generations to be fully themselves, and to help them look forward to having more and more fun the older they get.

But truthfully, I do it cause I can.

To the mini-Madonna, the iconic Carrie Bradshaw, and the prima donna princess who live forever inside me:

I salute you!

By the time I saw that movie in theaters, I was so traumatized by my own experience working for crazy assholes in Hollywood, I couldn’t even laugh at the dark comedy.

Watching Keven Spacey’s character bully his onscreen assistant, I shivered in recognition. PTSD enveloped me, and then I gaped in wonder at the character of Gus, who actually has the guts to flip the script, take his terrifying boss hostage, and revenge-torture him.

If only.

Upon graduating Yale, I moved straight to Hollywood and found my first job. My boss, a former cutthroat ICM agent, was an A&R guy and a soundtrack supervisor for a big record company. He was young—at least he looked young—and kind of sexy.

My new boss dressed like he could have been a fourth member of the Beastie Boys. He loved that I graduated from Yale. (He had gone to some mid-level college.) He would brag about my alma mater to anyone he introduced me to.

Unfortunately, what my new boss didn’t love about me was that I was a total Hollywood neophyte. I was not savvy. I did not know who the players were, nor how the town worked.

His first instructions were for me to read “the trades” (Variety and Hollywood Reporter) religiously, every day. If I found any articles that mentioned him, I was to make 15 copies. I was to “roll calls” from my cubicle, which was outside his enclosed office. This meant keeping track of who was calling him and who he wanted to call, patching him through when each party was available, and remaining on the call, muted and listening in, so I could “learn.”

He was very soft-spoken… until he wasn’t. His anger would erupt in a flash, and he had no qualms vomiting his rage all over me until it subsided.

He would occasionally throw things.

A few weeks in, I proudly showed him how I had found a mention of him in an article in one of the trades. I handed him 15 Xeroxed copies, mentally patting myself on the back for remembering this task from day one.

“What the fuck is this?” he said, shoving the copies off the cubicle ledge where I had neatly stacked them. They went flying everywhere.

Full disclosure: I wasn’t too adept at making clean, straight copies, and those 15 copies were the very best of my 45 other attempts.

“You, uh, asked me to make 15 copies—”

“That’s not what I meant!”

Duh. What he meant was that I should scurry and do whatever he needed me to do right now this second, whatever that happened to be. Pick up his dry cleaning; make dinner reservations; roll calls while he was in his car and I was stuck in the office, yet again, until 7 or 8 or 9pm; straighten his office, which once included throwing a pair of crumpled black lace panties into the trash… you get the idea.

A few months into the job, I got a raging fever and a UTI. I was taking antibiotics but not feeling good. My boss snapped at me for some small infraction. This time, I lost my composure.

I started crying.

Once it began, I could not stop.

He took me into his office and closed the door behind us.

I sat on the panties couch. Still crying.

He lay on the floor, his back on the carpet, legs and feet up on the coffee table.

“Shana,” he began (these were the days before I changed my name to BatSheva).

“When you cry, I feel bad. And when I feel bad, I can’t do my job. I’m going to have to let you go.”

I cried harder, nodding, like, of course; this logic made perfect sense.

He said he’d pay me a two-week severance but did not want me sticking around for those two weeks as it would be too awkward for him.

I gathered my belongings. Took about a hundred CDs from the free-for-staff cabinet. Walked out of the building.

My next gig was assistant to a man who’d gotten his job as the lone producer at a talent management company based solely on his intimate friendship with an uber-rich media mogul.

He had been the mogul’s Freudian analyst.

This boss was always soft-spoken. He never raised his voice. As with my prior boss, he had me roll his calls and listen in on mute.

He never asked me to do personal errands like pick up his dry cleaning, but I hated being in the same room with him. His energy was icky-creep-alicious.

I actually preferred the direct dick-itude-ness of my Beastie Boy boss.

Listening in on this analyst/producer’s calls, I’d hear him talk about women in the yuckiest way. He used Psych 101 tricks to get people to think he was trustworthy.

His voice made my skin crawl.

After a year working for him, I asked him if it would be okay if I applied for another job, ideally assisting a producer who was actually making films. (In one year, he hadn’t gotten any projects greenlit by the talent company’s partners, and it didn’t look like he was gonna.)

He wholeheartedly agreed to do anything he could to help me find a better job. I started asking around and sending out my resume. My boss connected me to a colleague of his—a producer at Paramount—who interviewed me and seemed eager to move forward. I encouraged him to reach back out to my boss for a ringing endorsement of my work ethic and capabilities.

He did call my boss. After I transferred the call, I stayed on the phone, listening on mute as usual.

“I wouldn’t advise you to take her,” I heard my boss whisper to the man who’d interviewed me. “She’s extremely lazy. No one likes working with her.”

My blood ran cold.

Another phone line rang. I picked it up; it was my cousin Judith, the one who took me to the trapeze rig. Judith was older and had lived in Los Angeles for a while. I told her quickly what had just gone down.

Judith’s advice was simple: “If you quit, you won’t get unemployment. If he fires you, you can. Go in there and confront him.”

I hung up and marched straight into his office.

He had just finished the call and wore a Cheshire Cat’s grin.

“I gave you a recommendation,” he lied to my face.

“Really?”

He stared at me.

“I was on the call, on mute,” I countered. “I heard everything.”

His face, bloated and pockmarked, blanched an even lighter shade of gray.

“You shouldn’t have been on that call!” he stuttered.

“Why not?” I argued, emboldened by my cousin’s advice. “That’s what you trained me to do. How was I to know you’d completely lie about me? You’re the one who referred me to him!”

Round and round we went. The volume of his too-low voice went up a notch or two. Finally, when I wouldn’t back down, he fired me on the spot for “insubordination.”

I got unemployment.

I started acting and writing screenplays.

I still needed money, so I took a server job (back then, it was called waitressing—is that still a thing?) at a super-cool, Asian-fusion restaurant in Los Feliz. The chef looked like a rock star, with pink spiked hair and an attitude to match. All his friends were rock stars and celebrities.

Often, our rock-star chef/owner would comp his friends’ elaborate meals, and we would be left with no tips. Or he would confiscate our tips at the end of the night, “pool them,” and by the time I received my envelope of cash, it was half of what I’d originally earned.

This boss liked to have fun. He hosted punk-rock karaoke on New Year’s Eve with a live band. Right before we opened, he got in a fistfight with the only waiter who’d worked for him for years. My boss punched him in the face.

Now we were down one server—our best guy—on the busiest night of the year. We were sold out for all seatings. It was chaos. Many comped meals. And shitty tips.

Working at the restaurant wasn’t all abuse and misery. I worked alongside Flea’s baby mama, a stunning dirty-blond ex-model, who told me she had recently completed rehab. At her request, I babysat her daughter, Clara, and got to meet Flea when he returned home. We sat for a few minutes chatting, and Flea asked me if I’d consider going on the road with him to be Clara’s travel nanny.

The idea of such close proximity to the Chili Peppers was intoxicating. But I was an aspiring screenwriter/actor, and LA was where it was at.

I declined.

But, Flea: if you happen to read this: Clara may be all grown up, but if you have any other projects you need help with, I’m available!

You seem like a great boss.

I am endlessly proud of this feat!

Also… it was torture.

Turns out, I was not destined to be able to dreamily BREATHE my way through the pain, nor ORGASM through it, as some exalted natural birthers describe.

I suffered. I cried. I agonized. I felt traumatized.

I did it because I was worried about my babies being exposed to drugs at birth, and for this reason alone, I do not regret my choice. Also, I have talked to other mama friends who got the drugs, the epidural, etc., and for many of them, giving birth—and the aftermath and recovery—was still a nightmare.

These days, with my kids all teens and older, I’m no longer eligible for the exquisite “childbirth-as-torture-but-worth-every-second-thanks-to-the-kids-I-got” experience. So, I chose another opportunity to torture my mind and body for the sake of a greater good.

Vipassana meditation.

I said “yes” my first 10-day silent Vipassana meditation retreat three years ago.

Back then, I knew very little about what was in store for me. I had read Dan Harris’ book Ten Percent Happier and felt pretty stoked that I, too, could have a transformative meditation experience like the one he describes in his book. In his book, just like in Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, Dan Harris’ whole body dissolved during meditation, his consciousness/awareness connecting to all things at once.

Spoiler alert: I did not achieve that exalted state.

Not three years ago, and not this summer, when yet again, I attended the 10-day Vipassana course of torture transcendence.

I went this time sure that having meditated regularly for the past several years (unlike three years prior, when I was a meditation newbie), I would have a much better and more pure experience.

Instead, as with natural childbirth, the ten day course did not come close to the la-la, airy-fairy, transcendental experience I imagined I’d have.

We woke every morning around 4 a.m.. By 4:30 a.m. I was in my seat in the meditation hall. With few breaks, we meditated all day, in one unmoving position, until 9 p.m.

Every day. For ten days straight.

We didn’t speak to or make eye contact with the other attendees. We were only allowed to talk to the assistant teacher with any questions, or to our student manager with any issues or special requests.

But you know what? The silent part of the retreat was easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.

I am often overstimulated in my regular life. I am constantly engaging with children, friends, work, and society.

I welcomed the quiet.

It was the sitting still for hours without moving unless I absolutely had to, mentally tracking the minute sensations on the surface of my body as we were instructed, that was the tough part.

Depending on the moment you were to ask me, it was boring, difficult, relaxing, cool (no, it wasn’t all terrible), or… excruciating.

Not unlike my experience giving birth.

Was it the same amnesia—forgetting how absolutely shitty childbirth actually is—that overtakes a mother after she has one child, that magical amnesia required for her to ever willingly get pregnant and want to have another all over again, that overtook me after the first time I completed the first torturous 10-day course?

Was it the same hubris—as a parent, the belief that “I did this once; I’ll be much more prepared now that I know what to expect!”—that I had, until I was brought low with the difficulty of each newborn, learning yet again that each birth is wildly different from the last, just as each child is so different?

Yes. Both.

I did truly forget what sitting for that long, for that many days, was like. Also, I felt sure that this time would be different. Easier. Better.

It was better…ish.

But it was still so hard. At times, torturous.

I missed my kids. I was disappointed that I didn’t achieve the exalted state of meditation that others get with this form of meditation.

I was bored. (They lock up your cell phone once you arrive. You are also not supposed to bring any notebook or pen, but I flagrantly disregarded this direction. I felt bad flouting this rule, but also I knew I was doing right by me; I’m positive that writing my thoughts and feelings in my notebook throughout the ten days kept me from plummeting into depression.)

Through it all, I reminded myself why I was actually there: to re-calibrate my anxious mind.

To rewire my nervous system.

To leave this course a changed person.

It’s still early, but I do believe that did happen. That I arrived home a different, more resilient, more patient, more equanimous person.

I came home with the baby.

Which made it all worthwhile.

Episode 51 is here, and we recorded this one together, in person, in Columbia, Missouri! 🎙️✨

This episode kicks off a new topic in our Human Consciousness series: Wild Courage. Not the everyday kind of courage — the wild kind. The kind it takes to speak up in a space that was supposed to be safe and wasn't. The kind it takes to sit in a car with your best friend and finally say the thing you've been repressing for weeks. The kind it takes to send an email you're scared to send.

In this conversation, BatSheva and Chelsea open up about:
🌿 What "Wild Courage" means and why it's different from everyday bravery
🌿 A painful experience of being shamed instead of supported in a space built on emotional safety
🌿 The "Throne of the Heart" practice for hearing every part of yourself before you respond
🌿 Life after divorce — rebuilding a career and finances from scratch with wild courage
🌿 Letting go of romantic patterns that aren't rooted in reality
🌿 Why healing happens in the presence of an empathetic witness
🌿 Our Daily W's: Wins, Wows, and Wishes

This one is real, a little messy, and deeply human — because that's what Wild Courage actually looks like.

We'd love to hear from you: where have you shown wild courage lately? Or where do you need it? Speak it like it's already happened — DM us, email us, or leave a comment. We read every single one. 💛

📚 Mentioned in this episode: Outrageous Openness by Tosha Silver, The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk

💌 Join our mailing list for updates twice a month 
📱 Follow us on social for more from the Brighter Be community

If this episode moved you, hit like, subscribe, and leave us a review — we read every one. Help us get the Brighter word out there. 💛

#BrighterPodcast #WildCourage #personalgrowth  #emotionalhealing  #humanconsciousness  #vulnerability  #selfdiscovery  #womensupportingwomen  #mentalhealthawareness  #divorcerecovery

How much do you actually know about your own body?

In Round 2 of Pussy Talk, Chelsea and BatSheva explore the parts of women's anatomy, sexual health, and body awareness that many of us were never taught. From outdated medical education to the stigma surrounding women's bodies, this conversation is about replacing shame with knowledge and curiosity.

Together, we discuss why accurate anatomy matters, how understanding your body can change your relationship with your health, and why these conversations deserve to happen openly and without embarrassment.

In this episode, we explore:

🌿 Why many medical textbooks still don't show complete female anatomy
🌿 The groundbreaking research on the clitoris that most people have never heard about
🌿 Why teaching children the correct anatomical terms matters
🌿 Body image, scent stigma, and reconnecting with your body with compassion
🌿 The role of the endocannabinoid system in women's health
🌿 A personal conversation about menopause, hormone therapy, and osteoporosis

This isn't about having all the answers.

It's about asking better questions, learning together, and creating a space where women's health can be discussed with honesty, curiosity, and compassion.

💛 If this conversation resonates with you, we'd love for you to:
👍 Like this video
🔔 Subscribe to The Brighter Podcast for more conversations on healing, personal growth, emotional wellness, and living with intention.

💬 Share your thoughts in the comments—we'd love to hear your perspective. 

 📚 SHOW NOTES - Women's Anatomy of Arousal: Secret Maps to Buried Pleasure (book) by Sheri Winston - The Endocannabinoid System (Harvard Medical School): https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/the-endocannabinoid-system-essential-and-mysterious-202108112569 - Beth Cannon, sex educator in LA: https://birthingrhythm.com - Mama Gena: https://mamagenas.com - Layla Martin: https://laylamartin.com - Neuroanatomy of the Clitoris https://www.biorxiv.org/content/10.64898/2026.03.18.712572v1.full

But for now—as I force my left hand to participate in this typing exercise, gnashing my teeth and wincing with pain—I will tell you, dear readers, why that original plan got derailed.

I stabbed myself.

Yay!

How, you might wonder?

I was wrestling the packaging off a new water bottle using a sharp pair of long scissors.

YES, I DO KNOW BETTER!

I own several other, simpler, safer tools I could have used to help pry off the stuck packaging. I have a daughter who—after tending to my wound and my shock (thank GODDESS she is pre-med and knew what to do, versus genius me, who immediately ran tap water over the deep wound like it was a burn)—easily pried off the dang stuck packaging with her fingernail.

Maybe I loosened it for her? Give me that, at least.

It was the dumbest. As I was jabbing the scissors into the packaging and against the slippery metal body of the water bottle, I thought, “Make sure to move my left hand out of the way so I don’t stab myself.”

Like, I literally said that to myself. Word for word.

Then I stabbed myself.

What should I expect? I’m a mess!

Still, it’s mortifying to make the exact error you have spent over two decades admonishing your children never to make.

Was that unheeded advice I gave myself seconds before the accident a premonition, or did I inadvertently cause myself to do the exact thing I most wanted to avoid? (If this kind of thing intrigues you, my Brighter Podcast partner in crime, Chelsea, and I mull over these types of happenings in this episode, FYI.)

As my daughter sat with me, pressing paper towels tightly against the bloody geyser that once was my hand, I bowed my head in an effort not to throw up or pass out.

Did I mention I was in shock?

Being in shock, however, did not impede my memory from churning up past self-inflicted injuries for me to mull over:

Remember when you slammed the car door on your own finger and broke it?

Remember when you dropped your heavy, full, stainless steel water bottle (the one this new bottle is replacing!) onto your sandaled foot as you tried to get into your car, and fractured a bone?

Remember when you exited Yorkside Pizza with your college friends and the door slammed on the back of your heel, injuring your Achilles tendon, ripping the skin off your leg, and scarring the back of your ankle for all eternity?

Remember when you stole a golf cart at that swanky movie wrap party on the Santa Monica Airport tarmac, drove the cart over some steps, and broke your wrist?

I know I’m not alone. We all hurt ourselves accidentally. But at least as a “more-grown-up-than-I-was-in-my-20s” person, it does feel pretty lonely when it happens. I felt pretty dang stupid to be the purveyor of my own misery, unintentional as all these injuries are.

Not to mention, it hurts.

Waaaahh! 😭

Can small habits really change your life?

In this episode of The Brighter Podcast, Bat Shiva and Chelsea explore the incredible impact of micro habits—the small, intentional actions that can lead to meaningful, lasting transformation.

If you've ever struggled to stay consistent with healthy routines, personal goals, or self-improvement, this conversation offers a refreshing perspective. Instead of chasing perfection or making drastic changes, you'll learn why tiny daily habits often create the biggest breakthroughs over time.

Inspired by the principles behind Atomic Habits and supported by real-life experiences, this episode is filled with practical insights to help you build sustainable habits, strengthen your mindset, and create positive change without feeling overwhelmed.

In this episode, we discuss:

• Why micro habits are so effective

• How small daily actions create lasting transformation

• Breaking free from the all-or-nothing mindset

• Simple strategies for building habits that stick

• Creating consistency without relying on motivation

• Practical ways to improve your mental and emotional well-being

Whether you're beginning your personal growth journey or looking for simple ways to become more intentional each day, this episode will leave you feeling encouraged, inspired, and equipped to take the next small step.

If you enjoyed this conversation, be sure to follow The Brighter Podcast, leave a review, and share this episode with someone who could use a little encouragement today.

My beloved Yale a cappella singing group, Proof of the Pudding, performed a catchy arrangement of that Squeeze song, Black Coffee in Bed, and I occasionally sang the solo part. Truth be told, that song was meant for me—not so much because it fell squarely in my alto range, but because…

…it was about a stain.

Story of my life.

One of the first original songs I ever “wrote” as a child included a litany of my daily activities, culminating in the catchy phrase: …then, I SPILL my apple juice!

Even as a child, the best way I knew to assuage my intense anxiety was to write about it.

Nothing’s changed.

Now, instead of my poor mother having a mini-seizure, watching helplessly as yet another brand-new outfit became forever-blotched with a stain, it’s me. I hate getting stains on my clothes.

My firstborn child had reflux for almost the entire first year of his life. He would projectile-vomit his “spitty” (such a sweet diminutive for the milky-phlegmy substance that ejected from his mouth on the regular) onto my hair and shoulders, down my back, down my front, all over the couch and chair cushions, and occasionally across the room onto a wall.

During that phase of my life, I gave up completely.

I wore rags if I wore anything at all. My ex-husband took to calling me “African Mama” since I “dressed” like I was in a contest for “Who Wore It Best?” along with the topless African women made famous in the photos of National Geographic.

Burned into my memory is the time in my 30s when I arrived at a friend’s birthday party at a swanky restaurant wearing a full-length, clingy black dress. I had survived my second child’s infancy with my dignity intact; at least she didn’t projectile-spit-up around the clock.

I was so excited to join my friends at this legit grown-up event! As I strutted toward the table, one of my girlfriends exclaimed, “What’s that white streak all down the back of your dress?”

My feelings of self-confidence and beauty vanished in an instant.

What do you think that long white streak must have been, dear reader?

I wanted to scream, run from the restaurant, and rip off my spitty-covered dress as I made my exit. Instead, I pursed my lips, shrugged politely, and joined the party.

At The Kabbalah Centre, where we took our kids every Shabbat weekend of their childhood, the boys and men wear all-white clothes for Friday night and Saturday services. It’s a beautiful sight: an ocean of boys and men dressed in white from their yarmulkes to their sneakers, praying, chatting, and cavorting.

What was not so beautiful was the sight of my boisterous oldest son’s clothes upon returning home. Every bodily stain imaginable was splattered onto nearly every square inch of fabric—blood, boogers, urine, sweat, and skid marks creating a tie-dye-like stain pattern alongside grass stains, dirt, food splotches, and skateboard wheel grease.

A mama friend taught me to spray OxiClean™ onto the stains, then to place all offending clothes in a big bucket along with generous amounts of Oxy powder and scalding-hot water, and soak them overnight. The next day I’d wash them with more Oxy-infused laundry detergent on the hot cycle.

Miraculously, the stains would lift. Ready to start the cycle all over again.

These days, I have no one but myself to blame for stains. I have a tendency to splash and splatter whatever I’m cooking and/or eating, and I’m nearly obsessed with wearing white clothes year-round. Something about the Southern California sun makes me want to dress this way. Either that or the sun finally baked my brain.

For a while, I felt like I was renting my clothes, since I was spending so much money on the regular at my dry cleaners, resuscitating my favorite clothes over and over from the disasters I unleashed upon them.

Pretty much all I eat, thanks to my “Korean diet” (not to be confused with actual Korean food, which would be 10x more yummy than what I am limited to), is food with red sauce. Ratatouille and sautéed kale with tomatoes, to be exact. Along with sushi. Which means soy sauce.

Which also means: stains.

I drink black coffee and a cup of black cacao every day. You can see where this is headed.

I don’t like to bother with tying on an apron, nor does the apron cover my sleeves, which often get sprayed by whatever I’m heating up. Lately, I devised a proactive anti-stain method. I cut the neck off an old giant T-shirt my eldest son left behind, which makes it pretty quick to put on and take off. I keep it next to my kitchen and don it whenever I make my cacao or ratatouille.

Fingers crossed.

Have you ever had a feeling that something was going to happen before it did?

In this episode of Brighter Podcast, Chelsea and Batsheva explore the fascinating relationship between premonitions, co-creation, nervous system conditioning, and the invisible imprints that shape our lives.

Together, they reflect on how childhood experiences, emotional memories, and subconscious beliefs may influence the thoughts we think, the patterns we repeat, and even the reality we help create. From spiritual perspectives on intuition to modern understandings of trauma and the nervous system, this conversation invites us to look deeper at the forces quietly guiding our lives.

✨ Are certain events meant to happen?
✨ Do our thoughts shape our reality?
✨ How much of our future is influenced by the stories we've been carrying since childhood?

This episode is a thoughtful exploration of intuition, healing, surrender, self-awareness, and what it means to consciously participate in our own lives.

💛 Join the conversation:
Have you ever experienced a premonition that later came true? Do you believe we're co-creating our reality?

📚 Resources Mentioned in This Episode:

• The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk
https://www.besselvanderkolk.com/resources/the-body-keeps-the-score

• The Untethered Soul & Michael Singer's Work
https://untetheredsoul.com

• No Bad Parts by Richard Schwartz
https://ifs-institute.com/nobadparts

• Tosha Silver – Offer Everything to the Divine
https://toshasilver.com

• Layla Martin – Tantric & Sexual Healing
https://laylamartin.com

• Insight Timer Meditation App
https://insighttimer.com
(Medha Murtagh is Batsheva's coach)

#BrighterPodcast #Premonitions #CoCreation #Intuition #NervousSystem #HealingJourney #SelfAwareness #PersonalGrowth #TraumaHealing #EmotionalIntelligence #ConsciousLiving #SpiritualGrowth #Mindset #InnerWork

I could relax.

I sauntered to my front patio. Bouncy new patio furniture pillows baking in the warm sun beckoned. I sat happily on my little couch, stole a second back pillow from one of the chairs, and silently praised myself for taking some time outside—not on my phone, not doing anything—just to pause.

Back inside on my way to shower, I checked my phone. And saw, all at once, three notifications:

1. A pop-up reminder telling me to “leave workout early, get to dentist by 2pm”

2. A text from the dentist office.

3. A missed call from the dentist office.

Shit. The dentist!

If I don’t write it down, I will not remember.

Like Nike’s Just Do It, this is my life’s motto. My kids know it. If they need me to pick them up or drop them off or take them to tennis or Zelle their tennis instructor after the lesson or buy a new water bottle or get more almond milk, it must be written down.

Even then, there is a chance I will fuck it up.

I’ve taken to calling what I suffer from “date dyslexia.” I can read an invitation (or a flight itinerary—there’s a fun one to get wrong!), and I think it says one thing, then I write the thing I think it says in my reminders, and therefore I get reminded of the thing I thought it was at the (incorrect) time, and finally, I arrive at that written-down time, only to find out that from the start I had read the dang thing wrong from the get-go.

When it happens, it feels like—instead of my usual careful treading of water in my own personal soup of date dyslexia which has been simmering over low heat along with the other essential ingredients of Overwhelm, Too Much to Keep Track Of, Menopause, and Mama Brain—I have just drowned in it.

How many times have I run, sweating, dragging my kids along with me to Roxbury Park or Mulholland Park or whatever park or place their friend’s birthday party was being hosted, worrying that it was already in full swing because we were running late… only to discover the park completely void of anyone we know.

No school friends in sight. No birthday party.

Upon quick investigation (clicking back on the initial emailed eVite), it becomes clear.

We aren’t late for the party. We are early. By a month.

I had written down the wrong month after hastily reading the invitation when it first hit my inbox.

It doesn’t happen all the time. But unfortunately, right when I think I’m “done with that phase of my life” and I’m back to inputting dates and times correctly and showing up at the proper appointed time, I make another mixed-up scheduling mistake.

One of the last trips my ex-husband and I took together, without our four kids, was to Cabo, MX, for a friend’s wedding. It was a gorgeous event and we had a magical stay in a glorious resort. On the ride to the airport, in the shuttle I had carefully booked when I was first planning the trip, still basking in the glow of the near-perfect weekend, I was surprised by a series of airline notifications that kept popping up on my phone.

What did they mean, our flight was boarding? I laughed to myself, thinking, this airline really needs to get its act together!

Then I decided to triple-check our itinerary in my email.

Oh, no! Shit!!!

The time I thought our plane would depart from Mexico, the same time I had used to calculate when to book the shuttle, was actually the arrival time of our flight to LAX.

The whole long weekend, as I relaxed, knowing the shuttle had been booked and all was taken care of, I had unwittingly already caused us to miss our flight home.

There were no other direct flights to Los Angeles that day. We had to wait hours until we could find a connecting flight that would take us past Los Angeles, all the way up to San Francisco, where we would then have to wait some more before turning back around and getting a final flight to LA.

Thanks to my screw-up, I would not arrive early enough to get my kids from school. The babysitter I had hired to watch our four kids that weekend did not have any wiggle room in her schedule. I actually do not recall what I did to make sure the kids didn’t wind up on Skid Row that day; likely, I had the older ones walk to the younger ones, borrow keys from the neighbor, and either walk or take city buses home together.

In case you are thinking this only happens in relation to reading an invitation or a travel itinerary, let me add that it can also happen randomly, on the fly, all in my head.

Last year, driving my son David from his middle school to a mid-day doctor’s appointment, I noticed we were driving right by his old beloved elementary school. We were early for his appointment so I offered, “Hey, it’s Friday; the teachers will all be at their Friday lunch meeting right now! Why don’t we go in and say hello?”

David was so happy. He hadn’t yet been back to visit his old school since he’d moved to his new middle school. He enthusiastically agreed.

I made the detour, parked, and took him inside to say hi to all his old teachers… only to find out from the receptionist that the teachers weren’t at their Friday lunch.

Because it was Tuesday.

Which I had known! The appointment we had been driving to was scheduled for Tuesday!

How did I forget what day it was? Was it the magical nostalgia of driving past his elementary school?

No. It was the soup. The soup of a confused mama mind.

Still, I’m grateful to (mostly) have my wits about me. I can laugh at myself, and I take great pleasure in hearing other people’s (especially other mothers’) similar mishaps.

It’s fun to be human, after all.

Are our lives shaped by fate, intuition, or the stories we've been carrying since childhood?

In this episode of Brighter Podcast, Chelsea and Batsheva explore the fascinating intersection of premonitions, co-creation, nervous system patterns, and the invisible imprints that shape our reality. Together, they reflect on how our earliest experiences may influence the thoughts, beliefs, and behaviors that continue to guide us today—often without us even realizing it.

From childhood conditioning and emotional imprinting to intuition, surrender, and the possibility that we're actively participating in the creation of our lives, this conversation invites you to pause and consider a deeper question:

✨ Are you predicting your future, or helping create it?

This episode is a thoughtful blend of personal stories, spiritual curiosity, nervous system insights, and meaningful reflection on what it means to live consciously.

💛 Join the conversation in the comments:
Do you believe in premonitions, co-creation, or both?

📚 Resources Mentioned in This Episode:

• The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk
https://www.besselvanderkolk.com/resources/the-body-keeps-the-score

• The Untethered Soul by Michael Singer
https://untetheredsoul.com

• No Bad Parts by Richard Schwartz
https://ifs-institute.com/nobadparts

• Tosha Silver – "Offer Everything to the Divine"
https://toshasilver.com

• Layla Martin – Tantric & Sexual Healing
https://laylamartin.com

• Insight Timer Meditation App
https://insighttimer.com
(Medha Murtagh is Batsheva's coach)

#BrighterPodcast #Premonitions #CoCreation #SelfAwareness #PersonalGrowth #NervousSystem #HealingJourney #EmotionalIntelligence #SpiritualGrowth #Mindset #ConsciousLiving #InnerWork

My parents, sisters, and brother live hundreds of miles away. Chelsea, my podcast partner who I met and fell madly in friend-love with at a 10-day silent meditation retreat back in 2023, lives in Missouri.

I had already begun drifting apart from the married moms who had once been close confidants during my marriage, as I devoted all my non-children time to the ever-demanding Beverly Hills coffee shop I opened with my ex-husband. After the divorce, I tried to reconnect with my best friends from the late 90s and early 00s, but unsurprisingly, they were all fully engaged in the lives they’d been living without me for decades.

I spent a lot of time alone in my bedroom.

I took care of my kids. I tried (and failed) to find a “real job.” I focused on taking care of myself. This meant I meditated, took long walks, worked out regularly, got my nails and hair done, and learned to belly dance.

In addition to doing the 10-day silent meditation retreat with Chelsea, I dove into Paramahansa Yogananda’s 18-month-long meditation instructional. I participated in a Kundalini White Tantric Yoga event. I re-read The Artist’s Way, carefully completing all the assignments and re-launching my daily journaling practice.

I read a lot of uplifting memoirs and books. I laughed until I cried listening to the entire audiobook canon of David Sedaris, and escaped into something like 50 romance novels. I fell madly in love with all the writings of Tosha Silver, a spiritual author who went to Yale many years before I did.

I cried a lot during this time, did I mention that? There were times I was so lonely, unable to lift myself up as I sobbed on my bedroom floor, that even though my kids were huddled outside my closed door, calling to me tentatively, asking when I would come out, I couldn’t budge.

It didn’t last forever. But it was tough.

Then one of my sweet-but-busy 90s friends, who I had reached out to post-divorce, texted me and suggested I take a women-only writing class she had taken and loved. It was taught by the wonderful writer/teacher Robin Finn. Even though it was in the Valley (eek!), I decided to do it.

Each class, Robin gave us prompts, had us write for ten, fifteen, or twenty minutes, then asked whoever wanted to share read her piece aloud. Around the semi-circle we went, taking turns sharing what we had scribbled out without any forethought, editing, or revision.

As I read my essays, I often burst out sobbing. I felt mortified, terrified, horrified, exposed. Yet I also felt a sensation like a fire was burning within me, cleansing and purifying. The flame of a phoenix. I forced myself to keep sharing.

Several women from the class approached me, visibly moved by my writing. One young mother asked me to mentor her as a writer. I had the feeling I was giving birth to the “me” I had squashed down deep inside myself over a long, long period of time. I had prioritized caring for my children, my husband, and our business at the expense of nurturing my inner life.

No more.

Robin’s class had a final celebratory event, for which we were encouraged to invite friends and family to enjoy wine and cheese as they listened to each of us read a piece from the semester.

It was my first “performance” of something I’d written in decades. Me, who had written and performed a one-woman show with original songs, with two different runs in Hollywood and North Hollywood, back in my 20s!

It felt like a coming-out party.

I left Robin’s class with some new girlfriends! (Bonus: I rekindled a friendship with a woman I had been close with back in my actor days; we had gone to the British Academy of Dramatic Arts program at Oxford together in our 20s).

A handful of us from Robin’s class formed a WhatsApp chat, where—now two years out from my first class with Robin—each of us can write for ten minutes on a weekly prompt, then read/record her essay into the chat as an audio text. We listen to each other’s offerings, and for those who have the time or willpower, write a short, supportive, and encouraging reply to the other women’s pieces.

These weekly writings are creative-therapy gold. I have barely missed a week. Even though I have only seen three of the women from our chat in person fewer than a handful of times over the past couple years, I still consider them dear friends and confidants. The essays we write are intimate stories from our real lives. I trust them and they trust me.

And yet.

It was a chat, not an in-person group. I still felt pretty isolated.

Cut to: my Yale 30th reunion. OMG. In-person friends! At last!

Alas… the reunion was in New Haven, CT, not Los Angeles. At the reunion, I reconnected with Solange Castro, a classmate who does live in LA. In fact, I learned she was a stand-up comedian who also teaches stand-up comedy. (Feel free to follow Solange on Substack; I do!)

In spring of 2025, I signed up for Solange’s class at Santa Monica’s Westside Comedy Theater. Little did I know that thanks to that class, in addition to developing a newfound interest in performing stand-up, I would finally—FINALLY!—get some IRL girlfriends.

It started with my classmate Estrella, a lovely Los Angeleno with no husband or kids, who had taken up pole dancing at 50 and was now diving into stand-up comedy. I had bought two tickets but didn’t have a date to see Ricky Gervais at the Hollywood Bowl, so I invited Estrella. While the show was kind of meh and the crowds a bit overwhelming, that time together bonded us.

I had a new friend! Who lived in LA! Hooray!

One of the guys in our comedy class created a chat for our group, which included me and Estrella, Tina and Narine (women in their 30s), along with the two guys who were in our class. We used the chat to coordinate open mic meet-ups.

I left town for the summer. When I returned to LA, Estrella, Narine, and Tina, and I formed our own girlie chat and began coordinating open mic sign-ups so we could support each other and feel less alone as we dipped our toes into the overwhelmingly male LA stand-up comedy scene.

The online platform most open mic venues use for LA comedians to sign themselves up is called “Slotted.” Slotted allows the comedians to claim a time slot in the lineup.

Thus was born the name of our lil’ chat group: the Slot Machines.

What started out as a way to give and get support as we navigated the male-dominated world of stand-up comedy soon grew into something more. Real friendship. Connection. Fun.

Hooray!

The slots came to see my band play, hosted hang-outs, and made endless plans that anyone was welcome to join. Narine started hosting the hottest backyard comedy show ticket in town. (Follow Narine on IG here and Estrella on Substack here if you want some excellent entertainment and, in the case of Narine, hot tips on LA real estate.)

It’s been just over a year since I met these wonderful women. My life is so much richer and so much more fun thanks to their presence in my life. We laugh at each other’s terrible dates, at the worst men on the dating apps (Hinge, why do you keep trying to match me with Bro whose face is covered in tattoos?), at other comedians’ sets, at our own jokes, and at life in general.

We hold each other when life gets shitty. We dance (and pull muscles) in pole class, show up for each other when we need company, and give each other space when we don’t.

I even tried to poison them—I MEAN share with them the power of the holiday of Passover this year. They had never experienced a Passover and my kids were at other people’s homes, so I decided to do something special for myself.

A Very Slotty Passover!

Enjoy the video below, where you can watch us “chew the maror/horseradish until it’s sweet” (which, according to the Kabbalistic sages, can remove the energy of death from all aspects of our lives) in this video captured by Estrella:

I am so grateful to have actual IRL La-La Land girlfriends. Finally.

I’ll close by giving a big shout-out to my IRL beloved Natalia, who, if you read my last Substack, you know was the initially reluctant but ultimately relenting friend who helped me create GirlBand USA; another shout-out to the Slots, because, obviously; and finally, one to my new friend Lisa, who wrote so eloquently about me in her recent Substack, calling me the “friend formerly known as Prince,” because she couldn’t pronounce my name to save her life. 😝

We should all be so blessed.

What happens when we stop avoiding the uncomfortable conversations and start speaking openly about the things we were taught to hide?

In this episode of the Brighter Podcast, Chelsea and BatSheva dive into vulnerability, body shame, language, femininity, emotional conditioning, and the journey of reclaiming comfort within ourselves. From discussing discomfort around certain words to unpacking the deeper layers of people-pleasing, authenticity, sensitivity, and self-expression, this conversation is honest, raw, funny, and deeply human.

This episode is really about giving ourselves permission to grow, evolve, and become more fully ourselves without shame.

We hope this conversation makes your day a little brighter and maybe helps you feel a little less alone in your own journey, too.

📚 SHOW NOTES:
• P#ssy Book → Mama Gena
• Tantric & Sexual Healing / VITA Coaching → Layla Martin

🎙️ If this episode resonated with you, let us know your thoughts in the comments and don’t forget to subscribe for more conversations that make life a little brighter.

#BrighterPodcast #Authenticity #SelfGrowth #HealingJourney #PeoplePleasing #EmotionalAwareness #MentalHealth #WomenEmpowerment #PodcastConversation

You’d think, given that I was a singer-songwriter who played with her band all around LA in the 90s and had big dreams of superstardom, I’d have learned to play guitar already.

But I have the same problem with instruments that I have with food. I love food! I just suck at cooking.

I love singing and writing songs! But I pretty much suck at all the instruments.

Being a parent of four kids, I had little choice but to learn to cook. Now I’m proficient, but it doesn’t feel fun to me. After months of guitar lessons, I learned to play some guitar. Not much, but well enough to accompany myself for a few of my songs that do not require overly confusing finger positions or barre chords.

Then, I started performing again…!

…to an audience of one. (My husband.)

It wasn’t exactly the arenas and festivals I had imagined playing in my 20s. But it was more singing than I’d done since 2004, when my first kid was born, and oh, did I love being able to sing my beloved songs again.

In 2019, when the Beverly Hills coffee shop my husband and I owned and operated reached its fifth year in business, we invited our most dedicated customers to enjoy an evening to celebrate the anniversary.

I hired my guitar teacher to play background music at the gathering. She suggested we play a couple of my original songs for the crowd.

The songs went over well! The next day, one of my beloved regular customers, Natalia, told me she used to play drums for a little band in New York.

“You were born to do this!” she enthused. “Let’s start a band!”

Flattered, I answered, “Definitely!”

Inside, though, I knew a different truth. I wanted to start a band more than anything. But between taking care of my children, the overwhelming coffee business and retail store, and navigating my bumpy marriage, I had zero extra bandwidth.

There was no fucking way.

And yet… life has a funny way of upending expectations.

Three years later, my marriage ended unexpectedly. Suddenly, I was no longer in servitude to responsible for the intense operations of the coffee shop (nor the marriage to my intense husband).

I was shocked. I was terrified. I was… curious. Could I do all the things I had told myself I’d never get to do again? Could I choose a life different from the one I’d resigned myself to?

I reached out to Natalia. By then, her office had moved and I hadn’t seen much of her.

“I’m ready to put that band together!” I told her. “Let’s do this!”

But Natalia had moved on. Her life had been turned upside down the year before, when her boyfriend, with whom she had moved to LA from NYC, had been struck and killed instantly by a car as he crossed a DTLA street.

Natalia said she’d think about it and get back to me. She didn’t.

Meanwhile, I dragged out my stepfather Owen’s old keyboard that somehow I had inherited (I think when one of my kids had a plan to learn piano and then gave up after two months) out of storage. Awkwardly plunking keys as I read the guitar chords scratched onto the lyric sheets from my old Shana Susman band, I accompanied myself.

Singing the songs I had written back in the day made me happy. I recorded and uploaded some videos to my Instagram. One day, on a lark, after recording one of the songs as I clunkily tapped the keyboard keys, I sent it as an audio text to Natalia.

No reply. I sent another song. She still didn’t reply.

About a month or so later, while walking in Beverly Hills, I ran into her. We hugged. Maybe she took it as a sign from the Universe. Maybe she realized there was no avoiding me.

Either way, that night, Natalia finally listened to my songs. She texted me back. She told me she would bring her cajón (floor drum) over and we could play a little together.

We had a total blast! We agreed to start rehearsing, if for no other reason than the joy of playing and singing live music. Each week, Natalia would come, I’d plunk the chords out on my keyboard to the best of my ability, and we would work up another one of my old songs.

I had new songs, too, ones I’d written in my head and recorded a cappella into my voice memo app. But we both knew I wasn’t a proficient enough musician to flesh them out.

Enter: Colleen!

Natalia met Colleen at a music networking event in Los Angeles. An incredible pianist in her 20s, Colleen had graduated with an MFA in music from USC and was working several jobs at once just to make ends meet. We all hit it off.

Inspired by the fact that we three women were having a hell of a blast together, I decided our band’s name should be either “GirlBand” or “GirlBand USA,” with a Hello Kitty-inspired, emoji-drenched logo.

I called my friend Julianne, the uber-successful soundtrack supervisor. (Remember her from Cocktail Club and Part 3 of this series? She had played viola for my Shana Susman band back in the day. I asked her which (if either) name she preferred. Did she like the name “Girlband”? With or without the “USA”?

“GirlBand USA!” she answered enthusiastically.

Thus GirlBand USA was born.

After rehearsing for a few months, we did a backyard gig at my home:

The show was so fun. A few months later, after adding harmonies to each song, we put together another backyard show and invited other musicians and artists to perform as well.

Friends and neighbors showed up. My youngest son David (singing with me, below) was our #1 merch salesman.

In addition to our backyard gigs, we started hauling our asses (and our gear) to the Santa Monica Promenade. It was the end of the year, and we played for the holiday crowds a couple of times.

We knew we’d have a hard time booking a real club gig without any online samples of our music. So we pooled our money, crowdfunded, and recorded a few songs with Natalia’s music producer friend.

Back in the late 90s and early 00s, this cool LA club called the Mint was the only place that refused to book our band. They didn’t give a reason that made any sense, and I felt so resentful.

How dare they reject us!?

But, guess what? When GirlBand USA submitted our recorded songs to the Mint, they booked us!

Sweet, sweet victory.

Our first live show at the Mint was awesome. They reached out to let us know they wanted to book us again. Next, John, a bass guitarist and cellist, connected with us through an online musician’s forum. He joined our band. Everything was coming together!

Until…

Colleen let us know she was leaving the band in order to focus on her goal of teaching music full-time. We would need to find a replacement pianist or a guitarist if we were to keep up any momentum, let alone be able to play live for an audience.

Colleen agreed to play with us at our second show at the Mint, and that show was hella fucking weird. The booker had placed us in between two spooky, head-banger types of bands, which gave us a lot of audience members who did not match our vibe.

Also, the Mint sound guy who recorded our set made us do an entire song live in front of the audience as a sound check before we started. Not really the way you want to open a show.

At least we got some cool videos from the gig, including this one:

The Mint did not reach out to book us again. We also did not ask to be booked, since anyway, now we had no keyboard (or guitar) player.

After that gig, John, Natalia, and I met every week to rehearse, accompanied by me badly plunking out chords on a keyboard. At some point, I finally decided enough was e-fucking-nough.

I picked back up my guitar. I re-taught myself some chords. I began practicing again.

Recently, John, Natalia, and I took my paint-by-numbers guitar-playing to the Oaks Tavern, a cute Sherman Oaks venue that hosts a weekly two-song open mic for local musicians. We told the audience we needed a guitarist.

And guess what?

We found one!

We even found another guy who’s also interested in playing with us, which means, as of this writing, we may have two new guitarists.

We’ve gotten so much better, and we are looking for more venues where we can play. Fuck you, the Mint! Also, just kidding! Call me! We can make this work!

All that is to say: have a listen (we are also on Apple Music), follow us on Instagram and/or Facebook, and find more videos and subscribe on YouTube!

Help me prove that third acts are possible and dreams really can come true.

In this episode of the Brighter Podcast, we sit down with BatSheva for a deeply personal and honest conversation about her life, experiences, healing journey, relationships, spirituality, and the moments that shaped who she is today.

This episode feels less like an interview and more like getting to truly know someone, the highs, the struggles, the lessons, and the perspective that comes from living through it all.

BatSheva shares stories and reflections with so much openness that it naturally makes you reflect on your own life, growth, and the way we navigate change as humans.

If you enjoy meaningful conversations that feel real, grounded, and human, this is an episode you’ll want to stay all the way through for.

Resources & Mentions:
• https://toshasilver.com
• https://mamagenas.com (P#ssy Book)
• http://www.dhamma.org (Vipassana – 10 Day Silent Meditation Retreat)

I wrote in Part 2 of this series that, after singing with Proof of the Pudding at Yale, I went on to sing at Oxford, then with Jeff Goldblum, then with my self-titled band.

(Also sang regularly at a seedy Hollywood bar where a woman threw her drink at me and I took a swing at her.)

What I left out, however, was the leeetle, teeeeny, tiny window, about seven years long, between when I quit Proof my sophomore year at Yale, and when I started singing again in Los Angeles.

During those years, I neither acted nor sang on stage.

Remember that almost-nervous breakdown I alluded to in my last essay? Even though my entire life I was an outgoing, happy, supportive and energetic person, I often felt desperately, lonely, and insecure. Hence, my inability to choose the acting path while at Yale, nor, later, to keep singing on stage.

However, thanks to lots and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of therapy in my 20s, I started to break through that thick veil of fear.

Bit by bit, I started to act and sing again.

The game really changed, though, once I discovered I could write songs.

It all started when I met Brian Abercrombie, an aspiring actor and singer-songwriter. Brian was a trainer at the private gym where I met Jeff Goldblum. When Brian heard I was singing with Jeff, he asked if I could sing backup for him.

I went to Brian’s little apartment. I listened to him strum his guitar and sing a song he had written. Thanks to all those years of singing Today and other 70s hits with my sister, as well as singing a cappella with Proof of the Pudding at Yale, it was easy for me to improvise harmonies with him.

Our voices sounded nice together. I sat next to Brian as he revised his song, watching closely while he crossed out some lyrics, wrote new ones, added a bridge, and moved around verses and choruses.

Wait, I thought. That’s all it takes to write a song?

The process was instantly demystified.

Growing up a punk-rocker wannabe, I was always in awe of the bands and musicians I went to see every chance I got. I never imagined I, too, could be in a band.

Around the time I met Brian, I was having a stretch of dark nights of the soul. With my therapist’s encouragement, I did a lot of writing down my feelings and thoughts. At one point, I took a long poem I had written into my therapy session.

Sobbing, I read it to her aloud. And..

I felt so much better after writing and sharing it! Albeit self-conscious about how rhymey-rhymey it was.

Cut to: big epiphany.

After working with Brian on his song, I went home and re-read my poem. I realized I also had a melody in my head that went perfectly with the words. I sang to myself out loud.

The couplets and verses I had written made for a simplistic and cringe-y poem (at least to me, snobby Yale grad/English major that I was). But with the melody attached, it transformed into a beautiful song. I titled it Cradle You.

I sang it a cappella, first to my therapist, and then to Brian. With his guitar, he worked out the chords behind the melody. I had taken piano as a child, but it had not stuck with me. I needed an accompanist.

Brian and I went to an open mic at Highland Grounds, an enormous, indoor-outdoor, two-story music venue. It was a chill and very popular bohemian coffee shop that also served beer, wine, and food. Brian played the guitar for me and I sang backup for him.

The next day, a manager from Highland Grounds called me and invited me to do a twenty-minute set for the owner. Holy shit!

I had only one song.

But I said yes. I would do it.

On a lark, I called my friend Jim Gibson, a talented writer who also played guitar. Incredibly, Jim was enthusiastic about the prospect of writing and performing with me.

I set to work, pouring my guts out into a few more dark-night-of-the-soul country-adjacent, folk/pop songs.

I sang each new song to Jim a cappella. With his guitar, Jim came up with the chords and music behind the melody. He would make gentle suggestions, and we would try out various arrangements.

We finished the new songs in rapid succession. It was an easy and joyful collaboration.

We did the 20-minute set for the Highland Grounds owner. Four songs, including Cradle You. I’ll never forget the feeling I had when I noticed the multi-platinum recording artist/producer, Babyface, standing in the doorway, smiling widely as he watched me sing.

After the set, the owner told us we could start booking shows as often as we liked at Highland Grounds. Holy moly!

Our own show meant we needed enough songs to fill one hour. Incredibly, I had no problem writing more songs. The tap was open. I invited Caroline to sing backup for me. Then another friend from my acting studio, Marcus—a triple-threat actor/screenwriter/singer-songwriter (not to be confused with his best friend and my boyfriend at the time, also named Marcus)—joined the band, playing guitar alongside Jimmy.

For a while, we also had a keyboardist/bassist—Steve Cohen, a fellow Yale alumnus—and a drummer (whose name I forget) playing a full drum kit, which was incredible, though admittedly quite a lot of percussion for our low-key vibe.

My friend Julianne—now an enormously successful soundtrack supervisor (Grammy® Award winner for A Star is Born, executive music producer of The Wizard of Oz at the Las Vegas Sphere, you get the idea)—played viola on a few tracks of our demo CD and once or twice with us in person.

The momentum was magical.

We had promoters who booked us regularly around town: the Knitting Factory, the Rainbow Room, the Cat Club, the Joint, the Gig, Hotel Cafe, and yes, Highland Grounds. We even played a little club that somehow managed to successfully combine a nail salon with a martini/drinks bar: Beauty Bar.

Various mixtures of our large groups of friends showed up reliably to each of our gigs, and we would end the night with a bit of cash in our hands.

Long live the late 90s/early 00s music scene! 🥳♥️😭

Joanna Schwartz, a friend from high school who is now a celebrated law professor and author, wrote the guitar music for another new song I wrote, SuperStar. Her husband, Theodore Shapiro, Emmy® Award-winning composer, accompanied us on the piano while Joanna played guitar and we both sang.

I felt like the sky was the limit.

My band played out several times a month for a couple of years and I imagined it wouldn’t be long before I’d sign with a label, set off on a college tour, and conquer the world. I’d be the next Alanis Morissette-meets-Sarah Mclachlan-meets-Cyndi Lauper-meets-Shania Twain. (I never did fit neatly into one category!)

Alas… as you already know… A different future was in store for me.

Diving into a religious/spiritual life, marrying, having four children, then opening a hectic coffee and roasting retail store/cafe with my husband turned out to be quite the distraction.

And yet…

I began to find my way back to my deepest creative soul while I was knee-deep in marriage, mommy-ing (okay, well that obviously doesn’t stop, regardless), and running a super-stressful coffee shop.

More on that in the final installment of this 4-part series!

Stay tuned!

BONUS GIFT AUDIO:

Listen/download my demo CDs from that first explosion of music period in my life, below!

The first set of songs comprise the demo CD I made with Jim, Caroline, and Julianne (unfortunately I have zero recollection of the name of our sweet producer, whose voice opens the audio with: “We rolling? We’re really rolling!”)

The second audio is of a collab I did with a guitarist/producer whose name I’ve forgotten. I think it was… um, maybe, Scott…? Yikes.

This is why I’ve gotta write everything down!!

Cradle You, the very first song-that-used-to-be-a-poem that I wrote and read to my therapist, then sang with Brian at my first open mic, is the third track (6:30) in the first audio, below.

The other songs in that set are First Time (0:00), Hard Love (3:13), and Dear Marcus (10:28).

Needing You So is a song I wrote and sang a cappella to a friend of a friend (WHAT WAS HIS NAME AGAIN???) who then wrote the music and mixed/recorded it for me. Listen to that track, below:

How does a Critical Care RN with 15+ years on the front lines transition into breathwork, sound therapy, and "playful healing"?

In this week’s episode of the Brighter Podcast, BatSheva sits down with the incredible Chelsea Goodtime to dive deep into her journey of shedding the "hustle" and embracing the light.

In this episode, we explore: 🌱 Chelsea’s transition from constant striving to creating a home sanctuary. 💞 Her 12-year love story with Hunter and the lessons of blending families. 🧘 The pivotal moments—from yoga in 2012 to the shifts of the COVID era—that redefined her view of healthcare and money. 🎭 The story behind the name "Goodtime" and choosing a life of play over shame.

Chelsea also shares her "10 Sources of Brightness" and her mission through Soul Script Life. Whether you’re feeling burnt out or just looking for a reason to breathe a little deeper today, this conversation is for you.

No Bad Parts Book by Richard Schwartz, IFS (Internal Family Systems) https://ifs-institute.com/nobadparts
Layla Martin https://laylamartin.com (tantric and sexual healing and coaching practice)
⁠Michael Singer https://untetheredsoul.com

#BrighterPodcast #Breathwork #YogaJourney #SoulScriptLife #HealingJourney #PersonalGrowth

In high school, I had successfully gotten the grades, the extra-curriculars, the SAT scores, the all of it, to unlock the magical gates of Yale early admissions.

As I mentioned in my last post, I acted and sang in any play or musical that would have me. I even directed a couple of one-act plays in high school, including the creepy throwback, Sorry, Wrong Number, starring, among others, my GDS bestie who followed me to Camp Seafarer, Amy Glickman.

An unfortunate holdover from high school was that at Yale, I continued to be obsessed with receiving all As. Guess what class I received my lowest grade in?

(Er, yes, it was a B, but don’t be a hater! I basically had a nervous breakdown by the end of my college career thanks to all that over-achieving.)

Anyway… it was in acting. I got a B in fucking acting class.

Want to know why? Simple! I was too self-conscious.

I was surrounded by incredibly creative souls, people like Alessandro Nivola, who was acting on Broadway (and went on to star in a bajillion movies), and Okwui Okpokwasili, the multi-hyphenate one-woman creative force, among many, many others.

I cared too much about how others might see/judge me.

Since I was determined to keep my grades high at any cost (three cheers for those youthful, soul-sucking priorities!) I still double-majored in English and Theatre Studies, but I pivoted from acting to directing.

Directing theater was challenging, but it felt much safer to me than acting. (Reminisce with me about the epic production of Hair I directed here or see some video of my senior project, the María Irene Fornés play that I directed, here.)

Singing, however…

Singing was a different story!

Maybe because I wasn’t getting a grade for it, I felt freer when it came to singing at Yale. Plus, auditions for Yale’s a cappella singing groups were held early in my freshman year, while I was still riding high on the swollen confidence from my high school glory days.

I auditioned, and when tap night came around—yep, these dang singing groups tap their members at night and then run them around, “hazing” them, just like secret societies—I was thrilled and relieved that I had not been overlooked.

I got tapped!

By the coolest all-female singing group: Proof of the Pudding.

Proof sang mostly jazz, swing, and some older broadway tunes like Broadway Baby. I had a decent lower range, which I guess was in short supply, so the senior Proofies gave me the forever role of being an “Alto II.” This meant I mostly belted “doom doom doom doom doom” and “dum dum dum dum dum” throughout the songs, versus the luckier sopranos and Alto 1s who got to sing lyrics and vocal harmonies.

Still, it was so, so much fun.

The other women in my singing group were (and still are) lovely. On school breaks, we traveled together, booking tours in various cities like New York, where we sang at the 21 Club and the Rainbow Room; various venues in San Francisco; and a whole week at sunny Club Med in Mexico.

I know that all of you were obsessed with my photo compilation of my sister Tara and my rendition of that forever-hit, Today, from Part I of this series, so I have a very special treat for all of you, sure to haunt your nightmares for years to come light up your day!

When performing, in order to break up the monotony, we Proofies would do kind of silly skits or “commercial breaks” between songs. I did one of the most beloved skits; it was a play on America’s Got Talent’s storied predecessor, Star Search, poking fun at how the singers on that show would take a regular song and ‘snazz it up’ in order to showcase their Mariah Carey-like vocal prowess.

Warning: have some Tylenol and/or earplugs at the ready if you dare to press play!

It’s safe to take the earplugs out!

I didn’t stay in Proof of the Pudding throughout all four years at Yale, nor did I audition for the senior women's singing group Whim ‘n Rhythm, counterpart to Yale’s storied all-male senior a cappella powerhouse group, The Whiffenpoofs.

But to this day, I’m mesmerized and heavily influenced by so many of the jazz and torch songs I sang along with during those two years with Proof.

In my 20s, I had the good fortune to study acting at the British Academy of Dramatic Arts at Oxford for a summer (see photos of me and my sister in Oxford in this post). For their talent show, I chose to sing one of Proof’s show-stoppers, Scotch and Soda (the heavenly-voiced Sandra Cashion, pictured above embracing me in the lower left black-and-white photo, slayed that song back in our day, as I intoned “doom doom” behind her).

Also in my 20s, I sang Scotch and Soda at a small jazz club on Vine in Los Angeles, accompanied by none other than the Wickedly famous actor Jeff Goldblum (we were buddies from our small training gym, and he had invited me to come sing at his weekly spot).

Again, without cell phones, I am bereft of photos or videos, but at least my friend Akrosia witnessed me that night! It was magical.

Meanwhile, along with my bestie Caroline (catch up on this fabulous friend from my 20s here), I began to sing karaoke in Hollywood every weekend for, like, a whole year, at the dive-y-est bar I’ve ever been to, the Smog Cutter.

Caroline and I bribed the KJ (karaoke DJ), drank wayyyyy too much, and sang our ever-living hearts out. We sang Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart (me), Shawn Colvin’s I Don’t Want to Wait (Caroline), and Bette Midler’s Janis Joplin-esque The Rose (both of us, harmonizing like angels)…

…which ultimately led me to invite Caroline to be my backup singer when I started writing songs and playing them out at clubs around LA.

Details from that next chapter will be revealed in the next installment of AS THE WORLD TURNS, ahem, Me, Singing thru the Ages.

Stay tuned!

Why is it so hard to speak our truth sometimes? In this episode of the Brighter Podcast, BatSheva and Chelsea dive deep into the power—and the challenge—of finding your voice.

From navigating political "bubbles" and opposing views to breaking the cycle of intergenerational silence, this conversation is all about moving from a reactive state to a responsive one.

What’s inside this episode:

• Political vs. Personal: How we learn where it’s "safe" to speak and where we stay quiet.

• The "Good Girl" Conditioning: Why women are often taught to stay silent and how to break that mold.

• Healing Ancestral Silence: Understanding how the silence of those before us impacts our voice today.

• Spirituality as Strength: Using your values to protect the vulnerable and confront what’s wrong.

JEFF FOSTER: https://jefffosteronline.com

Whether it’s a small everyday moment or a massive cultural movement like #MeToo, speaking up shines a light that creates real change. 💡

Tune in now to find where your voice is needed most.

Is it unusual that—at parties and various events throughout our childhood—my older sister Tara and I would break out into a perfectly harmonized version of the beautiful (and uber corny) 60s folk song, Today? We didn’t need an invitation or an audience, though we often had one.

We did it because we were bored and cell phones weren’t invented yet.

We sang because it was fun!

Is it unusual for a twelve-year-old girl squashed between her stepbrother and sister on the car ride across the country to happily sing her bat mitzvah portion the entire car ride—a better form of torture I’m not sure has been invented—and then kill the Torah reading game with her angelic singing of her portion at said bat mitzvah?

Is it unusual for a young girl to then slay the bat mitzvah-party game, with her eerily accurate lip-sync and dance to Prince’s Let’s Go Crazy for all her friends and family? (Dressed, I might add, in a purple paisley miniskirt and matching suit jacket, with an overly lacy blouse underneath, paired with lace stockings, with permed locks swept severely up on one side, perfectly mimicking Lisa and Wendy’s hair?)

MOM, WHERE ARE THE PHOTOS FROM MY BAT MITZVAH????? 😭😭😭😭

Maybe it’s for the best I don’t have those photos. In my mind, I was 80s Madonna mixed with 70s Donna Summers, and I’m sure that’s exactly how I came across to all who witnessed me. (No photos/videos = can’t prove me wrong!)

Knowing how much I loved to sing, my mother paid for me to get singing lessons from the only local singing teacher she could find: an opera singer. I didn’t care. I had an ear for languages and slayed Sebben, Crudele.

Throughout my elementary, middle, and high school years, I auditioned for every single school and/or local theater musical I knew of.

Caveat: I did not get cast in every musical I auditioned for.

Still, for the ones I made it into, I sang my ever-living heart out.

That was me, the nameless chorus girl, singing “Bali Ha’i” in South Pacific! Me again, as sassy Ronnette in Little Shop of Horrors (our high school drama director cast a Black girl to play Audrey with me and two other White girls as the street urchins).

And who can forget my turn as Cabbage Patch Kid #11 (taking a stab at whatever my character’s name was) in the Washington, D.C. professional youth troupe Children Urban Arts Ensemble’s triumphant original musical, Christmas in Cabbage Patch Land?

(Click back to my very first Substack post to see the photo of me who is definitely NOT Raggedy Ann, getting ready backstage to go on and sing!)

Okayyyee, fine, lazies. I’ll post the photo here, too:

Growing up, I sang endless Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, and other, more eclectic country, bluegrass, and 50s artists’ hits, thanks to my dad who’d grown up in Texas and loved music, especially songs with a twang.

As a kid, when it was our turn to go to Dad’s house in the back-and-forth of joint custody, it was my father’s greatest joy to pull out his banjo or guitar and teach us every song he ever learned.

Then there was the pro-Texas brainwashing. Chests swelling with pride and Texas nationalism, we Washingtonian children would belt, “In beautiful, beautiful Texas, where the beautiful bluebonnets grow, we’re proud of our forefathers, who fought at the Alamo!”

And: “The stars at night are big and bright (dum dum dum dum) DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS! Reminds me of the one I love (dum dum dum dum) DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS!”

And: “The eyes of Texas are upon you, all the live-long day! The eyes of Texas are upon you, you cannot get away. Do not think you can escape them, rise up so early in the morn. The eyes of Texas are upon you, ‘till Gabriel blows his horn!”

Get the picture?

In addition to our lyrical pledges of allegiance (to Texas), some (but by no means all) of our very favorite Willie Nelson songs were Don’t Fence Me In and Sioux City Sue (we serenaded our stepmother Susan with this one).

Hilariously, our Jewish, Texan Dad would also lead us in rousing renditions of ye olde English folk songs, The Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night and Oh Dear, What Can the Matter Be—Seven Old Ladies are Locked in the Lavatory! along with tons of 50s and early 60s classics like Remember, Hearts of Stone, and In the Still of the Nite (sic).

It is all I can do not to gleefully belt out each one of these songs as I write these words.

My younger brother Micah, Tara, and I would often make up lyrics, replacing old, stale ones with new genius rhymes. With our help, regular boring lyrics like, “Hearts made of Stone/Will never break/For the love you have for them/They just won’t take” transformed into “Hearts made of Stone/No, they’ll never break/And all of my life/You can turn into a snake.”

We were ahead of our time.

Our dances were not quite as creative as our lyrics, but we did made up moves to go with many of the songs, like “Hula arms” for the “sho-dope-n-sho-deedope” background chorus in between the verses of The Still of the Nite.

Wait—what?

You say you’d really like to hear some of this awesomeness now?

I don’t have any video or audio that survived those pre-cell phone days with my Dad and siblings…

…But, you wanna know what I do have?

I just corralled Tara into recording one of the hits from the Susman Sisters Reunion Tour… coming to a city near you! (In your dreams, because this audio may haunt you for years to come.)

Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine
I’ll taste your strawberries, I’ll drink your sweet wine
A million tomorrows may all pass away
’Ere I forget all the joys that are my-yay-yine
Today.