It’s better if I go
Not to the place
That I can’t come back from
Just for a while
To decontaminate my mind

To visit the home within
With introspective lenses
To understand
The paths I’ve gone down
The past and present

To contemplate my future
My selfishness
My acts of defiance
My compassion for truth
My faith and fears

To remove the mask
A glaring reflection
Looking back at me
Nowhere to hide
Uncomfortable sitting

It’s better if I go
To preserve myself
In emotional epoxy
To find what’s absent
And cherish what’s plentiful

To evolve beyond
What appears
And what exists
Living in discernment
Until I’m ready to return

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Oh, how I wish
The rain would fall
To let me know
I am alive
Reminding me
The sun will rise

Oh, how I wish
The path was clear
Like sailboats gliding
Atop the glass
Reminding me
This time will pass

Oh, how I wish
My heart could sing
A tune of hope
For all to hear
Reminding me
To shed my fear

Oh, how I wish
To see myself
With the sight
That others do
Reminding me
To shift my view

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Please excuse me
while I tear off my limbs
and leave them on the ground,
dragging myself by my teeth
to the next to-do list,
the next errand,
the next unrelenting task.

Go ahead and break my heart,
snap my bones,
crush my spirit.

I’m no good at holding onto
the promises that I make for myself.
Mole hills of white lies
turn into mountains of deceit,
but I keep coming back
to the same cycle
over and over again.

Returning to the narcissistic quality
of my inner critic,
begging for love.

When will I learn?
I ask myself this question,
lost for words,
lost for any sense of navigation.

Learning, failing, returning,
somehow blindsided
that the same actions beget the same results.
Looking back to unfiltered pain
and unjustified suggestions
to just be better.

For fucks sake can you be better?

Wrapping up another session of
”Whose fault is this?”
enjoying a full circle
on the merry go round,
painted smile and plastic teeth
reflected in the center
formatted for the masses.

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Author’s Note: Andre gave me full permission to share this story on Substack.

My husband and I sat in the grass of our front yard, watching our boys ride bikes up and down the street. It was a beautiful fall evening in Florida, the day before Halloween. I looked across the street to the sidewalk and saw Andre, eight years old at the time, lying on the ground next to his bike. Before my brain could process what happened, instinct took over and I was sprinting across the pavement. He stood slowly, holding his mouth.

“I’m bleeding!” he shouted through tears.

I wrapped my arm around his shoulders and walked with him towards the house.

“Don’t worry buddy, I think you just bumped a baby tooth that was already loose, let’s go inside and look at it.”

We stood silently in the bathroom together. I noticed then that he was also bleeding from his knee and his elbow. His hand trembled as he brought a cup of water to his lips, blood dripping down. He carefully rinsed his mouth and smiled. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary until his permanent front tooth began sliding out of the socket. I held back tears and muffled a gasp.

I shouted across the house to my husband, “It’s an adult tooth!”

Panic surged through my body, and Andre began to cry. I pulled him in close and hugged him tight.

“You are safe. We will figure this out.”

I could sense that we were about to enter a storm. I took three deep breaths and gave myself a pep talk. Once Andre was settled on my bed with his tablet and a cold wash cloth, I began the work of a mother. Googling, messaging, searching for answers. I texted a friend who works as a dental assistant.

“Push it back in,” she said confidently.

“I did. It keeps sliding down.”

She replied with a crying emoji.

It was 8pm on a Wednesday. Our regular dentist didn’t answer the phone, so I posted in our community Facebook group and started calling every number that was suggested. My movements were robotic. Call a number, leave a message, repeat.

“Hi, my name is Brittany. My son’s front tooth is coming out. It’s a permanent tooth. I need emergency care, please call me back.”

I looked over at Andre. He was so calm, holding the cloth against his mouth, cheeks wet with tears. He looked up at me with a troubled gaze. Finally, the phone rang. It was the office manager from a somewhat local dentist. Adrenaline spiked as I attempted to explain our situation.

“Can you pull the whole thing out?” he asked.

I brought my son into the bathroom and asked him to smile, holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear. The tooth began to slide out of place, and I gently pulled on it. The entire thing came out, root and all. I nearly passed out.

“Oh my god, it came out!”

I put the tooth in a cup and hugged my son as he sobbed into my shirt. “It’s ok, it will be ok.”

The office manager gave me clear instructions. “Put the tooth in milk to preserve it, get in the car, and drive. We can’t waste any time. We will meet you there.”

The dentist was about fifteen minutes away. I made it there in twelve. A team of professionals greeted us at the door and rushed him in for X-rays. My heart sank as I watched my little boy get carted away by doctors in lab coats and pajamas.

My voice cracked as I whispered, “He needs to hold my hand.”

Before I had a chance to emotionally implode, a kind young woman approached with a cup of coffee and intake forms. Her warmth felt grounding. The staff briskly walked past us with Andre, taking him to another room. I followed them in, but stayed out of the way. The room was buzzing with chaos. Dental tools, multiple sets of hands, and masked faces surrounded my boy.

I called out to Andre, “I’m right behind you buddy, ok?”

He lifted his small hand, signaling me a thumbs up.

Within minutes, multiple shots of Novocain were injected into his gums, and his tooth was being hammered back into the socket. My body recoiled at the sight. They put a splint over the top row of his front teeth and sat him up in the chair. He fell into my body as he stood, pale and exhausted.

We scheduled a follow-up for the next morning and headed home to rest. I worried about him all night, constantly checking his mouth to make sure that the tooth was still in place. At the follow up appointment, the dentist examined the replantation, took another X-ray, and urged me to schedule a root canal. We are a naturally-minded family, and this felt out of alignment with our choices. Despite my hesitation, and out of sheer exhaustion, I signed the care plan for root canal therapy.

Later that evening, doubt returned. I questioned the need for a root canal on a healthy tooth. A conversation with my husband left me feeling more confident in my choice to refuse. His certainty gave me permission to research further and educate myself.

What I found is that root canals remove the nerve and blood supply from the tooth, essentially killing it. The dead, necrotic tooth stays in the body, a preserved structure. Gross.

Dentists can’t always clean every microscopic pathway, and lingering bacteria can release toxins into the body. Over time, these toxins can trigger chronic inflammation, immune responses, and even neurological symptoms, especially in children.

Kids can’t always describe things like fatigue, brain fog, or mood swings. Root canals appear to be local, but research shows that the systemic consequences can run deep.

Toxic materials like formaldehyde and bleach are used to sterilize, but can also leach into tissues, disrupting hormones, irritating the immune system, and unleashing long-term health issues.

Why on earth would I do this to my child? I thought.

Not everyone could see through my lenses.

My mother was upset at first. “You are overcomplicating things, just get the root canal.”

Friends and family talked about root canals like they were as routine as oil changes. Nobody was sitting where I was sitting. Nobody was watching my child move through the aftermath of a freak accident with such grace and strength. Nobody could hear the clarity of my inner voice.

I received tons of pushback from the dentist. She told me that he would likely need a root canal for the adjacent tooth as well and that I needed to act quickly. I gave my firm refusal and spent the next several days calling offices within 100 miles of our home, searching for a second opinion.

I stumbled upon an incredible pediatric dentist within a reasonable distance. She was deeply respectful of my choices as a parent, and held space for Andre to ask questions and share concerns. For eight weeks, she monitored Andre’s healing, checking his splint, the viability of the tooth, and his overall dental health. She fully agreed that a root canal wasn’t necessary… yet. Like the others, she insisted it would likely be a part of his journey.

Our next stop was the endodontist, a root canal specialist, who tested the nerve response of his tooth. Everything looked perfect, and we scheduled a follow-up appointment for six months out. She remained optimistic as well, but firm in her belief that a root canal would be inevitable.

Andre remained level-headed and became active in his healing process. He used bone broth rinses, homemade tinctures, and herbal therapy to nurture his oral health and vitality. He was thrilled to have his own Waterpik. We talked about the power of the mind and how to promote healing in the body in alternative ways. He took it all in stride: appointments, waiting rooms, new faces, medical jargon. He never panicked, not once. Andre’s calm presence throughout this process is what held me together.

I tried not to think about the tooth after we were released from care, but the worry lingered under the surface. We had only paused the storm, and I knew it was only a matter of time before we had to revisit it. When I received a phone call about the six-month appointment reminder, the topic of root canals resurfaced, bringing back a wave of panic and uncertainty.

Before the appointment, I reassured Andre. “Whatever they say, we will just figure it out.”

The past six months had gone by without having a single symptom pointing to infection or a dying tooth. We were optimistic and hopeful for good news, knowing that a full recovery after reimplantation is rare. During the appointment, they began cold testing his teeth to check the vitality of the nerves. Andre nearly jumped out of the chair for each tooth, except for one.

She touched the replanted tooth again, and he didn’t flinch.

“Do you feel that?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

She looked up at me and removed her mask. “Well, the tooth is dead.”

Andre turned towards me with tears in his eyes and buried his head into my body. The lump in my throat was a result of initial shock, but I forced it aside to keep my composure. The staff didn’t understand Andre’s emotional reaction.

Just get the root canal, right?

Without hesitation, she laid out the care plan for treatment. I locked eyes with her and reminded her of our preference.

“He is not getting a root canal. We will take the tooth out if it’s dead.”

Her eyes widened. “You can’t remove his tooth! What will his peers think?”

My eyes rolled to the back of my head and onto the floor. “His PEERS? What about his health?”

She went on and on about the visual aspect of removing a tooth. The vanity. The model on the front of the pamphlet. A shiny, white, perfect smile. I thanked her for her time, took the care plan, and left without booking the appointment. I took Andre’s hands in mine and promised him that I would find another way.

I spent the next week researching for hours, digging into every alternative I could find. It became clear that biological dentistry was consistent with our personal belief that oral health is connected to whole-body wellness. Biological dentists avoid toxic materials, prioritize biocompatible treatments, and focus on healing rather than symptom management.

I familiarized myself with flippers, removable partial dentures, bridges, and dental implants. I did my homework and felt confident in what I was looking for. The challenge was finding the right dentist. The first office I called was holistic, not biological, and declined any involvement for liability reasons.

“We won’t remove an adult tooth from a child.”

Uncertainty returned, but I continued searching. I spoke to another holistic dentist nearly two hours away who was kind, informative, and open to consultation, but still hesitant. The societal expectation to look a certain way became apparent when dental professionals repeatedly steered the conversation back to aesthetics. I made the appointment, but pursued other options.

At the end of the day, exhausted from phone calls, I found a true biological dentist just 90-minutes south of our city. The poor woman at the front desk was on the receiving end of my emotional unburdening. She listened without interruption and her response landed like mellow music in my ears.

“We don’t suggest root canals here. He can have an extraction with stem cell and ozone therapy to ensure a full, non-toxic cleaning down to the gum and bone. We will stitch him up, wait for a healed socket, and fit him for a flipper.”

I was not questioned or criticized, and she answered all of my questions. That phone call left me feeling lighter. The night before the consultation, I couldn’t sleep. I rehearsed what I was going to say and how I would advocate for Andre over and over again.

When we arrived, they took x-rays and brought us to a room. I wiped my sweaty palms against my legs before shaking the dentist’s hand. In great detail, she explained what root canal therapy involves, and described another procedure. No mention of extraction. My stomach twisted into knots and hope began fleeting from my body.

When there was a pause, I took a deep breath and spoke up.

“I was really hoping to talk about extraction. That is what we want to do.”

She smiled, stepped closer to me, and put her hands on my shoulders.

“It’s my job to present all the options, but if this were my child, I would take that tooth right out.”

My body exhaled into oblivion. The only reply I could manage to get out at that moment was “Thank you.”

After taking an impression of his mouth, we picked a color that resembled his natural teeth, and scheduled the extraction. Before we left, the ladies at the front desk shared stories about other kids with flippers, teens with partial dentures, and adults who experienced similar childhood accidents. Andre leaned in, listening intently.

As soon as we got into the car, tears streamed down my face. I felt embarrassed at first.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” my older son asked.

“I’m just so relieved,” I whispered.

Andre came up to the front seat. “I don’t know why everyone’s picking on you, Mom. It’s my tooth. It’s my body. I can decide what I want to do.”

There was so much truth in that statement. It is his body.

Mike and I are good parents. We sat him down several times to explain what life would be like after extracting a permanent front tooth. We discussed the pros and cons of having a flipper and the responsibility that comes with it. We were honest about shifts and changes as he grows, and what it might be like when he gets older. Mike showed him pictures of handsome hockey players with missing teeth. I showed him videos of people who wear flippers and dentures.

Andre responded with wisdom, as usual.

“If I get a girlfriend and she doesn’t like that my tooth comes out, then I will just get another girlfriend. I am confident in myself. It’s just a tooth.”

We think we know how a person will respond to life’s challenges. This act of projecting comes into play big time when it involves parent and child. It’s fair to assume that he will be embarrassed and develop low self-esteem. We tend to imagine the worst before it even happens.

But that is not Andre’s reality, and never has been. He is not afraid or ashamed. He is sensible, collected, and unbothered. We don’t have to plant seeds of insecurity where there are none. We don’t have to prepare him for rejection he hasn’t experienced or burden him with our fears disguised as protection.

Part of my relief came from knowing that despite the constant push back, I put faith into my maternal instinct, even when I was being told it was wrong. Every time I doubted myself, I leaned into my intuition and trusted my son.

It is never easy to go against the grain. It can feel overwhelming and incredibly lonely. It invites judgment from others, and sometimes, from within. What I have learned is that the clearest truth never comes from an external resource. We have the answers, we just have to be brave enough to listen.

Andre has been proudly wearing his flipper for a year now. He purposely pops it out when he meets new friends and takes photos because he believes that the missing tooth is part of who he is. His courage has inspired me in so many ways! I am a lucky mom.

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There’s no place like home
But no place feels like home
Home grown, the home we know
Is no more, we closed the door
On what we knew, to leave one open
A new world, two hopefuls hoping

The clock taunts my racing mind
Reminding me there’s little time
Leaving behind my place of birth
Discovering another earth
Inside my mind, within my soul
Making moves to help me grow

Click my heels and wait in silence
Tornado brings a dose of violence
I can’t settle what’s outside
Struggling to train my mind
Relocation fits the crime
Accept our fate and do the time

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During a lovely conversation about life, purpose, and passion, a dear friend asked me:

“What do you like?”

I muttered a few sounds and broken words. “Uhm… well… I like… flowers?”

I rolled my eyes at myself. Flowers? What the hell does that even mean?

She asked again, prying.

“Ok, cool. But what do you like to do? What brings you joy? How do you like to spend your time?”

Embarrassed, I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know.”

I left that conversation with mixed emotions. I felt betrayed by my self-neglect, but eager to inquire and get curious about who I am. I was hoping to have a glorious breakthrough and rediscover parts of myself that were abandoned.

I took her questions to heart and made a quest out of it. What started as an enthusiastic attempt to “find myself” turned into a grueling challenge. I would sit in meditation and ponder until my brain hurt. I wrote things down like my favorite colors and foods.

Colors and foods. Is this what I have been diluted to?

I was not immediately presented with the answers I was seeking. Instead, I felt like a blank canvas, devoid of anything interesting to look at. I bought some drawing pads and new colored pencils to dive back into old passions. The craving to create art gnawed at me over the years, but I denied myself of its delight, framing it as a time-wasting activity.

Despite my intentions to be more intentional, work and life got in the way. My new art supplies collected dust, and I never gave myself the opportunity to scratch that creative itch. Those self-seeking questions still nagged at me from time to time, but the uncomfortable reality of not knowing the answers was enough for me to push the quest aside for another day.

Several months later, a turn of events brought my life to a screeching halt. After numerous attempts from The Divine to slap some sense into me, I finally crumbled and fell apart. I had traveled so far down the wrong path that I couldn’t find my way back to the main road. My personal and professional life were created by a succession of hasty decisions that were out of alignment with my truth. I lost myself somewhere along the way and became a person I no longer recognized.

I combated this with more haste and decided to light a match and throw it on everything I worked hard for. It was apparent to me, at that time, that the only way to figure out what my next steps were, was to start fresh.

No, I did not have a plan or a clear path ahead of me. I purposefully and painfully gave myself space to be bored and broke. Aesthetically, this was cool. On the surface, it felt like a magical, spiritually sound choice. But it was not. It was like dropping forty bricks that I had been carrying around for ten years. I felt buoyant and detached, totally unanchored to anything concrete.

Being broke was not as fun as being bored. I homeschool my children and have a household to run, so I wasn’t that bored. But tons of white space on my calendar was just not something I knew how to handle. It was a shock to my system that I did not prepare for.

Despite my extreme discomfort, the chance to “find myself” was calling to me. This was a rare sliver of time that I could take advantage of before getting back to the grind, back to making money, back to being a serious adult.

I fumbled around with some things for a while before deciding on what to pursue. I blew the dust off of my drawing pad and dug up the gel pens and coloring books that a family member gifted to me. I took up watercolor painting and deepened my yoga and meditation practices. I listened to music, spent time outside, and allowed more time for writing.

At first, I felt like an imposter. Like a newbie who could not navigate artistic mediums comfortably. Over time, previous parts of myself began to show up.

Eight-year-old Brittany wanted to make silly illustrations.
Twelve-year-old Brittany wanted to put on purple eye shadow.
Seventeen-year-old Brittany wanted to find a way to express herself artistically.
Twenty-five-year-old Brittany wanted to find her identity again.

Thirty-six-year-old Brittany began to feel out of place and unwelcome.

I suppose I am gallivanting through my own version of Eat, Pray, Love - a romanticized version of self-discovery that provides a surface level understanding of what it really means to strip away everything external and find oneself. My version is disheveled and cathartic, which I think is more accurate to the universal experience.

This chapter of my life has been quite depressing at times, serving as a reminder that I am not 8, 12, 17, or 25 anymore. And that my 30’s are being swept away with the wind.

Reclaiming myself has proven to be self-destructive, confusing, and full of hesitation. I could spiritually bypass the hell out of my current situation, but that has never served me in the past. I am literally ripping myself apart, down to bare bones, desperately trying to find the core of my soul and rebuild my life around it.

Except the layers that encompass me have been plastered on for close to forty years. I can’t unsee or unthink my way into a better version of myself within a few months. I believe it’s the action of unraveling that will take me to my next chapter. I’m in a liminal space, abandoning a version of myself that no longer fits, unable to grasp what awaits me. The stagnation is wretched and brings me to my knees at times.

I’m accustomed to constant movement, being busy, and having several projects in my hands at one time. Learning to exist in the white space has been catalytic for me. Life is a tapestry, woven with hope and silver linings, isn’t it? As much as I would like to wave the white flag and call it a day, I’m aware that forward and onward are my only options. Even if I stumble, even if I get lost, even if I don’t have a clue where to place my feet next.

In addition to the absolute dumpster fire that I have created for myself, reconnecting with my roots has been beautiful in many ways. I am slowly discovering and uncovering parts of myself that have been dormant for entirely too long. A veil has been lifted, allowing me to see that I slipped into a superficial way of life that didn’t honor my personal values and beliefs.

I’ve shifted from the main character to an audience member. Having the perspective of an observer has given me the gift of clarity and the courage to make changes before I drift too far away from myself. As I navigate the waters of this major upheaval, I am slowly moving into a place of acceptance that this is a necessary part of my journey.

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I’m disassembling my life... again.

The assortment of pieces ranges from luminous and dazzling to drab and sterile. Some are carefully placed with laser precision, shaky hands guiding them into place. Others are carelessly tossed on top with the hope that they will land upright.

I step back to see the structure as a whole, checking to see if everything is aligned. Adjustments and small shifts are made, careful not to disrupt the foundation. Mistakes are covered to distract the eye.

I feel at ease when my life is put together, when the disorder is subdued. I crave synchrony and order, despite the chaotic energy that lives within my bones. There is intention behind this mess. I created it for a reason.

After a while, I look at the piece of art in front of me and realize that it doesn’t belong to me. The pieces that contain my essence are buried underneath the rubble that was handed to me by someone else. It has been shaped and carved and sanded down to meet the expectations of others. It no longer feels right. It no longer feels like mine.

Deflated, annoyed, I begin to disassemble it. Piece by piece, removing what was constructed subconsciously. Agony runs through my veins as I detach fragments of my life. Memories cloud my mind. Anger and joy erupt through tears. I remember how hard I worked to build it.

My pride dissolves into embarrassment, and my self-talk becomes volatile.
How could I have made these choices?

I second-guess myself.
Maybe I should let it be?

Destruction is the most alluring choice, knowing that this structure was built in discord. It no longer feels like a representation of my inner world. I have to undo it. It doesn’t look the way I want it to. Time is running out, and I am not getting any younger. Anxiety creates urgency in my body. Piece by piece, I undo it, unravel it, rip it apart.

Seeing the pieces on the floor takes my breath away.
What have I done?

Remorse washes over my body.
Why didn’t I just leave it alone, or better yet, build it right in the first place?

The thought of starting from scratch nauseates me. I promise myself I will be more intentional this time, but I have been here before. This is not my first rodeo. I will surely fail again and learn some lessons along the way.

I tore it apart so that I could see the mistakes, to understand why I chose the patterns and colors that I did. To find evidence of my soul beneath the surface. To choose differently next time, and to prove to myself that I am worthy of more than barely scraping by.

This process of reinvention is cyclical, and I think that’s where growth materializes. It becomes clear to me that I am, again, being presented with the opportunity for a clean slate. The thought sends me into a panic, terrified of fucking up. The weight of starting over feels substantial. But the alternative, living a life that does not belong to me, is a burden I can’t bear. Onward.

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Death lurks behind me like a shadow. It paces back and forth, taunting, motivating, confronting me with the inevitable.

The people I love are growing older, leaving behind traces of wisdom and a lifetime of stories. Smooth skin transforms into a landscape of valleys. Thick, lustrous hair takes on a shimmer of grey. Old friends lose the battle against mental illness, abandoning loved ones and the world they once knew. Children spend their shortened lives in a hospital room, praying for an extension. Tragedy surrounds me, causing my mind to turn on itself.

Death reminds me of how imminent it is.

The image of an hourglass comes to mind. Sand slips through the narrow middle, making its way to the bottom. It’s filling quickly, steadily. I can’t see the sand at the top of the hourglass. I don’t know what is left for me… an equal amount, or one grain of sand.

Death reminds me of my lack of control.

The unknown holds space for me to wonder and worry. One mistake feels like one too many. I daydream about the woman I will become, in her last hours, ruminating on a list of boxes she did not check. The freedom I felt in the first half of my life has withered away, leaving me stifled and stuck. Time slips through my fingers like water.

Death reminds me that I am racing against a clock.

My mind becomes a psychological warzone between a peaceful alliance and a cynical army. Acceptance, gratitude, pessimism, and despair all get a seat at the table. Each day, I choose to take another step forward, hoping that the ache in my heart will mend itself.

I want my children to be proud. I want my parents to know they raised me well.

Death is inescapable. It holds power because I can rely on its existence and its permanence. It is both absolute and incomprehensible. The fear of death germinates in the soil of my mind. Some days I feel in flow, alive, secure. Some days I feel aloof, afloat, disengaged.

My passions burn like a flame within the walls of my heart, yet I struggle to feed the mouths I brought into this world with them. How unfair it feels to have been given a gift to share, but no container to serve it in. No guidebook to map out next steps. To have aspirations as vast as the sea and to never realize them is my greatest fear.

Death reminds me that time should not be wasted.

This dread creeps in, starting as a whisper. If I carry it for too long, it turns to a thunderous bellow. I struggle to receive when I don’t believe in myself. I don’t believe in myself because I can’t see far enough ahead to trust the process. I crave concrete evidence that someone is watching, waiting, guiding me along the path.

Success, in all its forms, starts to feel out of reach. Some days it feels tangible, and hope is restored. Other days fall short and I am left with questions about my existence, my purpose, and what direction I am headed in.

It’s a vicious cycle. Only when my back is up against a wall, only when darkness overcomes me and I can’t see a way out, do I fall back into the loving arms of possibility. Collapsing into melancholy is the very thing that propels me forward into possibility.

Without possibility, what’s the point?

Without holding on tightly to the hope that things could go remarkably well, what am I left with?

Two choices present themselves: to succumb to the all-encompassing thoughts of this story coming to an end, or to squint my eyes enough to make out the smallest flicker of light. That light is what pulls me forward time and time again and proves to me that each moment is essential to get to the next. That contemplating death is not going to protect me from it or place a crystal ball in front of me with all of the answers.

Death reminds me that anything is possible.

It forces urgency into my choices and motivates me to pick myself up and try again. It offers the perspective to embrace what’s in front of me, and to appreciate the gift of another day.

My writing is always free to read. By becoming a paid subscriber, you are supporting my journey as a writer while I homeschool my children through adulthood and continue to give them the life they deserve. It’s all for them. 💗

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Life's a painting, work of art,
Finishing before I start.
Perfect artists never born,
Create a rose without a thorn.

Rework, reshape, though never done,
Back to squares, back to one.
Don't know what it is I'm making,
Always giving more than taking.

Layers dripping, colors fall,
Careful not to mix them all.
Overwork reveals a tear,
Taping holes to fix, repair.

Perspective changes things, you know -
Too close to hear, too far to grow.
Never finished, keep it hidden,
Work in progress know my limits.

Hang it up from wall to wall;
Pray it holds me when I fall.

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I sometimes experience nostalgia for the dissociation that comes with self-medicating. Being violently ripped away from reality for a short period of time feels tempting. It’s a place I used to frequent, and a place I left behind. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss it.

Beneath the shame of this confession is a strong dose of honesty. The thought returns to my mind in my darkest hours: I want to be numb.

Self-criticism and scrutiny follow. Why do I think this way? What is wrong with me? What would my children think?

I hate that this self-afflicting disease lives deep within my bones. I hate that my mental health is so fragile. I hate that the habit of escaping became second nature to me. Equally, I’m curious about how or why this compulsion found me in the first place. I wonder how something so universally understood can feel so isolating.

I’m learning to identify my addictive patterns, revisiting and reliving many of my experiences during a turbulent time as an adolescent. I get angry at myself for being so self-centered and dramatic. I get angry at my peers and the people around me who supported my choices. I get angry at my parents for not recognizing the signs of severe mental distress.

My recovery process was slow and progressive. I gripped tightly to alcohol, my last vice. I see now that I was in denial, convincing myself that I was in control. Drinking several shots of alcohol before falling comatose while my small children napped is bad. Showing up to Easter dinner annihilated and having no memory of the egg hunt is bad. IT’S BAD.

The reassurance was a lie. At least I’m not snorting pills.

One conversation changed things in a big way for me. It came from my firstborn when he was just nine years old. He walked into my room, looked at me with his baby blue eyes, and asked:

“Mom, why do you drink that beer every night?”

I looked over at my oversized glass of cheap red wine and replied honestly. “I don’t know, I just do.”

His interrogation continued. “But why would you want to drink something that just makes you dizzy and sick?”

Oof.

I swallowed hard, feeling embarrassed and suddenly alert. I sat up straight in my bed and engaged with him more deeply. We talked about the various reasons why people drink alcohol. I defended my choice and mentioned the aspect of relaxation.

“Aren’t there other ways to relax that are healthier?”

Oof again.

That conversation stayed with me for several weeks, and I felt an aversion to alcohol. I couldn’t get myself to have a drink without hearing his voice in my head. Why do I drink? Alcohol has been problematic for me for as long as I can remember. I wasn’t an alcoholic, but it was the same game.

That year on my birthday, I ordered a virgin pina colada and marked it the first day of the rest of my substance-free life. I didn’t miss it at first. The high of being sober took the edge off just enough. But highs don't last forever. When the lows came, they hit me hard. The thought resurfaced: I want to be numb.

Running from the plume of dark clouds coming toward me is easier than sitting within them. I decided, the day I became substance-free, that I would no longer choose what is easier.

My feelings on substance abuse are strong and rooted within my personal experiences. I instinctually protect myself by limiting my exposure to those who partake recreationally. As a result, I hermit and withdraw from friendships out of fear of slipping back into old habits. Choosing a healthier lifestyle created a wall between who I am and who I used to be. I can’t go back over the wall, I refuse to. That doesn’t make it any less lonely over here on the other side.

I would like to believe that I’ll never take steps backwards, but my insecurity eats me alive. There are parts of myself that are not trustworthy, no matter how hard they try to convince me otherwise. I keep my distance and tune them out, returning to what feels safe and predictable.

My heart bleeds with empathy for humans who are wrapped in the warm, deceitful blanket of addiction. It comes in all forms and doesn’t care who it harms. It creates a false sense of security and power, fulfilling basic human needs at a very high cost.

I’m raw doggin’ life. The music is excruciatingly loud, and I have nothing to cover my ears. Anxiety and depression are companions that I struggle to get along with, but they live with me like tired old roommates that I can’t evict.

Erasing the erratic whiteboard of my mind sounds pleasurable. But I have tools now, and they work. I use yoga and meditation like Band-Aids. Long enough to stop the blood, careful not to suffocate the wound. The difference is that numbing turns the volume down, and mindfulness turns it up. I turn towards discomfort instead of suppressing it. It’s not fun or glorious, it sucks sometimes.

I feel a sense of urgency as a parent surrounding sensitive topics. It’s important to me to have closely bonded relationships with my boys, and to keep the lines of communication open and honest. We have had more conversations about sex, drugs, and mental health in the past few years than I have had in my entire life.

I’m not perfect, but I have come a long way. I can keep my loving arms open for my children at every stage of their growth. I can set a good example by making lifestyle choices that I would want them to make. I can give myself grace and keep showing up, one day at a time.

My writing is always free to read. By becoming a paid subscriber, you are supporting my journey as a writer while I homeschool my children through adulthood and continue to give them the life they deserve. It’s all for them. 💗

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It was mid-morning on a Tuesday. I opened the refrigerator to make myself breakfast, met with sparsity. A deep exhale escaped my lungs. “Payday is on Friday.” I thought. I pulled the eggs off of the top shelf and opened the carton. One egg left. I fantasized about how I would eat the egg. Scrambled or fried, with toast or without. Scallions, garlic, salt and pepper. Drool pooled in my mouth as I slowly put the carton back into the fridge.

I grabbed an individual container of Greek yogurt, peeled back the foil cover, threw some blueberries on top, and sat down to eat it. Not long after, my son, 10 at the time, walked into the kitchen. “Mom, can you make me an egg and cheese sandwich on a bagel?”

My heart smiled. “Sure thing, buddy.”

Self-sacrifice, a small one. I knew he was on an egg-sandwich-kick. I knew he might ask for it, so I proactively gave up the last egg for him, and I was happy to do it. I make these small sacrifices often as a mother, and I think that comes with the territory.

No sunglasses? Take mine, I’ll deal with the migraine later. One cookie left? You take it, I’ll skip dessert. No room on the couch? I’ll sit on the floor. Giving comes naturally to me. It makes me feel good to go out of my way for others, not just my kids.

It started in the throes of early motherhood, surviving on 3 hours of sleep. I developed a mild case of martyrdom. Bitching and complaining… “Nobody ever does anything around here, except for me!” This came from a place of hurt and often fell on deaf ears. I carried that burden, made it my story, and decided that I would just shut up and do it all… for everyone… all the time.

As my children grew older and I stepped back into the workforce, this martyrdom morphed into a savior complex, and I developed the uncontrollable urge to over-extend myself to others. I took on extra responsibilities, covering shifts and staying late. Always the golden child of the staff. Always willing to go the extra mile with no regard for my own time or energy.

Self-sacrifice became a slippery slope to self-abandonment in all areas of my life. I gave food out of my pantry to a local family who needed it, leaving my own family with nothing for dinner. I bought a bike for a child who didn’t receive a birthday gift, draining my bank account. I taught a yoga class with only three students for entirely too long, knowing that I was not making enough to cover the rent. I stepped in as the middleman for a neighbor, resulting in a marketplace deal gone wrong. This left me in $1,200 worth of debt that was not mine to pay.

This is self-abandonment, disguised as noble sacrifice.

My intentions have always been pure and genuine, focused on serving others, without the need for praise or recognition. But this savior complex attached itself to me like a leech, it became my whole personality. It started to eat away at my spirit, and I didn’t see it coming. It felt good for the most part, but my intuition told me that this need to be generous was coming from a place of hurt. That I was trying to heal an early wound of feeling worthless or make up for my shortcomings throughout my years as a young adult.

After several years of teaching yoga to children and adults, I started to feel empty. It was no longer enough to feed my soul. I wanted to see change in the world of mental health, and I felt compelled to answer the call. I searched for a way to extend my reach beyond local workshops and classes. In order to make a bigger impact, I decided to pursue online coaching.

It started out as something pure and genuine: to give parents the tools to manage their stress and heal for their children. My intention was to show up for them as the person who I desperately needed when I was in the trenches.

Things got muddy fairly quickly, and online business wrapped its long, suction cupped tentacles around me and suffocated me. It bruised my integrity and smothered the lifeforce that lived within my mission.

Genuine connections turned into manipulation. I struggled to balance content creation and catchy hooks with the delicate art of holding space for the humans in front of me. My efforts were rooted in love, but my actions felt out of alignment with my core values. Sitting across from a mother, stricken with grief after the loss of a parent, and navigating the waters of divorce, brought forth the most beautiful part of my soul.

But the work that came with preying on the vulnerability of others was causing disconnection and depletion. I poured into others from an empty cup, pushing me further and further into a place of resentment. The savior started to fade and the martyr resurfaced: “I guess I will just help all these fucking people on the internet, since nobody else will do it.”

Things came to a crashing halt when three friends, from radically different parts of my life, brought forth a collective slap in the face that I desperately needed.

Friend # 1: “You are the channel for healing, not the source.”

Whew! That hit me like a ton of bricks. I am not the source. I have no reason to believe that I am the only one who can “fix” what is in front of me. That is not my job here on earth.

Friend # 2: “Are you spending your days the way you want to?”

Nope. I am miserable, actually. Just dragging myself from one day to the next.

Friend # 3: “You don’t owe anything to anyone. You are not obligated to do anything. Just love your family and keep being who you are.”

Ok, I get it now.

So, I stopped. After three years, I quit. I deactivated all of my social media accounts, removed the apps from my phone, tucked my laptop away, and stopped responding to messages and e-mails.

I wish I could say it was a beautiful return to the self, but it wasn’t.

The first night left me writhing in insecurity. Thoughts swirled as I tried to make sense of my intentions. The following two weeks consisted of coloring, frolicking, and freedom… until the novelty wore off and reality set in. I slipped into an identity crisis and spiraled uncontrollably into a repetitive, destructive thought pattern.

How will I make money?
Who am I without an audience?
What is my purpose if I’m not helping others?

Without the task of being a shoulder to cry on or a beacon of hope, I floundered. Wandering around in my own mind, hoping to finally land somewhere that felt like home base. But the landing never came, and the searching felt futile.

I have spent hours upon hours ruminating on my mistakes. Delving into my past to try to understand why the hell I have been operating under such intense pressure to prove that I am, in fact, a good person.

Part of me believes I am under some karmic contract, explicitly stating that I have to give more than I take to clean up the mess left by an earlier version of myself. As I write this, I am still wandering, still pondering, still unsure of what the path ahead looks like.

What I know for sure is that for the first time in a very long time, I feel a sense of self-love that is not dependent on what kind of impact I am making on the world around me. I have set and kept strong boundaries that prioritize my wellbeing. I can leave the last egg for my youngest offspring without leaving a void. I think it’s a good start.

My writing is always free to read. By becoming a paid subscriber, you are supporting my journey as a writer while I homeschool my children through adulthood and continue to give them the life they deserve. It’s all for them. 💗

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I have recurring dreams of a woman. She stands upon a rock structure, overlooking a vast body of water. Her satin, cream colored gown grazes the ground beneath her, shawl dancing in the wind. Her presence is magnetic and fills the atmosphere around her. Her movements are graceful, with bare feet firmly rooted into the earth. A crown of wildflowers adorns her head of long, wavy, purple hair. Her gentle gaze looks out into the water with a tender, reassuring smile. Her energy feels like a summer breeze, comforting and warm.

In my dream, I am swimming towards her, with all odds against me. I can't get to her, no matter how hard I try. She silently beckons me with both arms. When I turn back, I can't see where I came from. My past disappears into the distance. When I look ahead, I see a version of myself I long to be. I am caught in the current, thrashing, gasping for air. Thick fog clouds the air around me, and I become completely unaware of my surroundings. Dread tightens my chest as I peer down to the dark, deep waters beneath me. Fear and insecurity claws at my legs, attempting to drag me down into the depths.

The only thing that keeps me moving forward is adrenaline and the desperation to live, believing that when I arrive, I might be set free.

As I enter into the realm of midlife, I am struck with the realization that there is no retreat. The daily choice to keep swimming lives alongside the choice to drown. Losing sight of the past is a sign of progress, something to be proud of. Maybe this quest of finding myself is about the quest itself. Maybe I will begin to change into the woman I dream of, like a sharp-edged stone being tossed and tumbled into a smooth, shining river rock.

The pursuit to find a safe home within myself feels hopeless at times. The dissection of my psyche becomes an obsession as I peel back layers, desperate to understand the inner workings of my mind and why I am the way that I am. I strive to embrace the lessons that life provides for me in an attempt to evolve into a human who can walk through the pearly gates with VIP status.

But what if it’s not enough? Time continues to escape my grasp regardless of my status here on earth. Regardless of how fulfilled I am, how meaningful my time is spent, or how hard I try. I fear that my effort will not make my end-of-life landing any softer or less regretful.

Part of the human condition is to search externally to find what feels like it's missing. To fill voids as vast as black holes and repair invisible wounds that can't be touched. Seeking out a bigger puzzle for our one, measly piece to fit into. To operate with purpose and intention, racing against a clock that does not exist. Aiming for superficial goals to prove our worthiness once and for all.

Continuing to swim is a choice I make every day. Faith is what fuels the human soul to keep on keepin’ on. To endure pain and overcome challenges. To succeed at one thing and fail at another. To ride the vacillating waves of human emotion and to embrace life exactly as it presents itself. To accept the radical truth and to find glimmers of hope beyond the shadows.

Being shackled to the past will result in drowning, and keeping eyes on the horizon will cause a swimmer to sink. Without the effort to keep moving, without the belief that we might make it, what are we left with?

I will continue to cling on to that belief like a life raft, knowing that doubt will always coexist in these waters with me.

My writing is always free to read. By becoming a paid subscriber, you are supporting my journey as a writer while I homeschool my children through adulthood and continue to give them the life they deserve. It’s all for them. 💗

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Content Warning: This essay discusses suicide and may be difficult for some readers.

Mental health is a hot topic these days, but for all the wrong reasons.

Suicidal ideation and formal diagnoses are being romanticized and treated like an invitation to an exclusive club. Once part of the club, it becomes an excuse for behavior and an applause for the very real shit sandwich that is mental illness.

It is a complex web, woven with threads of personal experiences and circumstances. There are no one-size-fits-all diagnoses, medication, or treatment. There is no guidebook to understand the depths of the human mind. While I respect the role that psychologists, psychiatrists, and therapists play, mental illness is still widely misunderstood and mistreated.

Nobody is safe from being snatched up and dragged into the murky waters of anxiety, depression, or PTSD. The mind is capable of trapping us in a prison that we do not know how to escape. No key, no map, no light.

Is it biological, environmental, genetic, societal? A chemical imbalance? Human brains are desperately trying to understand how the human brain works. This is a paradoxical, infinite, seemingly impossible quest.

A young woman livestreams her emotional turmoil publicly, mascara cascading down her cheeks, as she swims in self-pity and ruminates on her problems. The viewers coddle her and feed her superficial outburst with validation and prayers. All the while, behind closed doors, she winces at the sun as it creeps in through her blinds, craving the touch of the reaper before her feet hit the floor.

In this world of showboating, people often survive by sharing stories and breaking bread over how meaningless this life can feel at times. Rumination ultimately leads to a self-fulfilling prophecy. Socialization is largely digital, a way to connect with others in an otherwise isolating society. Wearing a disorder like a badge of honor and turning it into a gimmick is a cry for help, but nobody takes it seriously until it’s too late.

The dark reality is that one billion people globally are grappling with mental illness, one billion being a wild underestimate. Millions of people around the world are hiding behind a dark veil, hoping that someway, somehow, it will just get better on its own. They are not crying on Instagram. They are not crying at all. They are suppressing, numbing, and acting in their own lives.

Fifteen million people around the globe attempt suicide annually, with an estimated one million completing the deed. It is the second leading cause of death in children ages 10-14. Sit with that for a moment and hold it close to your heart. Do our youth feel enough pain to want to leave this earth permanently, or do we live in a culture that glorifies feeling sick in the head. What starts off as show-and-tell turns into a funeral for a child, leaving millions of families wondering why they didn’t see the signs sooner.

A human being who slips into the pitfalls of depression can lose control quickly and will do almost anything to free themselves from eternal hell on earth. Shame, guilt, fear, and financial hurdles get in the way of reaching out for help, and the only option left is the off switch. Many people choose to self-medicate, using addictive substances and risky behavior to temporarily escape.

Mental health professionals use the practices in place to best guess how to treat the mind in front of them. A mentally unwell person often can’t see the shore yet, and waiting for a lifeboat seems like a hopeless expedition. Reality sets in that continuing to live means dependency on pharmaceutical drugs or perhaps, choosing the off switch.

It pains me to know that children are coming to this point before they hit double digits. With no understanding of the complexity of the human mind or the right language to describe what is happening within them, they are faced with a decision: to stay quiet, or share it out loud? Sharing gets attention, and attention gets treatment, it’s a double-edged sword. From an early age, the mental illness aesthetic leeches onto them and offers an entire personality of having a disturbed mind. The alternative is to keep it inside, a guaranteed path to self-loathing, insecurities, and suppressed trauma.

I have intimately danced with my mind for nearly 37 years, sometimes leading, and sometimes holding on to a single thread, threatening to let go at any moment.

Although I was able to overcome my thirst for numbing pain and discomfort, the truth remains that the mind is a mystery. Happy and helpful on some days, dark and demeaning on others. I have been the little girl, confused about my feelings. I have been the teenager, crying out for help. I am the adult woman who still falls victim to psychological shifts and old patterns, despite knowing that the shore is never too far away.

This begs the question: what can we do?

Sharing unpolished, honest stories about the reality of living with mental illness, positive outcomes, and the capability of resilience is a start.

Teaching our children, first and foremost, how to step boldly into self-confidence and find value in themselves.

Having open discussions about how damaging social media can be, especially when it represents a false narrative,

Normalizing the full scope of human emotions and the ebbs and flows of life.

The opposite of this glamorous tragedy isn’t a life without pain; it is a life with agency. Treating our trauma like a teacher instead of a costume. We must move away from the performance of being broken and toward the raw, unpolished practice of being a whole human.

My writing is always free to read. By becoming a paid subscriber, you are supporting my journey as a writer while I homeschool my children through adulthood and continue to give them the life they deserve. It’s all for them. 💗

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We are all born with innate wisdom.

We come into this world with an intuitive guide built into our being. We use it to make choices based on how we feel. We trust ourselves, and others trust us too.

An infant cries, and we check in. We know the baby is hungry, tired, or in discomfort. We don’t question whether the baby knows what they are feeling. When a child is learning to walk, we trust them. We give them as much time as they need to learn at their own pace. Nobody knows when or how it will happen, because that child has their own internal guide telling them what feels right.

As children grow, they get to know their intuitive guide and how to use it. Unfortunately, this often gets intercepted early on.

Little by little, we unintentionally chip away at a child’s ability to listen to their instincts.

“Finish what’s on your plate if you want dessert.”
“Snack time is in an hour; you need to wait.”
“Go to the bathroom right now.”
“Don’t climb on that! It’s not safe.”
“You’re too little for that ride.”
“You’re too old to watch that show.”
“Just go down the slide, you’ll be fine.”
“If you don’t play with other kids, you’ll never have friends.”
“Bedtime is at 8:00 p.m. I don’t care if you aren’t tired.”
“Give Grandpa a hug and kiss, it’s the polite thing to do.”
“Put your coat on, it’s freezing outside.”
“Don’t cry, it’s not a big deal.”

Children know when they are capable of doing something physically challenging.

They know how comfortable they feel with affection.
They know when they are tired, hungry, hot, or cold.
They know what feels safe and what doesn’t.
They know what they enjoy, and what they would rather not do.

But through our conditioning, we unknowingly send the message:

I don’t trust you, and you shouldn’t trust yourself either.

In a traditional school setting, the rules get stricter.

Kids eat at assigned times. There are rules about what kinds of food are allowed. They need permission to use the bathroom, and some are labeled habitual users. Outdoor play is limited, and only if the weather is perfect. Children are expected to be calm, attentive, and obedient. Anything outside of that is labeled as undesirable behavior.

They are not given the chance to listen to their bodies. Their intuition is replaced with a schedule. A schedule that often doesn’t meet their mental, physical, or emotional needs. There’s a curriculum, an external goal; but there is little room for creativity, individuality, or trust.

Slowly, our children lose the opportunity to become free thinkers. We are left with compliant, submissive individuals who have learned only how to move on to the next grade. Forever focused on what comes next.

It doesn’t surprise me that so many adults struggle to stand up for themselves, listen to their needs, or set boundaries.

As kids enter adolescence, the disconnection deepens.

When they finally get the freedom to choose, they feel confused. After years of following schedules, rules, and unrealistic expectations, they don’t know what their next step should be. They have ignored their inner compass for so long that when they look at the road ahead, they see only two options: take a leap into the unknown or go back to school.

It’s not about what they want, and it never has been.

The best thing we can do for our children is let them be.

Let them learn through their own choices, not the ones we think are best.
Let them listen to the whispers of their hopes and dreams.
Let them notice what feels good in their bodies and what does not.
Let them say no. Let them be curious.
Let them feel their feelings without immediately fixing them.

Our job isn’t to mold our children into who we think they should be. Our job is to hold space for them as they grow into who they already are, guided by something deep inside.

If we take that away from them… they may never get it back.

Without the chance to truly know themselves or their inner wisdom, many adults spend their lives searching for answers outside of themselves.

We are told by superiors, the government, healthcare professionals, social media, magazines, and the news, that we can’t be trusted to know what’s best for us. That we need advice, guidance, and that our gut is wrong.

Over time, our inner knowing gets quieter. It gets pushed so far down that we begin to wonder if it was ever there at all.

We get in line, do what we are told, and any spark of inner wisdom becomes a “crazy thought” or “too big of a dream.”

We don’t stray outside the box because we were taught that outside the box is dangerous.

Perhaps the hardest part of parenting, or unlearning, or simply growing up, is realizing how far we have drifted from that same inner knowing ourselves. Somewhere along the way, we were convinced that someone else’s voice mattered more.

Now we find ourselves staring at the edges of our own discomfort, wondering how to find the thread again. The thread is not lost, it’s buried beneath a lifetime of being told to quiet down, sit still, be good, follow along.

We are all born with innate wisdom, and no matter how far we have wandered, it’s never too late to return.

My writing is always free to read. By becoming a paid subscriber, you are supporting my journey as a writer while I homeschool my children through adulthood and continue to give them the life they deserve. It’s all for them. 💗

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“You can’t just drive your van into the woods and disappear.”

My therapist (at the time) said this to me many years ago. I understood her bold statement towards me, but my heart couldn’t fully grasp it.

“Why not?” I asked, with genuine curiosity.

“Because you can’t always run away, sometimes you have to face what’s in front of you.”

This lesson has shown up in my life more times than I can count. An opportunity to turn towards the fire, and walk through it, knowing that I will not come out unscathed, but I will come out stronger and wiser.

When faced with challenges, I often spiral first. A familiar anxiety presents itself and I begin living in the past or the future.

“What if I had done things differently 5 years ago?”
“What is going to happen in 5 years if I don’t fix this now?”

I let worry consume me, engulfing me in a perpetual world that doesn’t even exist. The past is gone, the future is not here… and yet, I continue to dwell on them both while doing nothing in the present.

Over the years, I have gotten better at shortening my pity party. I feel more focused and solution oriented. I have resilience and can bounce back quickly. I repeat the mantra “I know I have a problem, now what am I going to do about it?”

But every so often, I regress. I sit in a body, numb from emotion, and I daydream. I walk to my van, put it in drive, and take off to the most remote location on the map. I drive deep into the woods, put it in park, and say goodbye to the world around me.

No more pain, no more challenges, no more lessons to be learned. Sometimes I don’t want to face the fire, I just want to pretend it doesn’t exist.

After a while, I return to my breath and remember to use the tools that pull me out of stagnation. I find ways to stay present and force myself into motivation. A solution doesn’t always present itself right away, but one of my favorite things about myself is my persistence and willingness to do whatever it takes to move the needle forward.

Though I have never driven my van into the woods because it’s socially unacceptable and I can’t abandon my family, I still find ways to turn away from the fire.

One of them is moving. Moving creates an upheaval that soothes my soul. It disrupts, disturbs, and causes chaos where there was none. I get to purge my closets, clean out the garage, and buy a new couch. I can be forgotten in one world and embraced in another. It’s the gentle version of witness protection. I don’t need to change my identity, but in a way, I can create someone new. A fresh start, a clean slate. A chance to say, “let’s try this again.”

As much as I wish this were the answer to life’s problems, it’s not. I know that my tendency to run from the fire is just fear keeping me from shining light on the parts of myself that need tending to. It’s a way to avoid reality.

Sometimes, my urge to run away can’t be soothed by moving house.

I withdraw from people and trap myself in a safe bubble.
I start new projects and keep myself relentlessly busy.
I use phrases like “everything happens for a reason” to spiritually bypass.
I push the people who love me away to defend my independence.

I’m aware… and awareness is the gateway to change.

Without being aware of our shortcomings, flaws, and trauma responses, we can’t change them. Instead of beating myself up about my habits, I acknowledge them. I give myself grace and cultivate a deeper understanding of who I am and what makes me tick.

I turn toward the fire, feel the heat against my skin, and prepare myself for the next level of my existence.

My writing is always free to read. By becoming a paid subscriber, you are supporting my journey as a writer while I homeschool my children through adulthood and continue to give them the life they deserve. It’s all for them. 💗

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