My friends are either a traffic-filled drive away, or many states away, only existing on the other side of a screen. I value each of them immensely, and also, there are many evenings where it would be beneficial to have someone nearby for an impromptu walk or glass of wine.

But building community isn’t always easy or accessible.

The friendship apps just don’t work the way we’d hope, especially for queer communities outside of a city, so that means in order to connect with people, I have to leave home more than my busy, exhausted, hobbit-souled self tends to prefer, and slowly but surely becoming a visible regular in my area.

I’m also a single parent working full time, I’m on a fairly strict budget, and I have a disability that impacts my capacity for tasks and socializing. Most weeks, being out in my community looks like taking walks with Fred, my service dog, but every so often I have the ability to do more.

Recently, less recently than I intended post-wise, I had a fairly full weekend experience in my town, and I was able to be present in multiple ways and have micro-connections with people in my area.

On that Saturday I went to my local indie bookstore for their ARC charity book sale. They’re sent ARCs (advanced reader copies) often, and since they can’t resell them, and don’t want to throw them away, they have a cash-only sale, and donate all of the cash to the local food pantry. This event filled both my love of all things literary, as well as support for my local community.

The event was busy, and I didn’t talk to many people, but those I did speak with were quick, kind, helpful exchanges. And, hey, I got three books out of it for only $5!

After the sale, I went to my favorite cafe in town. I’m not quite a regular, because I’m not able to treat myself very often, but what I realized is that becoming a regular somewhere isn’t always about frequent attendance. Sometimes it’s the occasional order picked up that becomes memorable.

Though, in my case, I’m sure picking said order up with a 150lb service dog in tow is what becomes memorable rather quickly.

I brought my laptop for the first time and intended to stay. I don’t often have the space to sit in a cafe and type away– most of my writing is done between the cracks of parenting, and work, and my MFA. But I had the time, and it had been a while since I gave that sort of ambiance a try.

As I stood in line to order, I was asked not once, but twice, if I was picking up that day. The hostess asked because she’s used to me ordering-ahead, and the barista [who makes the perfect dirty-chai latte] looked a bit confused, I’m assuming, since my order hadn’t gone through.

I smiled and let them both know that I intended to stay, and felt a warmth in my chest that comes with being recognized.

The clanging of the kitchen blended seamlessly with the banging of a child’s toy against a nearby table. Soft chatter, soft music, and only the occasional interruption with inquiries about Fred, who was settled beneath the table after several stubborn attempts to get him there. I was able to open up my laptop and type, pouring out ideas and observations, including the beginnings of this post.

Fred and I were also able to take a lengthy walk, and he loved having un-vested time to socialize with others. The questions about him feel less demanding when he’s not working, and when I’m doing something restful like spending time in nature. It’s hard when I’m grocery shopping or running errands, but that walking time is the perfect way for both of us to have micro-connections.

That evening was quiet, but I felt filled by the community connections I had throughout the day. Even though I was tired from the output, and even though there weren’t any phone-number-exchanges or plans made, it felt like more than enough for what it was– a day out in the community that I live in.

The next day I wanted to go out again, but in a low-stakes way. I decided to go to the local brewery and order myself a drink (okay, two) and read a book on the patio. I wanted to be out in the community, but I didn’t have the capacity to try and start conversations with strangers. It was a nice, happy medium.

The time still came with a couple of micro-connections, like short talks with the staff, and one patron telling me that they had the book I was reading, Piranesi by Susanna Clarke, was on their list of things to read. I let her know that it was good, and recommended bumping it up the list.

It was a hotter day, so we didn’t stay long, but it was an enjoyable way to get out of the house without pressuring myself to socialize.

At the end of the weekend I felt fulfilled. I’m still missing that close-friend connection locally, but things like that will take time. In the meantime, there is value in being out and about.

What I took from that weekend were a few things:

1. I need to get dressed more, because any time I put on “real clothes,” Fred gets overly excited and knows we’re leaving the house. It also felt nice to get dressed up.

2. Sometimes being outside is more than enough.

3. Micro-connections, while not sustainable as the only source of socializing, is a good way to feel part of the community.

I would like to do things like this more often, as my budget allows. Who knows, maybe the more regular I become in certain spaces, the more friendships I’ll be able to build.

In hope,
Mx Dani

PS: The em-dashes are of human design. My posts are hand-typed without the use of AI!

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My elder neighbor and I were having the usual check-in conversation that we typically have when we run into one another. He asks how I am, how my son is, my service dog, and I ask him about him and his wife. After we exchanged quick updates about surviving, as we both agreed was the best word, he said, “I haven’t seen you in a while. I was curious, but I didn’t want to bother you.”

My mind immediately scanned for any reason why he might feel he can’t knock on my door to check in. It’s something that I do. I look for all the ways I could have gone wrong and unintentionally created distance or harm.

As I combed through my memories of our conversations and the times that I was able to help them with something it occurred to me– it wasn’t really about him, nor was it really about me.

It’s about our society, and the lack of community.

We live in a hyper individualistic society that’s only continuing to grow in that identity. So many folks are so quick to think that asking for effort from others is too much. We don’t want to interrupt another person’s life for connection, conversation, or even help when we need it. It doesn’t come out of nowhere, it comes from the constant intake of a capitalist, patriarchal, white-centered society that says to focus on putting your own mask on first for all things, not just in emergencies.

Putting on your own mask first is supposed to be for extreme cases, not a way of life. The analogy comes from the masks dropping down in the plane, and if you don’t put on yours first, you may pass out before being able to help someone else, even someone you’re close to, like a child.

What we’ve started to do, though, is use it as a reason to block out anything that may disturb our peace, so to speak, but this no longer only includes toxic or traumatic behavior. This idea now includes our decreasing ability to sit in discomfort, which is impacting us in a myriad of ways, but for the purposes of this post, we’ll keep it to community.

What this mindset does is block us from community in two ways:

1. We don’t show up for others when it feels just mildly inconvenient, which trains people that they can’t depend on us.

2. We don’t allow others to help us and do it all on our own, which grows resentment and isolation.

I’m guilty of the second.

I’m the traumatized eldest daughter who became so used to having to do things on my own, who became so used to others not offering or shaming me when I asked for help, that I stopped asking. I have also grown used to having boundaries so strong that it doesn’t allow for repair, because there are some relationships in my life that really and truly can’t be.

I took that narrow experience and applied it to everything and everyone else. When harm happened, I cut them off the way I cut off my abusers. When I felt so crushingly lonely, but didn’t want to burden the busy people in my life, I reached for my journal instead of my phone. When others ask for my help, or even when they don’t, I overfunction and give more than I ask for in return. When I needed help I would wish for it but not reach for it.

Here I am, speaking in the past tense as if I don’t still do it.

Recently, a friend of mine went on a trip with her sisters. We texted a little at the start as I wanted to wish her well. She asked how I was doing, and I said something along the lines of, “I’m good! I hope you have a great time, and I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

She knew I wasn’t good, but she didn’t press.

Even if I had been good, I still wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt her time. Our friendship is still fairly new, and although we’re bonding each time we talk, we hadn’t really gone over when-I’m-out-of-routine expectations. At least, that is the reasoning that went through my head at the time.

When we talked again after her trip she mentioned it, and said, “Oh, I guess I’ll talk to Dani in a week then?”

That’s when I hid my face and said those same words.

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

I got that look.

Yes, that look.

It felt silly to say it out loud to someone who is so kind to me, because what was that saying about her? My own fears of being a bother more than a welcomed connection were projected outward, again.

She’s also an expert in texting back or reaching out when she has time and capacity. She, to my knowledge, wouldn’t be annoyed if I texted at an inopportune time. If I had texted, and she was busy or low capacity, she’d just respond later. It doesn’t come from that oxygen-mask place, because she’s a villager. She shows up for people in big and small ways.

I admire that about her. I’m someone who has my phone on silent 24/7/365, but I wear a watch that vibrates to alert me to any messages or calls. In some ways, like as a single parent, it’s important that I am aware of incoming needs, but in others, like as a friend, it makes me feel as though I should immediately respond to something, even if I don’t have the space at the moment.

I’m someone who wants to be available, someone who wants to be a villager, but that doesn’t mean unlimited access. But a depleted Dani can’t show up for anyone, least of all myself and my loved ones.

Boundaries, or lack-thereof, aren’t supposed to be an all or nothing thing. There’s supposed to be an ebb and flow, and more space for nuance between an easy yes and a hard no. Community takes effort and sometimes requires us to be inconvenienced, but it’s not always easy for folks to decipher between being inconvenienced and showing up beyond one’s own capacity.

As a chronic over-function-er who is trying to build my community, this is something I’m actively working on, and the balance for me is hard to find. I’ve made it a goal with my therapist to ease the over-functioning, while still being a villager, and together we’ve come up with a bit of a system.

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The first step when I’m asked to show up, or when I’m deciding to offer to show up, is to check in with my capacity and my body to help me decide exactly how and when I can, or can’t, be present for someone.

Since my brain likes to categorize, I’m learning to break it down into four categories:

Easy Yes: This is either something simple, or a situation that really requires the building of capacity to be able to show up. It feels immediate, like an unquestionable yes.

Medium Yes: This one takes a moment of thought, but it doesn’t feel like too hard of a stretch.

Hard Yes: This is one where I know a lot of capacity will be needed, but it still feels like something I want to do. It’s the right thing to do, even if it’s hard.

No: No capacity, or something that wouldn’t feel good to be part of. Even if it feels hard to do, it is the necessary choice. Sometimes the no preserves not only the self, but the relationship with the other person.

As for the rest, I have to learn to practice asking for help. Part of that ebb and flow means allowing people in, facing a fear of rejection or being shamed, and maybe, just maybe, learning that I’m more of a ‘yes,’ to people than I realized.

An example:

Someone I’m close to is having surgery soon. I was asked to take on a caretaking role during that time period, and it was an Easy Yes. The ease doesn’t come from a capacity standpoint, but more of a care standpoint. This is a situation where they will need someone close, someone to drive, someone to care for their dog and help with basic needs for a few days, and I’m more than happy to be there.

We live in different towns, and this will take place during the school week. While my son is old enough to be alone for a night, he’s not quite there when it comes to getting out of bed and getting himself on the bus no-problem. We’re working on it, but this wouldn’t be a situation to test it, so I knew I needed to reach out to another parent and ask that they take him in for one night, and make sure he gets to school the next day.

I asked my son who he would want to spend time with that day, and he easily picked one name. So, I picked up my phone and went to reach out to that friend’s mom.

I watched the stark difference between how easy it was for me to say yes, and how hard it was to send that initial text.

I felt panicked– worried that I would bother this other mom, or put too much on her. But, I sent the text with a bit of context, and to my surprise, it was an Easy Yes. At least, it was perceived as such when she responded so quickly.

I found out shortly after that her child is going to a different high school, but even then she was willing and open to not only taking my son in for the night, but getting him to school the following day. It felt like too much, and I offered her an out, but she assured me with, “It really won’t be any trouble at all. This far ahead I can totally plan for it.”

I thanked her, more than once, and said how much it meant to me as someone who doesn’t have much of a local village.

She replied, “You’re very welcome! I totally hear you. Happy to give you one less thing to worry about.”

It seemed like a simple enough exchange, but what I experienced internally was anything but simple. I felt a swell of emotion that included both gratitude and guilt, and it took a bit of time to process it against my elevated nervous system. This internal response, I’m starting to understand, is the result of being surrounded by people who echoed my initial traumas thanks to not just the causes, but the repetition compulsion on my part afterward.

I’ve come to realize that people are willing to show up much more often than I give them the opportunity to.

All I need to do is ask, because while the worst thing that (most) people would say is no, the best thing they might say is an Easy Yes.

The hardest part of building community for me isn’t helping or showing up, it’s allowing others to do the same for me. Awareness is the first step, but as I need to remind my over-intellectualizing mind is that action and practice is the second, harder step.

I had let my neighbors know that they could knock on my door anytime, not just as an open offer to help them if needed, but as a point of connection and community. They haven’t, but to be fair, neither have I.

Maybe one day soon I should, so that they know that I mean it.

In hope,
Mx Dani

PS: All em-dashes and metaphors are of human creation. This post was hand-typed without use of AI.

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When I first came out and started to explore my gender, I was told all of the ways to neutralize my identity and all of my past experiences, because past Dani was always nonbinary Dani.

While that is true, that I was always nonbinary, and queer, and Dani, what this expectation didn’t quite grasp was the nuance that comes with growing up as a woman in our society. The more I started to strip away certain identities and neutralize them, so that I’d be in the middle like other nonbinary people and model good-neutral-language, the further I started to feel from myself.

Parent.
Sibling.
Child.

While all of these are true, they aren’t really the full story. They lack is the layer of experience that comes with certain roles that we play for others, and how many of those roles came without choice. They lack the history of all that I have carried and will continue to carry.

I will always be the eldest daughter.

Not just the oldest child, but the eldest daughter. This is a particular experience that is binary based, and sexist, and deeply known for those who hold the same title, especially for those who came from less-than-stable homes. The eldest daughter is expected to be a caretaker, a navigator. The responsible one. The mediator. The fixer. They’re resented in their roles when they’re in them, and resented when they leave.

I will always be a mother.

While I was mothering before I had my own child, I chose to have my child when I did. I carried my child. I birthed and breastfed my child. I have always been mom. This title never changed for me. Nothing else felt quite right, though I was asked again and again what new thing I’d like to be called. Not by my child, mind you, by others. My child, when I changed my name, simply asked, “can I still call you mom.” I said of course, because to us, that title was a bond and an experience, not a gendered, societal phrase.

I am a single mother.

Not just a single parent, because the experience of a single mother is, in most cases, different. A single mother carries the weight of judgement, even if folks don’t realize they’re casting it. We don’t often have help or community because we’re “so strong” that we don’t seem to need it, even when we desperately do. And hint: most of us desperately do. We’re often the primary parent, the one who is doing the raising, and taking care of school, and shopping, and going to doctors appointments. We’re often the ones doing the work of two, alone.

I was diagnosed ADD at 15.

I was diagnosed because my volleyball coach caught it. Not the teachers who called me lazy. Not the teachers who claimed I didn’t read things because I didn’t retain information easily. My volleyball coach, because I misheard practice times, realized I had some auditory processing issues.

ADD. Not ADHD, and even now that the two are combined, I was rebranded as the inattentive type. It’s not because I don’t have impulses of physical hyperactivity, because it turns out that I do, but because I spent my entire life being conditioned to not be too loud, too much, or to have any needs of my own. I was meant to be needed, not needy. However, the ability to sit painstakingly long without consequence is abruptly changing, which brings me to my next point:

I’m perimenopausal.

I’ll be 38 in a couple of weeks, and the early signs have been here, apparently, for some time. Menopause is something that all females experience at some point in their life, but it is under-researched, and under-taught, and many people around my age are getting hit in the face with it, instead of being well prepared for it. And before you say I’m too young, I’m not. Neurodivergent folks are just more likely to notice the subtle changes in their mid-to-late 30s.

I’m nonbinary, but my life experience is from the perspective of womanhood.

This, obviously, is not the case for every nonbinary person, but it is my experience. These things that I’m sitting with, these identities I’ve held, they’re mine.

My gender is who I am, but my experience is based on who society is.
Our society is sick, but it’s the one we live in.

I experience the world as a woman, because that is how the world experiences me. I’m done trying to neutralize and erase aspects of self that made me who I am today. I’m done trying to morph myself into someone who will never be misgendered (it doesn’t work) and I’m done trying to appease the pseudo-altruistic folks who encouraged me to do so.

I’m done trying to appease anyone other than myself, if I’m being honest.

I’m going to start using phrases that make sense for not just me, but for the society that we live in. I want to ask my friend’s for a “girls day,” because that’s a genderless term for day-drink-and-shop-and-gossip. I want to be able to say that I’m a mom, because that’s the relationship that I have with my child. I don’t want to neutralize every single term that comes out of my mouth because, in all honesty, I’m exhausted.

I’m done trying to educate and erase myself.
I’m done being some example.
I’m done listening to people who probably haven’t done the work to look at their own misogyny.

My gender is my inner world and my expression of self. It’s a blending of masculine and feminine that ebbs and flows like the tides of the sea. I hold both, and I love both, and that means no longer dismissing the woman side of me, even if it means people continue to misgender me.

I am mother, and the eldest daughter, and perimenopausal, and I’m still nonbinary.

In hope,
Mx. Dani
They/Them

It is because of that simple and heartbreaking truth that we can find community in the most unique, quiet spaces, like a library book, published in 1992.

At first, I thought the book must have been donated by someone because it had been annotated. The penciled lines marked page one, underlining and parenthesizing, and I knew that this book about hidden, sapphic love and adulterous affairs must have meant something to someone.

Pencil marks, faded but still stark against the yellowed page, giving their weight of hidden grief with every daring stroke. Each sentence, a private admission of wanting and not knowing, of understanding but not speaking.

I looked closer and noticed that some marks were more faded than others, and that the parenthesis around one paragraph emphasized the faded underlined sentences as if to coax them back to life, without daring to overwrite them.

On the following page, those pencil marks with varied weight were met with blue ink. Underlines of yearning, and hopeful lying, and keeping love hidden and sacred and safe alongside the sin of adultery and the fear of being found.

Each mark, an admittance of knowing and wanting what too many of us crave and live without. The three types of lines danced in conversation, though the one before the next would know nothing about it, but the last to leave her mark would hold close to her chest.

The lines were drawn, but no words were written in the margins, because then their most carefully kept secrets might be found, unable to be taken back, unable to be kept neatly stacked along the shelves of their closets as this book returns to the shelves of the library.

No words, at least, at first. The courage grew over time and as the story stretched on and the lines started taking over entire pages.

Blue said, on page 86: Write on body.
Pencil, on 118: 3 sad people quiet in a shaking house.

The marks are left waiting for the next. No one checks, and no one dares erase the confessions.

They wait with unknown stretches of time between one reader and the next, another person entering the conversation as witness, or perhaps, to leave their own traces of self on the pages.

I wonder if, years later, the first owner of the book had happened to look and see the old friend marked by others, so see and know that even in the loneliest of spaces, they had never truly been alone.

The book itself, a reminder, that none of us are alone.

In hope,
Mx. Dani

I’d go through book after book with the same messages and the same cycle of results:

• I’d feel inspired

• The dopamine would wear off

• I’d have a symptomatic day

• I’d blame myself for not being able to have a positive, abundant mindset

• I’d go back to self-doubt and self-shame

• I’d pick up another book

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I didn’t realize at the time that these toxic-positive books weren’t accessible to me.

I have CPTSD and ADHD. I have hard days and symptoms and flashbacks and nightmares that pop up without warning.

So, around and around I went, hoping that one author would somehow solve my misery for me and get me out of survival mode and into a thriving, abundant life. Everywhere I looked, I saw lack, and struggle, and hardship, and instead of focusing on what I actually needed, I blamed myself for not successfully using positive thinking to will myself out of it.

Even when I realized that these books focused more on what I was doing wrong rather than what I had gotten right, even when I understood the difference between real life and toxic positive belief systems, the internal bias had already clawed its way into my nervous system.

I was recently journaling about it, though, because I’ve been working a lot on my self-esteem and abandonment wounds— isn’t it fun what dating brings to the surface?— and what I realized is something profound:

My fears don’t inherently mean that I’m slipping or stuck in a lack mindset.

The fears are real, and present, but I’m no longer choosing from a place of fear.

I’ve done a lot of work this year to get comfortable in my own discomfort, grief, and healing process, and that means that I’ve learned to stop choosing short-term comfort in exchange for long-term peace.

I’m no longer willing to let go of things I need, or make myself small, or over-accommodate so that maybe, just maybe, I’ll be chosen.

Even on days with the most self-doubt, and triggers, and heavy crying, I still know that the ache of loneliness is temporary, and I have hope that I’ll meet the person who feels like everything I’ve been looking for.

I’m not sinking into a lack mindset— having boundaries and hope after hardship is an abundance mindset.

It was the toxic positive bias that had me believing otherwise.

But what is toxic positivity, and why doesn’t it fit well with trauma healing?

Toxic Positivity categorizes emotions as High Vibration/ Good and Low Vibration/ Bad.

In toxic positive media, we’re told to pause for anger, fear, and sadness, quickly work through it, and focus heavily on better emotions.

Joy and gratitude are seen as good, and anything that has us feeling heavy is bad so we must move on fast— Because there’s no possible way for us to manifest the things we want from a low vibration, and therefore if we aren’t motivated and getting the things we want, it must be because we’re in too low of a vibration.

Think UniKitty from The Lego Movie.

When someone is dealing with trauma, this pressure to think positively all the time can lead to suppressing emotions, and shame spirals around big emotions, flashbacks, and depressive episodes. That hinders trauma healing more than it helps, especially if we continue to push against our bodies and strive for a perfectly aligned, high-vibe life.

Now, is a gratitude practice helpful for trauma healing? Yeah, it can recalibrate our ability to hold both the good and the hard at the same time.

And, is it harder to stay motivated when we’re dealing with more symptomatic days or weeks? Absolutely. Trauma is exhausting, as is life, as is healing.

But that doesn’t mean that we’re somehow at fault for hardship, or that we’re less worthy of the things that we want in life. It just means we have to adjust how we move forward— which brings me to my next point.

Toxic Positivity perpetuates productivity over sustainability.

Many of the toxic positive workshops and books focus on quick fixes for ‘low vibe‘ emotions so that people can quickly get back to working on their goals and manifestations. It teaches people to seek quick comforts over long-term peace, which, in short, never lasts. This is especially true for my fellow dopamine-challenged friends.

To put it simply, it amplifies burnout culture instead of a sustainable pathway.

PTSD comes with days when more rest is needed, and the body needs more tending to. Period. When we go full-throttle and try to push past our bodies screaming at us for rest, we hit burnout like everyone else, but usually faster, and usually with a longer recovery time. Especially if we’re neurodivergent as well.

What we actually need is nervous system regulation.

Regulation doesn’t come from quick fixes and shame spirals. It doesn’t come from suppressing emotions and avoiding deeper issues trying to come to the surface.

It can also be hard for us to trust when things are good, because that feels so unfamiliar to our nervous systems. As we work to build self-assurance, we can also build trust that when good things come our way, we are not only ready, but worthy.

Nervous system regulation comes from listening to your body, which includes listening to and accepting all of the emotions that we’ve been taught are bad.

Are you sad? Okay, cry.

Crying is a wonderful release. It’s our body’s way of trying to regulate, and when we consistently stop ourselves from crying for fear of judgment, both by ourselves and others, those emotions just sit longer in our bodies. This can exacerbate our symptoms and lead to more uncomfortable ones.

It’s best to listen to your body’s needs, and let it get the stress hormones out.

Are you angry? Okay, go rage in your journal.

Anger is fuel for us. It redirects us. It shows us our deepest values and where our boundaries need to be tightened up.

We’re taught that anger is inherently shameful, but it’s not. The way people express their anger can be shameful, but the emotion itself is a sharp lesson of, “this isn’t right!"

Take out your journal, or talk to a trusted friend (with consent, given the context), and just let it out.

Do you need to have a panic attack?* Okay, let’s go!

This one was harder for me.

All of my years in therapy had taught me to sense the panic early on and cope my way through it, but again, that just brought on a buildup of anxiety that would come out every which way. My body was trying to tell me that it was overwhelmed. It needed to shake. It needed to cry. It needed to just feel it and get it the hell out.

Once I started to trust myself to just have a panic attack, and know that it wasn’t a permanent feeling, they happened more quickly and less frequently.

*I do highly recommend speaking with a professional first about this, so that you have a plan if you start to feel stuck in a loop, especially when you first start the practice.

Are you tired? Downshift. Rest.

Raise your hand if resting comes easily for you.

I don’t mean the ability to sit or lie down when the body no longer feels like it can function. I mean the racing mind that soars through guilt trips and the long list of things we could be doing instead.

Of course, very few of us have the luxury of choosing exactly when we rest, but too few of us make time for it. I’ve learned over the years to schedule myself days of nothing, where I can just be in flow with myself (even if that flow means binge-watching a show), so that I can regulate more easily during times of overwhelm.

Time won’t always become available, so it’s important that we make time to slow down and really check in with ourselves and rest.

Feeling happy? Smile.

Feeling silly? Play! Laugh!

In general, just listen to your body.

Your emotions are happening for a reason, even if the reason is an old trigger that came up, or an emotional flashback. Feelings aren’t inherently good or bad, they’re just inherently human.

It’s what we do with them that matters.

The longer we try to avoid them, the worse we’re going to feel. Period.

We don’t need a perfectly regulated nervous system to encounter and embody abundance, though.

We just need to get into the practice of listening to our bodies and regulating our systems as triggers come up.

We’re looking for progress in our patterns, not perfection.

When we let go of the idea that we need to be perfect and happy and bright all the time, we can learn to radically accept our needs and accommodate ourselves.

This, with time, can help us move out of survival mode and into a more thriving existence, even with our harder days, because we’ll start to make room for them, without shame.

And here’s the truth: re-wiring and trauma healing is hard, uncomfortable work, yes. It’s not easy, it’s not fast, and it often involves taking two steps forward and one step back. However, since you’ve survived your trauma and all that, you’ve already proven to yourself that you’re capable of getting through hard things.

Let’s just get into the practice of doing hard things for long-term peace.

What does all of this have to do with abundance?

Well, when we start listening to and trusting our bodies, we can more easily start trusting our decision-making.

Before we know it, our bodies and minds will team up to let us know when something feels aligned, or when we need to hold or strengthen a boundary.

We’ll know when to say yes to something, and when to say know. We’ll start to think bigger for ourselves, because we’ll trust ourselves to be able to go there.

We’ll know when we need to push forward, and when we need to slow down.

We’ll know what we want, and what we need, and what we need to let go of, so we can accommodate ourselves and redirect our energy where it needs to go.

We’ll build a more sustainable, thriving life.

Want to dive deeper?

Unbinding Abundance PDF

I’ve put together a PDF with journal prompts to start addressing the toxic-positive bias, and instead start to build a trauma-informed abundance practice.

This PDF will be available for purchase on my website in the near future, but for now it will be free to all of my paid subscribers, at any tier level!

$15 Value = Free to Paid Subscribers

(Scroll down beyond the paywall for your download!)

I wish you all healing, reflection, and rest when needed.

Thank you for reading— please like, share, and consider a free or paid subscription.

In hope,
-Mx Dani

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Let me dig into all the crevices to see what’s lurking. I’ll look under every stone to see if the things that creep and crawl there can show me what I need to know in order to be whole and healthy. I’ll journal pages upon pages, and cry, and shake, and feel the work to the very depths of my soul.

But if we aren’t careful with shadow work, the shadow is all we’ll start to see.

There’s more to life and healing than staying in the depths of trauma work and despair. We need to be able to see hope in the future, a light ahead to guide us, and in order to do that, we have to let in a little sunlight.

Sunshine work, in my opinion, is celebrating the little things in life. It’s seeing the beauty in what already exists, and taking time to notice the small wins along the way. Not everything has to be so dark and so heavy all the time.

Yet, when we lean too heavily into sunshine work, we start to forget the dark, and fall into toxic positivity.

If you’re new to that idea: Think of Unikitty from the Lego Movie.

A balance of the two is what is needed. At least, that’s what I’m starting to learn. Like the balance of the daylight and darkness of night, we need to ebb and flow with the light and shadow of our lives and our healing work.

My journaling practice, as I’ve mentioned before, has become one of the greatest tools of my healing.

I know.

I know.

Like with my new running practice (I know!) I didn’t expect it to work. In fact, I was against it when my therapist first brought up the subject. It turns out, though, that using it as one tool in my healing and coping toolbox, like running, has helped me immensely.

Sometimes it will take a few months to go through a single composition notebook. Other times I’ll go through three in the span of a single month. The frequency ebbs and flows with my work— but as I reflect I see that I lean more into shadow than into sunlight.

At a certain point, I start to lose hope. Then, my cards will remind me to look for it and to stop and celebrate. I use runes and tarot in my daily journal practice, both as prompts and as guides. Lately they’ve been leaning more heavily into that balance of shadow and sunlight.

Both are needed.

Both are necessary.

I’d like to try something new with you, reader, in an effort to share the wisdom that this practice has brought me. If you’re willing, I’d like for you to try a journaling prompt, just to see how it flows with your healing practice.

I’d like to work these prompts into my weekly Tuesday posts, to see how they might serve you.

The first will be to all of my readers. A lighter offering, to cast some sunlight on your healing practice as a gentle reminder to do so.

The last two will be for my paid subscribers, and those who would like to go a bit deeper.

If you feel called, you’re welcome to share what comes up for you— but it is not an expectation. This is between you and you, and whomever else you choose to bring into your practice.

No matter what, I thank you for being here. I’m grateful for you.

In gratitude,

Mx. Dani

Journal Prompts

Sunlight

1. What moment, small or large, in the last month should I pause and celebrate?

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My words will be back on Tuesday, so for now, enjoy the photographs.

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Thank you for taking some time to witness this week’s beauty with me.

I’d love to hear about beautiful moments you’ve had this week, too!

-Mx Dani

I say that often, equating my art to when I was taking professional sessions and being paid for my work. When I’m honest with myself, though, I loved photography before it was a business, and I’ve loved it in the years that followed.

Life is heavy right now, it just is, but taking photographs has helped me to slow down and be present, and it has reminded me that beauty still exists.

I’d like to start a weekly post series here on Substack where I share photographs from that week. There are so many beautiful moments from Summer that I’d like to share first, then I’ll dive-in with the My Week in Photos series this Sunday night.

They’re in no real order- just a share of various summer moments.

I will still post my words on Tuesdays, but I hope you enjoy my Sunday photographs, and end each week with a little beauty.

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With love,

Mx. Dani

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I recently caught myself wading through each day, waiting for it to just be over.

Because things have to get better at some point, right?

Most days have brought with them personal and systemic grief and stress, and I’ve been doing my best to make it through. I work, I parent, I cook, I clean, and at the end of the day I’m laying on the couch waiting for it to be late enough to go to sleep, hoping that I’ll get to the part soon where things feel better.

But if I’m being honest with myself, that’s not how we get to the other side of a transition.

I was recently reading a post about mutable signs— mine being Gemini— and how they adapt to transition because they sit at the end of each season, as we transition into a new one.

Now, when I say I’m a Gemini, I don’t just mean my Sun sign. I’m a Gemini, meaning my Sun, Rising, Mercury, and Venus all share that same sign, so when I read (with a grain of salt) about my main-character sign, I know it covers a lot of bases.

What stood out to me about the idea of being a sign at the end of seasons, is how I’ve always enjoyed those in-between times of the year. I live in New England, so for most of my life I’ve enjoyed a cycle of full seasons. Yes, the world is beautiful in the full bloom of a season— the vibrance of autumn, the quiet of snow-covered winter, the budding of spring, and the lush-green of mid-summer— but the noticing of the seasons changing in between have always been my favorite, fleeting moments.

I love those first crisp-mornings of September and early turning trees that let us know the heat is leaving and that the downshifting of autumn is coming.

I appreciate the last bits of more muted colors on the last-clinging leaves just before the winter snow just as much as the brightness of peak leaf season.

I love the bit of hope that comes with the first buds of spring and the warmth of the sun returning just before summer.

They’re my favorite. Those in-between moments of transition where you know one time is ending and another is beginning, and I try my best to notice and remember the beauty of that part.

Yet somehow that hasn’t quite translated to my own in-between moments.

I am adaptable. I’ve had to be for one reason or another, and I’m good at shifting into something new, thinking outside of the box, and making things work. What I’m not so great at is the patience and the blind faith that everything will be okay on the other side of change. When I don’t know what’s ahead, I become riddled with anxiety and doubt.

The seasons are fairly predictable. We know what to expect for the most part. Even as the climate changes and adds shifts and adjustments to each season, there are things that have so-far remained the same.

But maybe that in itself is part of the wisdom.

We get so busy looking at the changes that we can easily neglect the steady things that have remained the same, even as the world shifts around us. My job has remained steady, as have a couple of friendships. I have my child, and my service dog, and my cat. Those things have stayed the same.

I have myself, but I’m shifting, and changing, and releasing, and adapting— and I’m exhausted.

I’m also releasing, and blooming, and shifting into my new life with gratitude alongside the pain.

When I first moved to this town, it was at the very beginning of Spring. Winter was still clinging to the ground as crocuses made their way through. I watched as sticks began to bud, and later bloom. Spring was lovely, and summer was lush and vast.

This weekend I spent time watching yet another turn into a new season. The equinox has brought an early autumn in the trees. The leaves are already changing and starting to fall, and I can feel myself downshifting.

I went on a walk on Sunday, and saw the beauty of not only the nature and the changes, but of the community I’m blooming into. There were plenty of people out, enjoying the nice weather on the final day of summer. Kids were giving away free lemonade (tips welcome). There was a group of fly-fishers in the pond, and I could hear their laughter across the water. Bikers moved past us throughout, and I noticed one couple running completely in sync.

In the quiet stretches when no one was passing us, the crickets chirped and sang on all sides.

The wind had a bit of a chill to it, and the reds and yellows were spreading over so many leaves, meshing with the green that still dominated the trees.

It was lovely.

It was helpful with decompressing as I continue to work through my own transition.

There is so much out of my control at the moment, more-so than usual. Everything that’s happening outside of my home is not my choice, but I’m doing what I can to contribute. Some of the changes I’m going through on a personal level were not my choice, but they were needed.

Even when changes are necessary, or even good for us, they can be hard.

I’m adapting to it all.

Always adapting.

That’s what’s in my control. My ability to make it work, and learn, and grow, and provide, and do the very best that I can each day. I’ve been taking down lessons like bitter medicine knowing that one day I’ll feel better.

One day there will be lushness all around, because at some point it has to get better— right? At some point I’ll have a healthy group of friends, and community connections, and a partner who is as devoted in love as I am. One day I’ll look in the mirror and feel more pride than fear One day I’ll know the change happened and that specific transition is over.

But today is not that day.

Today I’m in the in-between, and I won’t get to the other side by sitting around and waiting for each day to be over. The trees don’t bud in the spring by some magic— it takes time, and nourishment, and sunlight.

It takes effort.

Not rushing, and not force, but the careful patience of mindful next steps. It takes nourishment, and commitment, and gasp— leaving the house.

I’m in transition, which can be as beautiful as it is painful, but only when effort is put into the release and the regrowth.

One day I’ll be on the other side, but today I need to take another mindful step in that direction.

In hope,

Mx. Dani

By supporting my work you’re supporting a trans, disabled, single parent. If you resonate with this post, please leave a comment and share with a friend!

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“Excuse me, Sir, are you heading out on the trail?”

The young man was looking to me as I opened the back of my SUV. He wasn’t dressed for a trail walk, though who am I to judge? Having grown up in the middle of the woods I wasn’t always necessarily dressed for nature every time I waltzed into it, but I did notice that he didn’t seem to be there for the same reason as me.

I scanned, because it’s habit to scan, but also because he was a stranger, and my nervous system was already on edge. I looked him over to assess my safety level as I kept a hand at the chest of my service dog, who was waiting to hear his release word.

He seemed young, and harmless, so I went back to the question at hand.

“Yes,” I said.

He apologized, probably because he was second guessing his sir (though I’m nonbinary it’s better than the alternative), though it could have been the lack of trust in my expression, then he continued.

“If you find a dog named Daisy, can you leash her? She’s about yay-high,” he held his hand by his leg to show me the size.

“Is she okay with other dogs?" I asked, as I reached up and clipped the leash to Fred’s harness, and okay-ed all 150lbs of him to leap down from the back of my vehicle.

“She is. She’s very nice and good with other dogs."

I nodded. “Then of course. I will, if I see her."

He thanked me, then went on to talk to the next person he saw about the missing dog. I overheard that the second person, who was coming off the trail, had seen Daisy, and let the young man’s sister know where he had seen her.

Someone had eyes on her, so she was okay.

As I walked on the trail, I started doing the mental gymnastics of how I would use my one leash to get two dogs back to the parking lot safely, especially two dogs who don’t know one another, and one of which might have been stressed, and a person who’s nervous system was on edge. I thought of a couple of things to try, and I hoped that even if I wasn’t the one to find Daisy, that she’d find her way back to her family.

Then I knew, somewhere deep down, that she would.

Even with the plan in mind if I did come across her, I also knew that I needed to tend to myself, because it was the entire reason I went to the woods in the first place.

I went to the woods to process, and while I promised to keep an eye out and would do what I could if I came across Daisy, I also needed to be present with nature so that I could stop circling around some bad dreams that had kept me up most of the night. I needed to feel safe, and relaxed, and back in my body.

That’s one of the many delights of PTSD. Even when I go to sleep content, after a lovely day that was focused around self care, my dreams can get twisted and pull me from sleep again and again. When I woke up, I journaled about the two dreams that stood out the most to me, and why I had been seeing a string of these dreams lately. I felt closed off and analytical about it, though, and recognized that my nervous system was tense.

I didn’t want to spend the day trapped in the residual anxiety of the nightmares, so I went to the woods.

The woods were always an escape for me. They were always a place for me to breathe and regulate, and be away from the things that were causing my nervous system so much stress. I’ve carried that magic with me throughout my life, wherever I’ve lived, and one of the many aspects of this new town that I’ve moved to, is that there are so many opportunities to get out into the woods.

I hadn’t been on that specific trail before. I had been wanting to try it, but I’m glad it had waited. Experiencing something new, especially a new trail, is a great way to get back to the present and ease my nervous system.

Sunlight was flickering through the trees, and there weren’t many people on the trail. My usual place for walks and runs, save for my 5am trips, is typically filled with people. It can be nice, but what I needed in that moment was quiet, and trees, and nature.

The next person I saw, a while down the trail, was calling for Daisy, and stopped to ask me about her. I let him know that I hadn’t seen her but I was watching for her, wished him luck, and then we both continued on.

After walking for about a mile and enjoying the trees and sounds of the birds and bugs, I found a rock by the edge of a lake and rested. I smiled at the fish and the frogs by my feet, and that smile widened as I heard the chittering call of an eagle— which I unfortunately couldn’t get a glimpse of.

I started to feel my shoulders drop. My thoughts slowed. My breath slowed. Moment by moment I was coming back into myself.

Then I heard the echoes of the calls for Daisy.

It was a feminine voice that time. I wondered if it was the sister that had been previously mentioned. The calls became louder, then quieter again as she continued on her way.

When I got back on the trail, I debated calling out Daisy’s name, too, but I quickly realized that I’d just add to the confusion of Daisy’s attention, and figured that I’d leave the calls to the family members whose voices would be familiar to her.

I still scanned the area as I walked, and kept my ears open for rustling in the leaves, but I didn’t see or hear Daisy. After a while, the calls became so distant and faint that they eventually stopped reaching my ears.

But I continued to scan, and balance both looking for Daisy and soaking in my surroundings. The trail was beautiful, and soaking in the magic of my surroundings was the very medicine that I went there for.

My attention went to someone ahead, and I nodded to him as he pulled aside with his dog.

I kept Fred a bit closer to me as we went to pass them and wondered if they pulled over to be polite on the narrow trail, or if the dog was reactive. I could feel the tug of nerves at my nervous system again, but after watching the dog’s body language, I quickly realized they were just being polite, and giving the right of way to me and my giant dog.

“Have you seen a german shepherd?" He asked me as we walked by.

“I haven’t. Do you mean Daisy?” I asked.

“Yeah. My mother in law was walking her earlier and she got loose,” he explained.

“I didn’t know she was a german shepherd. That helps— I’ll continue to keep an eye out," I said.

He thanked me, and moved back onto the trail as I went by.

I flinched at the sudden sound of his phone ringing, and let out a breath, noting to myself that it was just the edges of my nervous system’s tenseness. I took a few more steps, and then I heard him speak with relief.

“Oh, that’s great!" He said.

I smiled to myself, hoping that it was good news about Daisy as I kept on my way. I was content with that hope on its own, but then I heard his voice echoing through the trees, “they found her!”

“That’s great news!” I called back, unable to actually see him.

I let out a relieved sigh of my own, for a dog I’ve never known, and continued forward. The woods felt just a little bit more magical, then. They had kept and protected this wandering dog, and brought her back to her family.

I was able to soak in even more after that. I noticed the fungus on the side of trees, and the moss on the rocks, and just how vibrant and thriving all the ferns were (unlike my two spoiled fern brats at home). I listened to the blue jays, and the woodpeckers, and the crickets. I was present, and my body started to soak in the ease.

The next person I saw was walking with two walking sticks. He was more dressed for the woods than I was, and he had a kind, content smile on his face.

“Have you seen a german shepherd?” He asked.

“Daisy?” I asked.

“Yes!”

“They found her!” I said. “I was passing by someone who got the call.“

“Oh! That’s great!” He said, and chuckled, and kept walking.

And I kept walking, too.

One step, another, ten more, and then I paused as a wave of emotions rippled up from my chest and released down my cheeks.

That’s the thing about regulating. It’s not the soft smile and the contentment that comes with presence. It’s the release of nervous pressure the moment you feel safe.

My nervous system felt safe in the middle of the strange woods, after sharing good news with a community member I’ve never met, about a dog that neither one of us had met.

I felt safe.

I let myself feel and release, held safely in the woods, and before I knew it, my body settled. Not just a drop in my shoulders, though that was part of it, but a full-body relaxation.

I realized that I was finally in a place where I could breathe freely, and grow.

Not just those woods, but the town.

I’ve always wanted to live in a place where people care for one another. I’ve hoped for that small-town feeling where you know you’ll be welcome at the bookstore early because they’re there, even though you were mistakenly too early. A place where my son is happy. A place where you can meet the parents of a local bar and have a lovely chat, and say hello to familiar faces while out for our daily runs, and apparently keep an eye out for a lost dog on a sparse trail.

In that moment I realized that I had found it.

Most of us on the trail didn’t meet Daisy, but we bonded over her, even just for a little while. I may or may not see those faces again, but I will remember the feeling of community and safety in the woods.

I’m glad you’re home, Daisy.

In hope,

Mx. Dani

I was watching Love is Blind UK Season 2, (pleasure? Yes. Guilty about it? No way), when one person asked another if they had been in love before. The answer, like so many others would answer, was that they don’t think they’ve had a deep love. The person who asked smiled, as if they’d have the opportunity to be the first.

It’s understandable to treat early dates like a job interview process, where we want to put our best foot forward. The question of having loved before might feel like a tough question to answer, especially in a society that romanticizes jealousy and villainies all prior exes, but my opinion on it is changing the more I notice how often people will claim a lack of love in their past so that their potential future doesn’t feel insecure.

In the dating world I’ve noticed this pattern of treating love like it’s a one-time commodity that we save for our soulmate— similarly to the way we used to (well, some of us still do) treat virginity.

We’re taught that we’re supposed to only feel that way for one person, and therefore if a relationship didn’t work out then it couldn’t possibly have been a great love.

Now, maybe it’s just my age (37), or the fact that I’ve experienced love in various ways, but if I was on a first date and someone said that they’d never been in love before, or that they thought they were in love but couldn’t have been since the relationship ended, I’d see it more as a red flag than an endearing quality or opportunity to be special.

But my question to those who think that a relationship that ended meant the love wasn’t real: what would have made it real?

Permanence?

How sad it is to think that unless we meet our forever we couldn’t possibly know or feel love for another person.

Do I understand not having known healthy love, or having gone through loves that hurt? Or that love was seen through limerence? Absolutely. But at the end of the day, there was still love there.

Love is what was present when we wanted to make things work, even if it was standing beside repetition compulsion, or insecurity, or fear of abandonment. Love was there in the little moments, because the good moments are always good. It was there in the hard moments because we only feel that depth of pain when we feel love.

It doesn’t mean that we stay in bad situations, either. Love doesn’t solve everything, and maybe it’s just me but love can have some of us staying a bit longer than we should, and trying a bit harder than we should— but how much of that comes from the fear of never feeling love like that again, because we’re only supposed to feel that kind of love with “The One“ ?

What if we stopped treating love like the antiquated view of virginity?

What if we, instead, treated love like a baseline. Not to use the word meaninglessly of course, but to be less afraid to say it, to feel it, and to leave it. What if by loving, and losing love, it only makes us love deeper the next time around, because we carry with us the lessons of the last love? What if we stopped being jealous of the residual love someone might have for an ex and instead saw that as devotion and proof of depth.

With proper boundaries and behaviors, of course.

The next time I fall in love, I want to do so with someone who has felt love and devotion before, because they’ll know how to show up in that way with me. I want to be with someone who has learned from each love that they’ve had, and wants to grow and expand in love, not shy away from it.

I don’t want someone to make me feel special because they say I’m the only one they’ve ever felt that way with— I want someone to show me their enduring devotion over time, in steadiness and in softness.

Fireworks fade.

Devotion is what lasts.

I don’t want to hear about how an ex is the worst person, especially the most recent ex. I wouldn’t see it as proof of someone winning a breakup or having been the one that was perfect and fine the entire relationship. I’d see that as deflecting, and an inability to take accountability for a person’s own half of the relationship problems. I’d also hear how they focus on the flaws of a loved one, and I’d wonder what score they’d start to keep against me.

We can (and often do) deflect blame onto the other person, but regardless of what they did, any relationship between two people takes two people. It takes effort from both sides, and there are mistakes on both sides.

I don’t want to hear someone speak ill of their ex, as an act of deflection or as proof that it’s really over.

I want to know that their ending wasn’t for lack of love.

I want to hear about what someone learned about themselves and what they want in heartbreak. I want to know how they show up in love, and conflict, and how they still have hope for a romantic and peaceful future. I want to know what lessons they’re bringing forward into their next relationship.

Knowing how their ex showed up tells me nothing. Knowing how they showed up, and how they want to show up differently next time, tells me everything.

I’m not looking for perfection in my next partner, I’m looking for accountability, growth, and a soft place to land. I want the type of relationship that has room for healthy conflict, and equal repair, and doesn’t need a power struggle for each person to feel safe.

I’m looking for my next partner to be someone who is willing to keep loving, despite their heartbreak.

I want my next someone to be someone who is proud to have loved before, and is ready to love again.

What if we treated love as accumulative? If we celebrated love, even if it didn’t last? What if we took more pride in having love and lost, and stopped looking to be someone’s only love. What if we believed that great love came after smaller loves, because of what we learn over time?

Maybe we’d stop trying to rush our feelings when we meet someone, and stop rushing our pain when we leave. Maybe we’d stop the limerence in its tracks because love is the baseline and not the finish line.

Maybe if we lead with love, we’ll stop looking for proof that we’re worthy of it, because we’ll live in it with or without someone else to show it to us.

Maybe we’d stop waiting for someone to choose us, and use greater discernment when choosing others.

When I ask someone if they’ve experienced love before, I want to see them light up with nostalgia, even if it’s laced with sadness. I want to know that they’re open to love, and know love, and are willing to open to love again.

I don’t want to be the only love.

I want to be loved, fully and deeply, with someone who knows what love feels like.

In love,

Mx. Dani

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Authenticity isn’t black and white. It flows and changes over time.

We don’t make a decision about who we are one day and never grow or change after that. Well, at least we’re not supposed to. Life changes us, and our wants and needs evolve as time goes on.

If you’re anything like me, though, you may have gotten stuck in a certain aspect of your identity, simply because it was true for you at another time in your life.

I was a vegan for 10 years, for example, but recently listened to my body and brought back in things like eggs and seafood after the plant-based versions stopped fixing my deep cravings. I went through an immense guilt at first, especially because I feared judgement, especially especially because I had been vegan for so long.

I also changed my mind about my career trajectory because I need something that aligns better with my PTSD and ADHD symptoms. It was hard to let go of the path that I was on, because I had put so much effort into it for so long, and a lot of the networking I’ve done is within that space. I had made that goal such a part of who I am for years.

I’m also trans, so there’s that.

Even within my transition there have been many fluctuations and changes. I was so public about my transition for so long, that at some point I stopped allowing myself to explore, and started to pressure myself to perform in the box that I had put myself in, even when I had an inkling that it still wasn’t quite right.

I haven’t shared this publicly until now, and even as I type this I am debating doing so, but I made the hard decision a couple of months ago to wean off of my testosterone.

I’m still nonbinary, I’m still trans, full stop.

…and I just erased paragraphs full of my reasoning, both for wanting the T and for stopping it. I’m witnessing in real time the craving to over-explain it all so that I’ll feel well-received and validated, but here’s the thing— a transgender person’s transition is deeply personal, and while I’ve been open and shared all the ins and outs in the past, I don’t feel comfortable doing so anymore.

Why?

Well, aside from gesturing vaguely at everything, and aside from going on a rant about how too many allies have used me for inspiration-porn without supporting my right to exist peacefully as a human being, I also want to take a step back from including the opinions of others in my decision making while I continue to explore who I am and work through my healing.

Aside from all that.

This post is about lessons in authenticity, and while that includes my trans experience personally, I want to approach it in a way that’s relatable no matter if the person is cisgender or transgender, because what we need in this time of expanding loneliness is community and collective understanding.

Last week I wrote about liking myself best when I’m alone, and I wanted to continue to explore the why behind that.

People resonated with the post because our society has been placing pressure on all of us to perform and present in very specific ways, and even when we work to check every box that’s given to us, we’re often left feeling empty, dysphoric, and lonely. Even when we’re surrounded by people, they don’t really know who we are underneath all of the performance, and that can leave us feeling unseen and unknown.

It can even lead to us being unknown to ourselves.

When we start to peel the layers back and discover who we are at our core, it can sometimes come with the challenge of letting go of the people and communities that keep us in disguise. We either make the hard decision to let them go, or they leave on their own when we grow, but the transition from feeling lonely in a crowded room to feeling lonely in isolation can happen quickly.

But, as scary and sad as it is, that’s where the magic happens.

When we’re on our own, we can better get to know ourselves.

Now, I’m not saying to leave behind every single person in your life, or to throw away healthy connections. Even in the hardest of relationships, leaving someone behind isn’t always an easy or accessible decision. I’m not saying to toss out everything and everyone, or that it’s the only true and fair answer.

I am saying it’s a natural and common experience to lose people as you get to know your more authentic self. When you build self assurance you make different choices.

Many of us have decisions from a place of insecurity, and those decisions are rarely sustainable. They take from us, sometimes until we break or the relationship does. When we decide from a place of authenticity and self assurance, those who appreciated our insecure over-giving or bending or people-pleasing will often not like the positive changes you’re making.

Even if you’re with a good group of people and you’re learning to shift into your authentic self, you may need more time alone to do it. Having the opinions and validation of those we love and trust can be helpful at times, but we too often rely on them more than our own voice, and we cycle back into societal expectation instead of following our own intuition. If you’re sitting with any of this, it may be helpful to carve out alone time each week to really be with yourself and away from what influences you.

I’ll be honest in that I don’t have much experience with that part.

I’ve never really fit in.

I’ve been able to temporarily adapt to social circles throughout my life but I’ve never really fit into them.

I experience this in every facet of my life, and in all honesty it gets hard to think that life will be any different moving forward. It’s hard, sometimes, to have hope.

When it comes to friendships in recent years, the big adjustments started happening when I took a hard look at my repetition compulsion and lack of boundary setting. As the boundaries came in and the over-giving stopped, those I had around me started to drop off, either by their choice or by mine.

In my romantic relationships I’ve had a hard time feeling secure. I’ve put up with mistreatment and control. I’ve allowed myself to be last on the list. I’ve over-given and shrunk myself. I’ve gripped too tightly.

At work I don’t quite fit in with my team, and at first I thought it was because I was new, but as other newcomers were added, they were welcomed in and people took the time to get to know them better. We have moments where we get along, don’t get me wrong, but I haven’t felt particularly close to or celebrated the same way in the group.

You name the social circle, I’ve been shown I don’t belong.

It’s very rare for me to be able to build a close bond with someone and have them stay in my life. I know that many resonate with this, and I know that friendships are meant to come and go, but when it’s hard to build and maintain friendships to begin with, people who experience this like me are often left feeling alone.

Then again, I’ve rarely let people in to see the full me— be it because of survival mode and trauma, societal expectations, or the rejection from the few who saw the most.

So where does that leave us?

Per the usual in my posts, I haven’t found a solution or figured it all out. I’m still in the midsts of my own self discovery, and that’s the most authentic answer I can give.

What I’m aiming to do is to show up as my most authentic self, whatever that means in any given moment, and hope to be a beacon for those who will accept me for all that I am. My goal is to do it afraid, and to do it insecure, because the only way I will grow in my confidence is to try.

That also means continually catching myself when those old, insecure patterns start to creep back in. Those actions that come from a wounded place, not a present place. When I’m able to catch them in the moment— great! When I don’t, I can apologize and seek repair, or move on with internal closure if necessary.

While, as mentioned, it’s hard to have hope, that doesn’t mean that I don’t have any. I know that I’m healing, and I know that I’ve come leaps and bounds from where I used to be. I can see all of my progress, and all of my growth, but I don’t always know how to integrate all of that into my relationships with others.

I adore my (two) close friends, but I crave a community.

I don’t know what this will look like moving forward, but I have to try something.

If you resonate, know you’re not alone.

If you’re feeling brave, leave a comment so others know just how many of us are out there.

In hope,

Mx. Dani

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I enjoy myself most when I’m not being perceived, or taking on the pressures of society and loved ones, both spoken and not. When I settle into myself and I don’t feel pulled to perform or fear judgement or rejection, I actually enjoy my own essence.

It’s not that I enjoy loneliness, quite the opposite in fact, but being alone more often has granted me the space to get to know myself without the opinions of someone else. When I’m alone I’m not worried about the ebb and flow of my masculinity and femininity. I don’t think about how I’m sitting or what I’m thinking or how my words come out, because they rarely do when I’m with myself. I don’t have to carefully consider every step because there are no eggshells left to break beneath my feet.

It’s just me, in my own flow and in my own body.

When I’m the only one there to see me and I’m in my own flow, I don’t think of all the ways I’ll be misgendered, or how I need to shape myself to the needs of someone else. I simply am, and when I allow myself to just be I actually like me. When I’m alone I’m not too much, or too emotional, or too excited, or too needy. It’s just me, listening to my body, and tending to my needs.

This is a step in my healing that didn’t come naturally.

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The self assurance wasn’t built with face masks and affirmations. The roots of it grew with the allowance of tears that flowed as I released my deep, guttural grief. The self love started to take shape with self soothing as I practiced over and over being gentle with myself. Trusting myself happened when I allowed panic attacks to flow through me because I knew I wouldn’t break, I’d simply let all of the built up anxiety go.

Self assurance came with seeing and accepting my mess with tenderness and grace.

Over time this has allowed for little moments of joy when I’m alone. It helps me reach for my journal when I’m processing something deep, and seeking safety with myself instead of with someone else. The self assurance helps me know in my heart that I won’t always be by myself, and as my roots of security grow, as will roots of community. This healing journey has allowed me to let my few remaining close connections breathe because I trust that they’ll be here with me as I grow, or that I’ll be okay when they leave.

This journey has started to give me hope, and peace.

This journey had me write in my journal, on a random Thursday night, that I like me best when I’m alone with me.

Now I have hope that I’ll like me no matter what situation I’m in, because I feel secure enough not to bend. Now I have hope that there will be others who like me best like this, too, because that’s where true acceptance comes in.

The more I lean into that feeling, the more I know I will find others who add joy and security to my life, instead of challenging it. I haven’t quite gotten to the point where I stop adapting to the needs of others to feel accepted and wanted, but this process is helping me to get closer to it.

For now, I like me best when I’m alone.

One day, I’ll like me no matter what.

In healing,

Mx. Dani

The bar’s book event had been on my calendar for weeks. As much as I had looked forward to it, I also sat in the discomfort of going alone. It’s something that I’ve been practicing doing more of, and something I’ve been getting better at, but the action still generates some nervousness. Still, I went nervous, because it felt important for me to still go, even if there was no one that wanted to go with me. One of my big goals this year is to build community, and in order to do that I have to be out and about in this new community of mine.

The blended roar of conversation was overtaken only by the live music that was playing softly in the background. The live band was covering 90’s and early 2000’s alternative rock— but nothing of the punk variety. It was the kind of alternative rock that became cafe and grocery store music before any of us were ready to accept just how long ago those decades were.

I felt right at home.

As I people watched and took little notes of what I saw, I couldn’t help but compare the feeling to the last time I did so. Last time, though, I was passing through. I was on an overnight trip to reconnect with myself, and I was interacting with folks that I would never see again. This time, however, I was in a space where I am trying to grow roots in a historic and kind-vibed town. This town that I moved to several months ago, that I’ve been slowly getting to know.

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I need to take a note from my son, and make some connections, and slowly build my circle.

Oh, I don’t believe I’ve told that story yet.

When we first moved to this town, mid school year, my 13 year old son made a point to make new friends at his new school. He shared at the end of every school day that he asked a new table if he could sit with them, because he was determined to make new friends. Some days he would sit with folks and feel out of place, and other days he’d be outright rejected. He had big emotions either way, but he remained determined, and continued to try. After a couple of weeks, he found a table where he felt comfortable, and ended up making fast friends with several of the kids there.

He has since been invited to two parties, and has texted folks throughout the summer.

I watched in absolute awe at how my middle-schooler not only put himself out there bravely day after day, but took on the heavy feelings of rejection and worked through them until he found his community and started to mindfully grow it.

I took note, because hell if he can do it in 7th grade, the year that ends up being the bane of many of our existences, then what was my excuse?

Trauma, honestly.

But anyway.

I’ve been taking that lesson to heart, and I’ve been using it to put myself out there more. I’ve sent LinkedIn request to folks I met through my activism panels, and I asked one person to go on a walk together. We did end up meeting up for said walk, and it was wonderful, and was followed up by an invitation to a trivia night with some of their friends.

Things were going well when I tried and actually left the house, so this event, in theory, was no different. I didn’t build myself up to try to meet my next bestest friend. Instead, I went with a goal of micro-connections and small conversations, and trying to grow my community by being out in public more often. I wanted to practice starting conversations in person again, getting through the murky social anxiety, and let myself be seen and known.

When I first arrived at the bar, I perused the tables of books and decided to be brave and start a conversation, rather than silently picking something and moving on as I usually would. Thankfully, someone else broke the ice by complementing my (overthought, twice-changed) ‘fit.‘ I thanked them, looked around the tables, and tried to think of something to say.

I was reminded of a recent moment where there was someone at the shelf beside me at the library. I had tried to convince myself to ask them for a book recommendation so that we could start a conversation, especially because they appeared to be around my age and we were looking at similar genres of books. I didn’t say anything that time. That time, I had silently looked through books, picked one that I ended up disliking, and went on my way.

I wasn’t going to do that again, so I took a deep breath, put on a smile, and went back to the person who had complemented my outfit.

“I just finished Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil (VE Schwab). I’m afraid of getting into a slump trying to follow it up. What would you recommend I read next?” I explained that since I gave myself permission to DNF (did not finish) I’ve had a harder time with investing in books.

They were honest that recommendations were not their forte, and handed me off to someone who could help. We went back and forth on books I’ve enjoyed so far this year, things like This is How You Lose the Time War and Project Hail Mary, and they directed me to the book The Husbands by Holly Gramazio. Another person said they loved it, too and told me not to judge the beach-read paperback cover by said cover, and explained the premise of the book.

“If you don’t like it by, mmm, page 50, bring it into the bookstore and we’ll swap it out," they said.

I laughed and replied, “oh! Don’t tell me that or you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”

I bought the book, and went into the bar for the rest of the event— Live music, and of course, drinks.

The bar, per the usual (aka my 3rd time in) was very accommodating and perfectly professional when it came to Fred. If you’re new here— he’s a 150lb great dane. The host moved a chair away from the bar so he could tuck in, and promptly ignored him from there, sans the water bowl they brought out for him. There has never been a question about him there nor have there been any issues, and that is something I truly appreciate.

I sat at the bar, after directing Fred to a nearly-out-of-the-way position, and ordered my whiskey drink and fries. I cracked open my book, adamant to stay off my phone more often than not (aside from note taking) and started the first chapter while I waited for my order. There was no one next to me, so I was free to breathe and regulate, and ease into the space.

The book, as promised, drew me in, and after a few pages I was intrigued and ready for more. The drink, different from the last whiskey cocktail I had tried there, was amazing. I sipped, and continued to read. The crowd, however, started to pull my attention, so I set the book down and began my people-watching.

Tables were buzzing with friendly conversation. The bartender was rushing back and forth, busy with the event’s orders. The host that had sat us reached into a bag of Funyuns that were sitting at the edge of the bar. I smirked as I remembered the quick snacks I would reach for in the days of serving and bartending.

A man sat at the bar two seats down from me and was friendly with one of the people behind it; a young man who seemed to know him. I assumed he was a regular, and watched as two drinks were placed in front of him. Well, one was in front of him, the other was placed in front of the empty chair next to me. I smiled as he asked, “will you be needing some help soon?“ and wondered just how well he knew them. It reminded me of the small town I grew up in, and I quietly listened to their back and forth.

It wasn’t long before a woman sat next to me with two books in tow. She greeted the man first. She seemed familiar with the young man behind the bar as well, as they greeted each other warmly. Others greeted the couple, too, and I admired just how close knit they seemed.

Then turned to me with a smile and asked, “what did you get?”

I showed her my book, and she showed me hers. I let her know that I had nearly picked out both of them, and we talked about the local author, Nicole Treska, that had signed a copy for her.

There was more conversation between her and the young man behind the bar.

“That’s my grandson,” she said to me, and pointed to him.

“Ah," I said, “He’s working hard— this is a tough job!”

She nodded, and then told me that her son, the young man’s father, owned the bar.

I was sitting next to the parents of the owner of the bar.

I was sure to complement the place, and said that I had been there a few times now and always enjoyed my stay. I appreciated how well I was treated, and while I didn’t say it out loud, I meant because I’m visibly queer and coming in with a massive service dog. She smiled and nodded, and was happy to hear that it was such a welcoming place for me.

From there we both talked about what had brought us to this lovely little town. I let her know that I was impressed by the highly rated school district, and happy to be surrounded by woods again, since I hail from the middle-of-nowhere NH. Northfield. (where?) Near Tilton. (Hmm?) Lake Winnipesaukee-ish (Oh!) —aka the Boston of NH.

I also told her that I had been through a breakup, and this was the first town I toured while transitioning away from that house that felt like home. She let me know that she had felt the same the first time they came here.

Years ago, they had moved here from Buffalo NY.

They’ve been married over 50 years.

Her son and grandson played hockey. They loved Dungeons and Dragons.

“I’m getting all the lore,” I said to the young man who looked over at us.

“Oh, good!” He said with a nervous smile.

“All good things— they’re very proud,” I said.

And they were.

We talked some more about the town, and the rich history. We discussed the weather, and then we got back to getting to know one another. I was asked about my son, and his grade and school, and more about my life. I exchanged questions to get to know her more as well, and I breathed in the gratitude for the genuine conversation that had naturally occurred.

The conversation was on and off as she balanced talking to her husband, and then her daughter-in-law who stopped in. I watched as their order was placed— she ordered a salad, but she took a couple of his spicy wings— and I took the time in between questions and connection to keep looking around the bar.

It was then that I noticed that one of the beer draft handles was, of all things, a Barbie doll.

Like, handle, handle, handle, handle, (….) Barbie Doll.

I tilted my head, took a photograph, and as the bartender passed me I asked, “I’m curious, is there a story with the Barbie doll?"

She smiled and said, “The cider on draft is called Brittany, so that’s Britney.”

(as in Spears)

“Ah,” I said, “I was sure there was a story behind it, thank you.”

We chuckled together, and she went on her busy way.

As my time there started to wind down, my glass and fry cup empty, I took in a deep breath and took another look around the bar. The people were chatting with big smiles, and those who had been around me had been nothing but welcoming.

This is my town, I thought.

I allowed Fred to say his hellos to folks who wanted to interact with him as a treat for being such a good boy. There were many who were excited to meet him, both bar goers and employees, and as he got his pats I answered the frequently asked questions— Fred. Great Dane. 4 and a half. 150lbs. 6 cups a day.

And then we were off.

While I may be nervous when it comes to getting out on my own and getting to know more people, today was an excellent reminder that I’m in a great place to do so. I didn’t exchange any numbers or make future plans, but I was told that they hoped I’d be back again soon, and I did drive home with the beaming excitement of getting to know some local folks.

I wasn’t passing through this time, I was growing some roots.

In hope,

Mx. Dani