I’m going to tell you about one of the worst nights of my life. It happened about thirty years ago. And I still can't tell the story right.

Not because the decades blurred it. My brain remembers every damn bit of it.

It’s my heart’s memory that can’t hold the re-telling.

Fair warning: in a few spots I’ll hand you the Vaseline-on-the-lens version… softening the tougher parts.

And I might need to stop and start again. Because this story isn’t just painful to tell.

It’s painful to type.

The Version I Told My Parents

Back in the 1990’s I went on a date with a man named Rich who actually was rich. I learned this on the cab ride to dinner, during which he excitedly pointed out four buildings, the way other men show photos of their children. His family owned three of them. The fourth he just liked.

At dinner, Rich was charming. He shared funny stories. Told me I was beautiful. Said he loved that I worked in a creative field, because in real estate development he mostly met boring people.

He also spent a surprising amount of time telling me about his new moisturizer, until I agreed that yes, his skin was remarkable.

Over tiramisu he took out a wrinkled hundred-dollar bill, pressed it flat on the white linen tablecloth with his hand, then slid it across to me.

He told me I seemed like someone with great taste in music, and asked me to go to Tower Records that week, buy him a bunch of my favorite CDs, then bring them to him on our second date.

I remember feeling oddly trapped by that hundred dollars, because I hadn’t realized a second date was mandatory.

I laughed, like he was kidding, then pushed the bill back toward him.

But he was insistent. He tucked the hundred-dollar bill into my purse, and said he’d see me Saturday, which made me feel like the world’s first music stripper.

I had a bad feeling about Rich. So when I got back home, I called him, asked for his mailing address, put the hundred dollars in an envelope, and mailed it back.

The whole thing cost me a stamp.

***

The Version I Tell at Parties

After Rich tucked the hundred-dollar bill into my purse, he offered to walk me home.

When we got to my building, he asked to come up. I said no. Clear as day. No.

Rich told me he understood completely… but also that he suddenly, desperately needed to use my bathroom.

I knew the “gotta pee” excuse was exactly that: an excuse. But he sold it like a man with ninety seconds to live, and I'd been raised with manners, so I let him up.

After he used the bathroom, Rich asked me to play some of my favorite music, so he could hear what kind of CDs his hundred dollars would be buying.

I put on a CD by The Smiths. Rich said he liked the song. Then suddenly announced he was in pain.

He explained he had a bad shoulder injury, tore something playing squash.

And wouldn’t you know it, the only known treatment for his torn muscle was my hands on his body, massaging his injury.

He then grabbed one of my hands and planted it on his shoulder, before I had ever agreed to a thing, which, fun fact, even my gynecologist knows to ask first.

“Feel that,” he said. “Got a real knot in there. Love you to massage it right there. And also there.”

He then tried to move my hand all around his shoulder. Then started steering it south.

I told him I was tired. Not in the mood. And took my hand back.

“But I’m injured,” he pleaded. “I’m in pain.” He looked at me with a sad puppy dog face. (A puppy with a large real estate portfolio, used to getting treats.)

I decided to keep the humor thing going. “Wow,” I said. “A man who’s comfortable admitting there’s something wrong with him. How refreshing.”

Rich took that as a green light to tell me another thing wrong with him.

“You know one of my testicles hangs lower than the other,” he announced, in the casual way you might mention you’re a Sagittarius. “Want to see?” he asked cheerily.

I told him no thanks, I was good. Then walked him to the door. Not a polite, slow walk. The quick kind, where you stay glued to someone’s heels until they’re in the hallway and there’s a locked door between you.

Right before the door closed, Rich asked, "You sure?" Like he'd just handed me the single greatest gift the universe had to offer, himself. And I'd inexplicably given it back, unopened.

***

The Unedited Version: Director’s Cut

Rich offered to show me his lopsided testicles. I declined the tour.

I looked Rich directly in his well-moisturized face, and told him in the polite voice we women are all issued at birth, that it was getting late and he should go home, now, please.

Rich did not go home. Instead he shoved me down onto my couch and pinned both my wrists over my head with one hand.

One hand.

From a guy who, five minutes earlier, needed me to massage his shoulder because he’d “torn something playing squash.”

Apparently the cure for a torn rotator cuff is a woman saying no.

Somebody call the Mayo Clinic.

Astonishing recovery. Truly Lourdes-level.

I said it again, louder. “NO.”

Except Rich kissed me while the word was still sitting on my lips, like he was trying to swallow the evidence of the “no” before it finished forming. As if a “no” doesn’t count if you cut it off before the vowel.

I kept repeating the word: No, no, no, no, NOOoooo… while trying to push him off me.

I even tried to kick him in his lopsided testicles.

But he was six foot two and strong, and I’m a petite five foot two.

Quickly I realized it was time to reach for a far stronger voice, the shriller one. Every woman keeps this second shrill voice under the nice one, the voice with no apology in it, the one we’re trained our whole lives not to use because it isn’t ladylike.

I used it. I used ALL of it.

I screamed: GET THE HELL OFF ME!

I have never meant five words more.

Rich looked me dead in the eye and smiled, with the confidence of a man who’s never been told he’s done anything wrong. (Except for that one nanny in 1971.)

Then Rich announced, “Oh, come on. I can tell you’re loving this!”

Yes, he looked at my face… a face doing the precise opposite of loving anything… and overruled it.

He filed my terror under foreplay.

It was now obvious. We were in two different realities. Rich was in his own world, at a party for one, where I was his date and the chemistry was electric, and the lighting was doing him favors.

I was at a different event. Mine had a crime in it.

I’m not going to walk you through everything that happened next. You don’t need the footage, and I am never screening it again.

But here’s the part nobody mentions about the worst night of your life: the brain, bless it, eventually evacuates. Yes, when your body can’t get out of a room, your mind will try to leave without it. Mine did.

My focus drifted up to the ceiling where I found a long crack in the plaster running toward the window, and I thought to myself: I should really paint over that crack. Maybe get a new color other than white. Perhaps a nice eggshell.

This is a mercy the brain sometimes offers during crisis. It will hand you a small renovation to consider, so you do not have to attend the trauma below.

Later my therapist told me there’s a word for this: Dissociation.

Some old animal part of you runs the math, decides the body can’t win, and sends your brain upstairs to wait it out.

So that’s where I spent the time. Up by the ceiling, mentally renovating, while a man I’d known for a mere few hours helped himself to the rest of me.

When he finished, he stood up the way you stand up from a steak dinner you enjoyed.

Then he pulled me toward him, and gave me a final kiss goodbye. Not sheepishly. Not guiltily.

A nice kiss. A kiss with a future in it.

“See you Saturday,” he said, buttoning his coat, while standing at my doorway. “Don’t forget the CDs.”

Because God forbid a little sexual assault should derail the errand he assigned me.

Then, finally, I heard it. The click of the door closing behind him.

He was now on the other side.

I looked around me and suddenly the apartment felt enormous. I slid down to the floor, because the floor was something in the room that didn’t want something from me. And I cried until I couldn’t breathe. Then I kept crying anyway, because it turns out the body keeps an extra reserve tank for exactly this.

I fell asleep down there on the floor, under the cracked ceiling that I never did get around to fixing.

***

The Version I Told My Therapist

The next day I could have called the police. I could have called a lawyer. Instead I called my therapist.

I told him everything. And what I noticed, saying it out loud, was that the part that wrecked me most wasn’t simply what Rich did to me. It was how he strolled out of my apartment practically whistling, like a guy who’d just aced a first date, and was already off to tell his friends about me.

His takeaway from assaulting me in my own apartment was that we’d had a lovely time… and that I still owed him a Smiths album.

Then Rich called the next day, on his lunch break, to say what a great time he’d had. Like a burglar leaving a five-star Yelp review for the restaurant he just robbed.

I found it shocking how differently Rich saw things.

I could not understand how Rich thought “stop” meant “continue.”

How fear looked to him like desire.

Yet there Rich was, calling me on the phone, telling me he’d found a great Italian place for our second date. Saturday at 7pm work for me?

I told him there would be no second date. Obviously. No to Saturday, no to the CDs, no to all of it. Forever.

I explained how I had cried myself to sleep. How I had been clear with all my many no’s. How I’d used my shrill voice. Plus a few kicks, aimed strategically at his lopsided testicles.

Rich sounded confused. Not angry. Not defensive. Genuinely, sincerely baffled.

I wondered: Was he faking this?

But no. In Rich's version of the story, I was just some girl rewriting good history, going off her faulty memory, being weird about a wonderful night.

And because he was so sure I’d had a wonderful time, he kept pushing for that second date, pushing back against my many no’s once again, just as he had on the sofa with his entire body weight on top of me.

Except now there was only a phone line between us instead of his hand around my wrists. And with nothing left to physically pin down, my no finally got to do its whole job.

I hung up.

Rich continued to call for a second date for the full upcoming year. I continued to dodge his calls.

And the money? I kept his hundred bucks. Mailing it back would’ve meant talking to Rich to get his address, and I’d sooner have eaten the envelope.

So I logged his hundred dollars as a co-pay on the therapy I needed to recover from the date he thought went so well.

And it took many sessions to heal. I kept rethinking the evening, hunting for the moments I could have changed things. A harder no. A faster door. Some braver version of myself who finally got it right.

Ultimately I realized there was no version of me who could have stopped him. He’d already decided not to hear me.

How the night ended was never up to my no.

It was up to his.

***

The Version I Told Howard

It’s now 2026.

A few months ago, I was at dinner with Howard, the man I’ve built a life with, when some guy crossed the restaurant toward our table, grinning like we were about to have a beautiful reunion.

I didn’t place him at first. Older. Softer in the middle. Expensive watch.

He said, “Hi, Karen. Remember me? Rich?”

The whole thing came back at once. The couch. The wrists. The crack in the ceiling. The phone calls. All of it, in the time it takes a man to say his own name.

Rich looked at me, then at Howard, and smiled the untroubled smile of a man who has never once been the villain in his own story.

Then he looked directly at Howard and announced, “Good luck with this one. She still owes me a hundred bucks from a few decades ago.”

Then he laughed, thrilled with himself, and strolled back to his table to keep enjoying his charmed, frictionless, beautifully moisturized life, where I exist not as a woman he assaulted, but simply as an account in arrears.

Howard turned to me. “Who was that?”

I’d had thirty years to figure out how to tell this story. Thirty years of versions, ready to go.

But the version I told Howard that night was a new one.

“Oh him?” I said. “He’s just some lopsided-testicle asshole I met once in the ‘90s.”

Then I stopped the story right there.

Because that is the only version I could tell out loud, in a restaurant, with bread on the table, and still be hungry afterward.

***

Please hit the ❤️ button.

Think of it as applause, but quieter.
Here’s my ❤️ back to you for doing that!

👇Now it’s your turn.👇

→ The world has gotten braver about sharing these “me too” stories. Back in the '90s, I felt completely alone. Curious if any of this resonates with you. If so, share what you feel safe to share below. .

→ There’s a belief in AA that applies to all of life: “You’re only as healthy as your secrets.” When you speak your story, shame softens. I recognize how hard it feels to share a tough truth. So I invite you to just share a single word that comes up for you about a tough time. One word, that’s enough. Share it below. Then hug yourself. For real. Put your arms around yourself and hug yourself.

→ Or just share about whatever came up for you as I was sharing my story. Or just drop a ❤️

A few sentences. Drop ‘em in the comments!

Leave a comment

***

I’m offering something new!

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Work on your writing with me,
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It’s memoir therapy, one chapter at a time.

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Stop carrying it. Start authoring it.

I struggled a lot in my late twenties. On the surface I had it pretty good. I was a Creative Director in a big NYC ad agency working on a dream account: Häagen-Dazs ice cream.

I didn’t mind bringing “my work” home. (Vanilla Bean was a favorite late-night assignment.)

I also had a kind, attentive boyfriend who was very good to me. He knew I loved my morning coffee, so he’d bring me a cup while I was in the shower. Slip it right through the shower curtain for me to sip, so I could get my caffeine fix while shampooing.

He was what my mother called “a keeper.”

I should have been happy. But to my surprise, I wasn’t.

I didn’t know why. So I went to see a therapist.

Unfortunately, this therapist turned out to be very nosy.

He kept asking me questions about my feelings.

I know that’s what therapists are supposed to do. But at the time I wasn’t used to talking about my feelings. So his questions felt pushy and invasive.

“How do you feel about your job?” the therapist would ask.

“Well, I think my job is…” I’d begin.

“How do you feel about your boyfriend?” the therapist would ask.

“Well, I think he’s…” I’d begin.

Did you notice what my therapist noticed?

Every single time he asked how I was feeling, I’d talk about what I was thinking.

At one point I even opened a sentence with: “I think that I think…”

The truth is: I couldn’t say how I felt. Because I didn’t know how I felt.

I’d been letting my rational, non-feeling brain be the spokesperson for my emotions. And my rational, non-feeling brain made a TERRIBLE spokesperson.

As my brain understood things, its job was to keep my feelings safely away from me.

From my brain’s point of view: my feelings were a liability.

Feelings could announce things that might blow up my life.

For instance, my feelings could tell me that my prestigious advertising job was slowly hollowing me out.

Or that the kind man with the shower-coffee system was a wonderful person… but also not my person.

So my brain (being a good brain, a loyal brain) chose to quarantine my feelings.

But Dr. Nosy was insistent on getting past my brain’s overprotective bodyguards.

So one day Dr. Nosy gave me a small homework assignment.

“For the next week,” he said, “I want you to begin every sentence with the words ‘I feel.’ Not ‘I think.’ Make an intentional choice to say ‘I FEEL.’”

I left his office thinking: how hard can this be? It’s two syllables.

It was diabolically difficult.

I would open my mouth to say “I feel” and my entire face would freeze.

Then I’d recover and say something like “I feel that I think that I feel…” Like a malfunctioning Alexa.

Here I was: a college-educated woman. My entire advertising job was about dealing with words. And I was being defeated by two of them.

But I stuck with Dr. Nosy’s assignment. And eventually my buried feelings began pouring out of the hidden backroom of me.

Suddenly I knew…

I felt: bored.

I felt: uncreative.

I felt: restless, trapped, unappreciated.

I felt I wasn’t feeling it for my boyfriend. Not even with his five-star coffee-through-the-curtain delivery system.

And I felt painfully aware that I wasn’t happy in advertising. I wanted to write books. Real ones. With my name on the spine. But I’d been telling myself this was unrealistic. A word I now suspected was just a euphemism for feeling terrified.

And so I also felt: panicky, dissatisfied, perturbed… and approximately seven other emotions I’d not previously known applied to me.

I began paging through a thesaurus for more words.

It was kind of fun discovering new adjectives for what I felt.

It was as if I’d traded in my basic 4-pack of primary Crayola emotional colors for the deluxe 152-color box, with the built-in sharpener.

Suddenly I had access to distinctive emotional hues like Tired-But-Pretending-Otherwise Mauve and Convinced-I’m-The-Problem Periwinkle.

And it turns out: when you can name a feeling more precisely, you can act on it more precisely.

So I quit my advertising job to become an author of books.

And I broke up with my coffee-shower boyfriend.

I sat across from him at dinner one night and told him, in my brand-new I-feel vocabulary, that I felt we weren’t right.

He looked at me and said: “But I think we’re great.”

And right there I clocked it. He was a Thinker too.

The two of us had each been trapped together in our heads, having a thoughtful, well-reasoned relationship… that nobody’s actual heart had ever signed off on.

That breakup moment was when I first noticed something I now notice constantly.

Most people have a strong preference for “think” versus “feel.” They use one of those two words about ten times more than the other. And it’s almost always a tell.

“I think” people tend to play it safe.

And “I feel” people tend to take more risks, live more boldly.

Now, decades later, when I work with clients as a coach, I love to listen for which words people tend to use. Especially when they want to discuss hard things in their lives.

I’ll ask: “What do you feel you should do?”

They’ll say: “Well, I think…”

And I’ll stop them. Right there. Mid-sentence.

“Try again,” I’ll say. “This time, start with ‘I feel.’”

They look at me like I’ve just asked them to do a pull-up. Because they know. They know the answer waiting at the end of an “I feel” sentence is going to be radically different from the answer waiting at the end of an “I think” sentence.

The “I think” answer is the one their parents would approve of.

The “I feel” answer is the one that’s actually truer.

And here’s the thing about true feelings, especially the inconvenient kind. You can ignore them for a while. You can let your bodyguard brain hustle your feelings back into the holding room and switch off the light behind them.

But they’re still in there. And every “I think” you say when you should be saying “I feel” is one more day of living a safe, limited, primary colored life.

So here’s your assignment.

For the next 24 hours, every time you’re about to start a sentence with “I think”… stop. Swap it for “I feel.” Then breathe in, and finish the sentence honestly.

Also I recommend journaling. Write “I feel….” at the top of an empty page. Stare at it. Then see what comes pouring out of you. Try to use the full 152 box of colorful emotions to write down what comes next.

Let your feelings know they’re allowed in the room. You might be surprised which ones show up.

I sure was.

Please hit the ❤️ button.

Think of it as applause, but quieter.
Here’s my ❤️ back to you for doing that!

👇Now it’s your turn.👇

→ Start a sentence with “I feel…” and finish it honestly in the comments.

→ What’s an “I think” you’ve been saying lately that you suspect should be an “I feel”?

→ Or just share about whatever came up for you as I was sharing my story.

A few sentences. Drop ‘em in the comments!

Leave a comment

Need Someone Nosey to Help You Improve Your Life?

That’s exactly what I do in a
”Stop Bullshitting Yourself™ Session.”

For one hour, I will help you to drag your tidy, logical explanations into the light, name what you’re actually feeling, and figure out what you’re ready to do about it.

Brutal clarity delivered with compassion.
I’ll give you the kick in the tush you need to change!

YES! I'm ready to stop BS-ing myself!

***

If this essay helped you to see something
about your life a little more clearly…
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***

Another essay you might enjoy…

I invite you to eavesdrop on this conversation with my good friend - who I met later in life!

Kristine and I talk about:

• what qualities to look for in a friend

• how friendship is different (and BETTER) later in life

• signs of “soul recognition” when you meet someone you feel a connection with

• why Substack is a great community for discovering new late in life friendships

Plus, we recommend you….

• reach out to someone new today on Substack

• follow

• follow Kristine’s

• follow Kristine’s BF - who looks a lot like Johnny Depp.

Truly… take a look!

Please hit the ❤️ button.

Think of it as applause, but quieter. Here’s my ❤️ back to you for doing that!

Now it’s your turn.

Share below about your late in life friendships!

Ask Kristina and I questions too - we’d love to hear from you!

I once dated a man so toxic I wrote a whole book about him. I called it Prince Harming Syndrome. (Oprah recommended it.) The book was about the ins and outs (and run-for-your-lifes) of toxic relationships.

Soon after the book came out, my inbox filled up with emails from all kinds of people. All asking the same question.

“Why can’t I get over my ex?”

Here’s one of the emails. It pretty much represents all of them.

Dear Karen,

I have been with a Prince Harming for 4 years. I’m trying to break away now. It should be easy, because he abandons me all the time, and disappears as easy as pie!

I always go looking for him. And I find him – and the cycle begins. Why can’t I get over my ex?

I’m so emotionally entwined with him. I get that I’m in love with who I WANTED him to be – but how can I more deeply see him for who he really is – and get over it? All of my friends see it.

Sincerely,
A dumbass

First things first…

This woman is not a dumbass.

She is, however, someone who’s having trouble with her “Act 3.”

Let me explain…

For a few years I lived in L.A. and wrote sitcoms.

One of the first things you learn in the sitcom business is that each episode needs to have three acts.

Act 1: There’s a problem. She’s a workaholic. He’s a guy who calls his mother every day and not in the cute way.

Act 2: The problem gets WORSE. And the people in the problem are aggressively pretending it isn’t a problem. (This is the act I spent most of my 20’s and 30’s in, btw. )

Act 3: Somebody finally CHANGES.

I pretty much breezed through writing Act 1 and Act 2. Because these were about describing the problem.

Problems are easy to write. You sit at your computer and describe what you and your friends are doing badly that month.

But Act 3 was far tougher to write. Because it was where the character finally had to wake up and change their stupid ways. And this change had to feel earned.

You cannot simply have your character announce, on page 47, that they’ve decided to be different now. The audience won’t believe it. The network won’t approve it.

In fact the network would immediately call a meeting and say “Karen, this isn’t landing, she just decides to leave him? Where’s the moment? Where’s the thing?”

The thing they’re looking for? I call this the CLUNK.

A CLUNK is when an emotional event happens - something that creates a persuasive epiphany that inspires the character to FINALLY change and grow.

I used to struggle to write Act 3’s… because it was tough to invent methods to give my fictional characters their transformational CLUNKS.

And I struggled even more with the Act 3’s in my own real life… when it came to giving myself wake-up CLUNKs.

The problem?

Real life does not come with a writers’ room.

You don’t get a team of people whose entire paid job is to engineer those powerful moments of clarity for you.

This is WHY that woman signed her email as “a dumbass.” She was trapped in an Act 1 and Act 2 problem loop.

Nothing had CLUNKED her on the head yet.

And because she was CLUNKLESS…. she couldn’t find her way to the long-overdue relief of Act 3.

If this is you too (or you know someone who needs a good CLUNK), I’ve got a highly effective trick to give you.

This is the same weird tool I used on myself to get over my Prince Harming. It not only worked on me… it’s been a client favorite tool ever since.

A CLUNK To Help You Finally Get Over Your Ex

Grab a piece of paper. Or find your Notes app.

I want you to write a description of your ex… as if someone’s going to set you up with them on a blind date.

BUT… instead of listing all their awesome qualities… list all their crazy-making qualities.

So you’re basically writing a description of “The Blind Date From Hell.”

The key is to write it up very sarcastically, as if all these terrible traits are something terrific. Like every red flag is a fun little perk for you to enjoy.

Then read it back to yourself. Out loud.

If you’re anything like my clients, you will be CLUNKED.

Here are a few examples of what they’ve written …

1. The Cheating Liar

I’ve got a guy I want you to meet. He’s an amazing liar. One of the best liars I’ve ever met! He’s like the Harvard of Lying. Plus he’s very courageous. He will introduce you to the other women he’s sleeping with, and casually call them friends. But wait… there’s more! He’s incredibly creative. You should hear the imaginative lies he tells as cover stories! So… can I fix you up? What do you say?

2. The Ghoster

Hi! I have THE guy for you. He’s like… there. But also not. He texts you “good morning beautiful” on a Tuesday… then disappears for nine days. No explanation. Then comes back like “hey what’s up,” like the nine days didn’t HAPPEN. He’s very mysterious. So a Saturday fix up okay for you?

3. The Almost-Divorced (For 2 1/2 Years)

Hi! Have I got a woman for you. She is technically married, but emotionally she’s been single for years. Like, in her HEART, she’s divorced. Her husband just disagrees. So although she’s not technically divorced… she is spiritually single. Doesn’t she sound great?

4. The Workaholic Ghost

I have a man for you. Very driven. Dates often get canceled at 6:47pm because of “a thing at work.” Vacations get postponed because “it’s a critical quarter.” You available to meet Saturday? He is. Maybe. If he’s not working too late.

5. The “I Don’t Believe in Labels” Guy

I have a guy for you. He's a real wordsmith. One word he's especially picky about is "girlfriend." Won't use it. Also doesn't want you dating other people, because "what you have is special." Wanna meet?

Now it’s your turn.

Write a “Blind Date From Hell” description of your toxic partner.

Make sure you ONLY list their BEST WORST disturbing toxic qualities.

Write it all up with loads of sarcasm.

Then read it back to yourself. As many times as you need to.

It should not only make you laugh…. it should give you a big CLUNK realization… that your toxic partner is NOT someone you should want to be with!

Get ready to enter Act 3 territory!

And if you feel really brave (and I hope you do) please share your “Blind Date From Hell” description below in the comments. It could be the CLUNK someone has been waiting for.

***
Please hit the ❤️ button.

Think of it as applause, but quieter.
Here’s my ❤️ back to you for doing that!

👇Now I want to hear from you!👇

→ Share your “Blind Date From Hell” description below.

→ Don’t feel like writing your own? Just tell me which “type” your ex was. The Ghoster? The Workaholic? The Almost-Divorced? Or one I didn’t even cover? Drop their species name in the comments.

→What was YOUR Act 3 CLUNK? The moment you finally saw your ex clearly… and walked away?

A few sentences. Drop ‘em in the comments!

Leave a comment

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Okay so this is one of those Substack friendship stories that makes me love Substack. Blue (from the inspiring Reinvent Your Life) read my essay about having coffee with my 90-year-old self, then wrote me a note about enjoying it. And what started as a friendly DM correspondence turned into an actual friendship, then turned into a let’s do a Substack Live together.

Here are a few of the things Blue and I chatted about today:

• The quote that accidentally changed Blue’s entire life

• The one sentence she repeats to herself before every big leap

• What a windsurfing instructor once taught me about facing fear and being brave

• The two feelings that always travel together and absolutely refuse to be separated

• What it actually means to be a beginner again …at any age, including whatever-age-this-is

If you’ve been waiting for a little extra nudge from the universe to do something brave… this recorded conversation might be it.

Watch it. And if you have questions for Blue and me, drop them in the comments below!

Before you go, please hit the ❤️ button.
Here’s my ❤️ back to you for doing that!

Get more from Karen Salmansohn in the Substack app

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Last week I got into an Uber on 24th Street. Driver’s name was Dmitri.

By the time we hit the Midtown Tunnel, Dmitri had explained to me:

• Why my lower back hurt (I sit wrong)

• Why my outfit wasn’t working (a wrap dress I love)

• What’s really going on with the economy (something something interest rates)

Dmitri had opinions. Strong ones. He had the unshakable certainty of a man who has never said the words “I don’t know.”

As I sat in the back of his Camry, watching him wave his hand at the skyline while explaining monetary policy, I thought: “I wish I was as confident as Dmitri.”

Then I remembered something that explained Dmitri’s confidence. A quirky phenomenon. Once I tell you about this, you’re going to start spotting it everywhere.

It’s called the Dunning-Kruger Effect.

It explains exactly why people who don’t know what the heck they’re talking about wind up wildly confident. And true experts spend half their time feeling like frauds.

The Dunning-Kruger Effect is named after two researchers named David Dunning and Justin Kruger. They created an interesting study where they gave people tests in logic, grammar, and humor.

Then they asked everyone, “Hey… how do you think you did?”

The result?

People who scored in the BOTTOM 12% of performance (meaning the WORST) thought they performed FAR ABOVE AVERAGE.

Yes, the DUMBEST people thought they were SMARTER than MOST people.

And the SMART people? They thought they were only about AVERAGE.

Why did this happen?

Here’s what Dunning and Kruger determined.

The thing you need to be good at something? It’s the SAME thing you need to know in order to figure out if you’re good at something.

For example… If you don’t know the difference between a good sentence and a bad sentence, you cannot tell that your own sentences are bad. You will write a bad sentence and feel fantastic about it. You will post it. You will embroider it on a pillow.

Meanwhile, the person who has spent 20 years learning what makes a sentence work can barely get through an email without revising it 8 times, and then apologizing for the delay.

So if you suck at something, you also suck at knowing you suck.

You are, in a very real and scientifically documented sense, too dumb to know you’re dumb.

A quick story from my own life, from last year when I had a rash. My doctor looked at it and immediately saw 27 possibilities for it. Everything from A to Z. She then announced, “I’m not quite sure what that rash is.”

Meanwhile my friend Margo looked at my rash and confidently told me, “Obviously that’s an allergic reaction.” Because Margo only knew things from A to A.

So in the end it’s not that stupid people are confident.

It’s that stupidity can actually lead to accidentally creating overconfidence.

The Dunning-Kruger Effect explains a lot of human behavior.

It’s why your aunt, who read one article about vaccines, now feels qualified to debate immunology at Thanksgiving.

It’s why a man who has never given birth can have so very, very many opinions about birth.

And it’s why my Uber driver Dmitri felt confidently equipped to share his opinions on wrap dresses to a stranger in a Toyota Camry.

It’s like the universe’s most annoying practical joke. Ignorance creates confidence, while knowledge creates doubt.

Unfortunately, the Dunning-Kruger Effect is perfectly engineered for social media.

The algorithm often serves us the most confident amateurs in our feeds. Because bold opinions are magnetic and tend to get more engagement.

Meanwhile many actual experts (scientists, specialists, PhD’s) are posting careful, nuanced, correct content to audiences of about 412 people.

Social media doesn’t reward being correct. It rewards being certain. And certainty, as we have now established, does not always equal smart or right.

The Dunning-Kruger Effect also explains why democracy might be doomed.

In a democracy, the person who wins is usually the person who sounds most sure of themselves. But, sounding sure of yourself is not necessarily a sign that you know what you’re talking about. So we end up electing people who promise simple solutions to problems they don’t fully understand.

And to voters, simple and confident tends to beat complicated and honest. Especially in a 30 second ad.

Consider these 2 kinds of candidates.

• A thoughtful candidate who understands how hard things are to fix. They hedge. They say, “Well, it’s a complicated system, and there are trade-offs to consider.”

• A cocky candidate who doesn’t understand the system all that well. They don’t hedge. They promise the moon.

Unfortunately a majority of voters will pick the candidate who promises the moon. Because the moon sounds far better than “well, it’s complicated and there are trade-offs.”

In a way we’ve built a political system where the more you actually know, the worse you sound. And so this system punishes the more educated people who know how complicated things are. And rewards the people who don’t.

Now, here’s the part I don’t want to admit.

We kind of need the Dmitris of the world. At first glance that sounds ridiculous. But here’s why.

If every human on Earth had an accurate sense of how little they knew… and how hard stuff is… NOTHING would ever get built. Nobody would ever start a business, write a sitcom, have a child, or go on a second date. Because every great thing in human history (every book, invention, breakthrough) was started by someone who had their head in the clouds.

Thankfully some of those “head in the clouds” people invented things like the cure for polio.

And did you know that the Wright Brothers were bike repairmen? They didn’t have a formal education in aerodynamics. They had no business inventing airplanes.

Plus there’s Columbus, who was by his own navigational estimates, wildly confused about where he was going. However, if he had fully understood just how confused he was about oceans, he would’ve stayed home.

I myself, if we’re being honest, would not have written my first published book if I had known how hard it was going to be. I was twenty-something, I had a fun idea for a novel, and I was unreasonably certain I could do it.

Was I qualified? No. Had I earned the confidence? Absolutely not. Did the confidence somehow carry me through until I figured it out? Yes, and I am grateful for it.

So, there’s a good side to Dunning-Kruger.

Basically, our world needs some of that delusion and bluster. Because a lot of civilization runs on misplaced self-esteem. God bless it.

Here’s what I want you to do with all of this.

Two things.

Thing One.

When you are scrolling your phone and somebody in a backwards baseball cap with a podcast mic starts talking to you with enviable confidence about how they’ve figured out the economy… or your hormones… or wrap dresses as a fashion choice.

STOP.

Then ask yourself: “Does this person actually know… or do they just SOUND like they know?”

Next immediately remind yourself: Confidence is not the same as competence. And it never has been. The algorithm has perhaps trained us to confuse them. But they are not the same thing. And the more regularly we remember that, the better off we’ll be.

Thing Two.

When you are sitting in a meeting or at a dinner party and everyone around you is sounding SO sure of themselves. And you feel that little voice in your head say: “I don’t know if I should chime in. I see some things I disagree with. But I don’t know if I have the right to speak up.”

STOP.

Then ask yourself THIS question. “What if I’m the only one here who actually knows how complicated this topic is… and that’s why I’m the quieter one?”

Next immediately remind yourself: Your doubt is a credential. Your hesitation is a “tell” that you recognize how nuanced things are. That is what knowing something feels like.

So speak up. Raise your hand. Say the thing.

You might know more than you think… and they might know less than they sound like they know.

Because the confident people are often bluffing.

And the unsure people are often the experts.

Please hit the ❤️ button.

Think of it as applause, but quieter.

Here’s my ❤️ back to you for doing that!

👇Now it’s your turn.👇

→Does this essay ring true for you? Thoughts?

→Did this essay make you think of a specific person?
Don’t name them. Just tell me about a Dmitri in your life.

→What’s something you’ve secretly gotten really good at over the years
but still feel weird calling yourself an expert in? Claim your expertise below!

A few sentences. Drop ‘em in the comments!

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Share The Stand Up Philosopher: Weighty Musings, Lightly Served

***

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If you want your relationship to be happier… you must take time to more fully understand your childhood conflict programming.

Below is a resource I share with my clients. It’s a deep dive into your family’s dynamics… that will help you to understand how you and your partner handle conflicts. And what you can do to fight more fairly and lovingly. It’s FREE for PAID subscribers.

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This is a resource I share with my clients to help them to create healthier boundaries, so they can manage and protect themselves from narcissists.

It’s FREE for paid subscribers.

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These are clients tools to help with emotional eating and managing what’s called Maladaptive Coping Mechanisms.

Paid subscribers enjoy these resources for FREE.

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When my son Ari was four years old, he had a passion for Legos.

Not the Legos that come in tidy boxes with little numbered bags that tell you exactly what to do. No. Ari loved playing with a bucket of random, jumbled Lego pieces.

He’d just reach in, without a plan, grab a handful, and build something oddly brilliant with them.

Ari loved his Legos more than pizza.

I discovered this by accident. I brought him a slice one afternoon. Warm, gooey, very persuasively pizza. Set it down next to him… while he was building one of his Lego creations.

Ari didn’t even look at the pizza. He just kept building… while the pizza cheese cooled into that tragic rigid state of no return.

Eventually I started to call Ari a Master Builder, a term I swiped from a Lego movie, where it was used to describe someone who thinks outside of the (Lego) box.

Well, during this same time that Ari was a Master Builder…

I decided that I wanted to master yoga.

So I signed up for a Yoga Teacher Training Program that began every morning at 8 am. Unfortunately this meant I had to switch up my son’s morning routine. Instead of me walking Ari to preschool, his favorite babysitter Belinda would.

The first morning of Belinda’s arrival, Ari made it clear he was not happy with this new arrangement. There were tears. There were protests.

I remember standing there, trying to soothe him, feeling that familiar parental panic of: Say something helpful. Say something wise.

And what came out of my mouth was…

“Life is like a scoopful of Legos.”

This was not a sentence I had planned. But once it was out there… I had to commit.

So I continued…

“Each day you get all kinds of assorted life pieces,” I told Ari. “You might not get all the life pieces you want. You might even get some you totally do NOT want. But you are the Master Builder of your day! It’s up to you to take the pieces you’re given… and create a day you love out of those pieces!”

Ari seemed to calm down a little…. so I kept going.

“Like today,” I said. “Today you’re not getting the ‘Mommy Morning Piece.’ But you are getting the ‘Belinda Favorite Babysitter Morning Piece.’ And you can still make something really good with that piece.”

Ari paused. Considered this. Then said: “So… I’m the Master Builder of my day?”

“Yes,” I said. “You are the Master Builder of your day.”

And just like that, Ari’s tears disappeared.

Now, I don’t know if it was because he truly grasped the philosophy… or because I had said Legos, Legos, Legos about 47 times in under two minutes. But either way… it worked.

Later that morning, in yoga teacher training, our instructor (Alan) talked about the difference between Karma and Dharma.

(Which, if I’m being honest, felt like a very ambitious topic for 8:11 am.)

Karma, Alan said, is the situation you’re born into. The circumstances. The hand you’ve been dealt.

Dharma is what you choose to do with what you’re given. Your free will choices to change what comes next.

I sat there on my mat and had this quiet, slightly amused moment of recognition.

Oh, I thought. This is just the Legos speech.

Karma is the bucket of life legos you are given. Dharma is your free will “ace card” you have up your sleeve.

You can’t control the scoopful. But you can control the build.

And to be clear…

Dharma does NOT mean: “Everything happens for a reason.”

Because sometimes BAD things happen for NO reason.

But here’s what’s also true…

Even then… even in the most reason-less and terrible life wreckages… you still have the free will to choose what YOU DO NEXT.

Meaning? You need to stop asking yourself:

Why did I get such a lousy Life Bucket of pieces?

And start asking yourself:

What life pieces do I have and what can I build with them?

Let me show you what I mean.

Let’s talk about Frida Kahlo.

Frida Kahlo had polio at six.

Then at eighteen she was in a catastrophic bus accident. We’re talking shattered spine, shattered pelvis, shattered leg… that the doctors weren’t sure she was going to live. She spent months in a full body cast. Flat on her back.

Her pile at that moment?

A mirror. (Her mother mounted a mirror above her bed so she could see herself.)

And some paint.

That was it. A mirror. And some paint.

And you know what Frida did? She looked at herself… really looked… at her broken, immobilized body… and she painted what she saw. Again and again.

She painted until what she saw… became something the world had never seen before.

She built a body of work that could only have been uniquely hers. From a mirror. And some paint. And the willingness to use what she had.

Next, let’s talk about Sylvester Stallone.

Because this one.

THIS ONE.

Okay. Stallone was born with a partially paralyzed face. Which meant from day one … from the literal moment he arrived on this planet … you could easily look at Stallone’s pile and think: yeah, this kid’s not going to be a leading man.

But here’s what happened.

At age 28, Sylvester was broke. He had about $106 in his bank account. His job? Cleaning lion cages at the zoo.

He was sleeping in the Port Authority Bus Terminal. His wife was pregnant. And he had a dog.

His dog’s name was Butkus. A bull mastiff. And Butkus was one of the good things in Stallone’s pile of pieces.

But then …even THAT got taken away.

Because Stallone was so broke… so completely out of options… that he decided to sell his dog Butkus outside a 7-Eleven.

For twenty-five dollars.

I need you to understand the specific quality of despair required to sell your beloved dog outside a 7-Eleven for twenty-five dollars.

That is a man at the absolute bottom of his pile of pieces.

And THEN.

Stallone watched a boxing match. Muhammad Ali versus Chuck Wepner. An underdog fight.

Stallone watched this nobody… who was going 15 rounds with the greatest boxer alive… and something in his brain CLICKED.

Because Stallone’s life pieces enabled him to understand the psychology of an underdog.

He headed home. Wrote for three days straight. And emerged with a screenplay called Rocky.

Now here’s where Stallone’s free will Dharma part happened in a big way.

The studios wanted his script. They LOVED his script. They offered him about $360,000 for it.

And let me remind you… Stallone was a man with about $106 in his bank account, a pregnant wife, and a recently sold dog.

And he was offered about $360,000.

Stallone said no… unless he was the lead in it.

The Studio said: Okay, what if we get Ryan O’Neal to play Rocky? What if we get Burt Reynolds? What if we get Robert Redford?

Stallone said: NO.

The Studio said: We’ll give you MORE money.

Stallone said: NO.

Because here’s what Stallone understood about his pile of pieces… that nobody else did:

His paralyzed face was a piece.

His slurred speech was a piece.

The hunger and the humiliation and the lion cages and the 7-Eleven and the twenty-five dollar dog?

ALL LIFE PIECES.

And the only person who could play Rocky Balboa… a broken-down fighter who refuses to quit…was the guy who had actually lived it.

Stallone recognized he couldn’t sell the script without himself as the lead… because HE WAS THE SCRIPT.

So he took the studio’s lower offer of $35,000… which allowed him to star in the Rocky story.

And the very first thing Stallone did with the money? The VERY FIRST THING?

Stallone went to find the man he sold Butkus to. He stood outside that 7-Eleven for THREE DAYS waiting for him.

The man finally showed up. Stallone said: I need my dog back. The man said no.

Stallone offered him $100.

The man said no.

He offered $500.

No.

He offered $1,000.

No.

Stallone ends up paying $15,000 for the dog he sold for $25.

AND THEN STALLONE PUTS HIS DOG IN THE MOVIE.

Yes, Butkus is IN Rocky.

And Rocky wins Best Picture.

Why? How?

Because Stallone took the most painful pieces in his entire Life Bucket… the moments he hit absolute rock bottom… and he made it part of the art.

THAT is Dharma in full swing action.

Stallone was able to see how he could build with those humiliating, devastating pieces of his life… and turn them into the whole point of his movie.

Not despite the paralyzed face and the lion cages and the $25 dog.

Because of them.

Now. I need you to hear this next part very clearly.

The people who pull this off… who actually build something real from the rubble of their lives … they are not a different species.

They don’t have a special hotline to the universe. They just got tired of asking the wrong question.

The wrong question:

• Why are my life pieces so terrible?

The smarter, righter question?

• What can I BUILD with the life pieces I’ve got?

This question can actually change the entire trajectory of your life.

This question is the whole magic trick.

Because the second you actually ask this question … really ask it… not as a cute little exercise… but as a genuine demand you make of yourself….

You stop being someone things happen TO. And you become something so much more interesting.

You become the Master Builder of your life.

Which, as it turns out… was always the whole job description for being alive.

***

Please hit the ❤️ button.

Think of it as applause, but quieter.
Here’s my ❤️ back to you for doing that!

👇Now it’s your turn.👇

→ What’s one “wonky piece” in your life that you can choose to see differently … as something you could actually build with?

→ What have you built with pieces you’ve had… when life didn’t give you the pieces you wanted?

→Do you have a personal Karma/Dharma philosophy or motto? Share it…

A few sentences. Drop ‘em in the comments!

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How do you market something… if you hate that word “marketing”?

I've been asked this question more times than I can count… by authors, Substack writers, coaches, course creators, entrepreneurs… basically anyone who makes something they believe in… and then freezes when it's time to tell the world about it.

I get it.

Every single time I have to market my writing, I get this uncomfortable feeling… like I accidentally walked into the wrong bathroom.

And I’ve been a bestselling author for decades. Sold 2 million books. Published by Random House, Simon & Schuster, Chronicle, Workman, Ben Bella, etc…

I’ve also snagged columns on Oprah and Psychology Today. And been featured in TIME, The New York Times, Oprah, CNN, The View… and then some.

Yet, I still get that nervous twitch every time I have to promote one of my books.

So if YOU feel weird about marketing…

Hi, you’re normal, come sit with me.

Also I figured out WHY we feel this way. And I’m going to help you to fix this right now.

Beginning with this quick reframe…

Marketing is not selling.

Marketing is matchmaking.

When you market your writing, you’re not a pushy salesperson spraying perfume on strangers outside a department store.

You’re a matchmaker.

Your writing is on one side. Your ideal reader is on the other.

And your only job is introducing them to each other.

Here’s a quick exercise.

Close your eyes for a second and picture your ideal reader.

Picture them finding your writing. Reading it. Finishing it. And thinking: Wow! I’m so glad I found this book. This is exactly what I needed.

Next, envision them texting 3 friends immediately: “oh my god, you HAVE to read this.”

Think about what they’re feeling: their relief, their delight, the specific gratitude of someone who’s been genuinely helped, educated, entertained by your writing!

THAT is what you’re delivering when you put your writing into the world.

You’re doing something generous and wonderful.

You’re reaching a person who genuinely wants your book!

Not a “target demographic.” An actual human being. With a life. And a problem, or a question, or a longing, that your writing speaks to directly.

Your writing can give that to people.

You just have to find your people.

Your nervousness about self-promotion?

Well, it’s accidentally, unintentionally keeping your writing away from the people who crave it.

That’s not noble. That’s a missed connection.

And missed connections are sad!

Next up here’s another quick exercise.

Instead of writing a press release or a sanitized back-cover blurb… I want you to write a Tinder profile for your book.

Ask yourself:

• What is your writing like? Describe your writing’s personality. What it does, what it offers, what makes it unlike everything else. What makes it “the one”… and not just another one?"

• Who is your writing’s ideal match? Describe your reader. No, not simply “women 35-55.” A real human. What are they going through? What are they hoping for? What do they need? What do you want them to feel when they close your book?

• Swipe right if…? Describe the thing that makes the right person think “oooohhh that’s for me.” (Think about what you’d want them to say in a glowing review or thank you note.. and write that.)

Here’s my Tinder profile for my Bounce Back Book

• Who I am: Like a personal trainer for your spirit. I offer resilience, tough love, laughter, a little sass, occasionally calling you out when you need it most.

• My ideal match: Someone who’s been knocked down… and is ready to get back up.

• Swipe right if: You want help bouncing back without it feeling heavy or preachy.

Next, after you write your Tinder Profile, use what you wrote to think about how to explain your book - use all of these inner connection ideas. Your book’s benefits, emotional relief, perspective shifts, themes, etc…

Some people don’t fully understand how to follow through on this next step… which is why I break it down more deeply and clearly in the full 1 hour video.

This exercise works because…

It forces you to think of your book NOT as an OBJECT to sell. But as a RELATIONSHIP to offer.

• You’re not pushing a product.

• You’re finding your people.

Next up, when you promote your book, do NOT use your query letter voice or your press release voice.

Write in your truest voice. The same voice you use with your best friend at 10pm when you’re being completely honest.

Be your You-ier self.

People don’t connect with credentials. They connect with other humans.

The goal isn’t to sound impressive. It’s to sound like yourself.

So if you’re nerdy, be proudly nerdy.

If you’re sarcastic, let that flag fly.

Now more than ever it’s essential you’re You-ier.

Because in today’s AI-saturated world, far too much content sounds like it was generated by the same mildly confident robot.

Being You-ier is your competitive edge.

Nobody falls in love with your PR voice. They fall in love with your You-ier style and unique quirks.

I also share about how to find your specific You-ier competitive edge in the full video below.

And I include a weird story about how being You-ier accidentally got me my agent.

In fact, there’s a lot more that I have to tell you.

I gave at a big writer’s retreat seminar on this topic.

And…. what you just read above is simply a preview snippet of the full 1-hour video course called “Stress-Free Book Marketing.”

Enjoy a full hour of practical, non-cringey ways to find your readers and enjoy the whole marketing/matchmaking process.

Inside, I walk through things like:

• My Cricket Prevention System: simple ways to promote your book so you stand out and get noticed.

• My Agent Story: how I found mine… and what I did differently

• Amazon SEO: how readers actually find you (and how to help them find you)

• Getting Reviews: how to ask for testimonials… even from people with big platforms

• Book Launch Ideas: doable ideas that don’t feel humiliating or exhausting

• Netplaying, not Networking: how to build real connections without it feeling transactional

• Lead Magnets & Email Lists: why your email list matters more than your follower count (this changed everything for me)

• Websites & Substack: what you actually need… and what you can skip

• Social Media Tips: simple ways to post without it feeling like a second job

• A Book Is Not a Book: how to turn one book into talks, workshops, courses… a whole ecosystem

It’s the kind of stuff I wish someone had just explained to me earlier.

The full seminar normally sells for $199.

But it’s yours FREE with a paid subscription… along with another 3 full courses:

• The Anxiety Cure

• Broken Heart Recovery

• You’re Never Too Old To Rejigger Your Life

Plus monthly “Wake Up” video calls starting in April.

All of this is thousands of dollars of value…

For the price of an annual membership.

The right readers for your work are out there.

I’d love to help you find them.

P.S. Everything in this post and full 1 hour video applies whether you're marketing a book, a Substack, a course, a coaching practice, or anything else you offer and believe in.

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I want to tell you a story about betrayal.

Everyone has one. Maybe your story involves a friend. A love partner. A neighbor. Or a family member who smiled at you during Thanksgiving dinner, then stabbed you in the back before the pie.

My story involves a younger colleague. A business agreement. And a variety of fibbing, royalty-hiding and contract-breaking events.

I’ve renamed this woman Eve for this essay.

As in All About Eve, the classic film about a young woman who attaches herself to an older, more successful woman, accepts every kindness offered, then… with a warm smile and absolutely zero remorse… kicks her in the heart.

It’s a great film. I recommend it.

I did not enjoy living it.

This happened about two decades ago. I was a bestselling author at the time. Around a million books sold. Regular speaking presence at Soho House.

Young Eve came up to me after one of my Soho House speaking events. She told me she wanted to do what I was doing. But she couldn’t get a book deal. She asked for my help.

I told her my usual system for hiring me. She said she didn’t have money to pay me.

What she DID have was friends. Lovely enthusiastic friends… who she kept bringing with her in herds to my events.

This gesture charmed me. And eventually Eve and I became friends. We got closer, until there were moments (and I’m almost embarrassed to admit this) where I thought of her as something like a spiritual daughter.

Eve kept begging me to help her write and sell a book proposal. I kept explaining how much time that takes. But eventually I came up with a system.

I told her: “I’ll help you. Just give me ten percent of the book’s lifelong earnings if it sells. No upfront money.”

Eve was so grateful she offered to get a family lawyer friend to write up the agreement.

I thought: Oh good. We’re being adults about this.

We signed the papers.

Next, I gave her the book idea. Helped her write the proposal. Introduced her to the publishing house who bought it.

Yes, I also agented the whole deal, without charging any extra agent’s fee.

The book went onto become a big bestseller.

Eve enthusiastically told mutual friends that she was making well over six figures on the book.

Plus her Amazon ranking made this feel believable.

So did her book’s Oprah appearance.

Meanwhile… she told me she barely earned any money.

She sent me a check for $48.

Surprised, I asked to see the royalty statements… which was a specific part of our shared legal agreement.

She said no.

And that’s when I finally understood the lawyer detail.

She had a family lawyer friend who could draft a contract at zero personal cost. And legally defend her for zippo too.

If I wanted to enforce that contract it would cost me money, time, energy, and a lot of my sanity.

The contract wasn’t protection.

It was a trap with my signature on it.

There’s more to this story. A lot more.

The kind of details that would make your jaw drop and then your eye twitch.

But I’m not going to tell you those parts.

Because this is NOT a “revenge essay.”

This is a “how to heal from betrayal essay.”

So I’m intentionally keeping Eve vague. Making her less of a specific three dimensional person and more of a type.

Because here’s the thing about types.

You already know one.

In fact, maybe right now you’re thinking about your own Eve (or Adam).

Maybe you’ve been thinking about them since the third sentence.

If so, please know: I understand your pain. That specific, humiliating, how-did-I-not-see-this-coming feeling.

I’ve been there too.

I know what betrayal does to you.

It doesn’t just wreck that one relationship.

It wrecks your whole relationship with relationships.

Suddenly everyone is a potential Eve or Adam.

Your brain starts running quiet background checks on people at dinner parties.

Oh she seems nice…. BUT DOES SHE THOUGH?

Sure enough, in my case, I found myself putting up walls with people.

Eventually I stayed home more, socialized less.

I told myself I was healing.

In fact, at the time I thought I was going into a healthful “cocoon.”

But as it turned out, I was entering a “cave.”

Here’s the difference…

A COCOON is a quiet, comfortable place you go to evolve into a more beautiful you. It’s a safe haven to experiment with new, uplifting thoughts. When you emerge, you feel in your full power… flying higher than before.

A CAVE is a quiet, uncomfortable place you go to think and brood… to hibernate. Instead of spending time thinking grand thoughts, you growl. You view the world as cold and unsafe.

Basically, a cocoon is an ashram for the soul.

A cave is a prison for the soul.

I was in the cave.

How did I know?

My soul felt heavy. Like it was wearing seventeen wet wool coats.

That’s because I was telling myself a Bear Story… not a Butterfly Story.

A Butterfly Story is:

• 1 untrustworthy person = 1 person

A Bear Story is:

• 1 untrustworthy person = every person who has ever lived or will ever live including people who haven’t been born yet.

Psychologists call this Permanent and Pervasive Thinking.

It’s when one terrible thing happens and your brain says:

• Okay. I've seen enough. From now on I will be suspicious of everyone. Everywhere. Forever.

Here’s the problem with that:

• One data point is not a trend. It’s simply proof that one person was an asshole.

That’s it.

In my case, I developed 5 specific Permanent and Pervasive Beliefs:

1. I can’t trust anyone.

2. People suck.

3. I’m an idiot for being suckered.

4. I shouldn’t help people any more. They just take advantage.

5. I need to keep my heart in a betrayal-proof Tupperware container. Permanently.

I discovered these 5 beliefs while journaling.

So I wrote down each belief at the top of a page, then cross-examined them one by one.

Because the only way to break a belief that’s eating you alive… is to drag it into the light and dissolve it.

Here’s what I discovered.

1. I can’t trust anyone.

I stared at this sentence… and realized:

This betrayal shouldn’t make me anti-social.

It should simply make me anti-jerks.

The lesson was not: STOP trusting people.

The lesson was: START trusting my gut.

Because if I was honest with myself… there were signs. Moments when Eve’s energy felt aggressively pushy in a way that made me uncomfortable.

Little red flags. Red hankies waving at me.

My gut knew. I just wasn’t listening.

I’m listening now.

And boundary-ing up, too.

Turns out those two are a much better combo than “be nice and hope for the best.”

2. People suck.

Okay yes. Some people do suck. I’m not going to tell you otherwise. I’ve met people, and some of them are genuinely, impressively terrible.

But not ALL of them.

The truly sucky ones are a minority. A loud, exhausting minority. But at least I’m not one of them. I could never do what Eve did. I could never look someone in the eye who helped launch my career… then tell them I earned nothing. Something in my nervous system would short circuit and I’d spontaneously combust.

I’m not saying I’m a saint. I have many documented flaws. (I’m particularly difficult before coffee.) But even so, I’d be wide awake at 3am for the rest of my life if I treated someone the way Eve treated me.

Meanwhile, she’s out there eating lunch, bragging about her six figures… while sending me a check for $48.

Not feeling an ounce of remorse, guilt, or empathy.

That’s the part that makes me want to flip a table.

She feels nothing.

But then a new thought occurred to me.

Feeling nothing is her punishment.

She’s missing a heart.

Meanwhile I’m over here with a full heart.

So I know which one of us got the better deal.

And I know I need to stop allowing someone who sucks to suck the joy out of my days.

3. I’m an idiot for being suckered.

When I re-read this thought, I realized something uncomfortable.

I was displaying a classic case of “blaming the victim.”

I was angry at myself… instead of aiming that anger where it belonged. On the person who betrayed me.

You see how backwards that is?

Plus, the reason I didn’t see it coming was NOT because I’m an idiot.

It’s because I never would have done it myself.

It wasn’t stupidity. It was a values mismatch.

I was operating from my own internal framework. One built around integrity, loyalty, honoring commitments.

So I assumed the person across from me was operating from something similar.

She wasn’t.

Her framework was: take what you can get.

And you can’t detect what you don’t carry.

Meanwhile, she already stole my 10 percent.

I wasn’t going to let her steal 100 percent of my inner peace and self-esteem too.

So I did something small that changed everything.

I crossed out “I am an idiot” and wrote “I am a wronged person” instead.

Same situation. Different story.

And the story you tell yourself is the one you live in.

Choose accordingly.

4. I need to keep my heart safely stored in a betrayal-proof Tupperware container. Forever.

Okay, so this is the thought that broke my own heart a little when I finally looked at it clearly.

You get burned badly enough… and something in you goes:

Okay. That’s enough of that.

I’m done being open. I’m done being warm. From now on, everyone gets a full background check and a notarized character reference before we let them anywhere near the soft parts.

I’m going Full Tupperware Mode with my heart.

And for a while, that felt like the smart thing. The safe thing. The finally-learned-my-lesson thing.

But then I realized:

I wasn’t just keeping HER out. I was keeping everyone out.

Lovely people. Trustworthy people. People who showed up, meant it, and just wanted to know me… and be in my life.

And I was treating them like threats.

Which is insane. And deeply unfair to them.

I was punishing innocent people for Eve’s crime. Including myself.

It was obviously bad that Eve cost me money.

But in the end… it would be far worse if I allowed Eve to cost me the joy of letting people into my heart.

Because keeping your heart in Tupperware doesn't just protect you from pain.

It guarantees a different kind of pain: a lonely, shallow life.

Love is one of the best things available to us humans. And I was about to opt out of it because of ONE person.

Nope. Eve didn’t get to take that from me.

The Tupperware stays in the kitchen. My heart doesn’t live there anymore.

5. I shouldn’t help people any more. They just take advantage.

When I re-read this one, I saw it for what it was: self-punishment.

Because I love helping people.

I love reading someone’s book proposal and seeing exactly how to improve it.

I love being the person who knows someone and introduces them to the other person who changes their life.

I love helping someone get the thing they’ve been dreaming about.

These are some of my favorite joys. Right up there with really good pasta and finding a parking spot immediately.

And I was about to set that on fire because of Eve.

NO!

So I gave myself a writing assignment:

Make a list of people I’ve helped who did NOT fib, break contracts, or betray me.

This list was surprisingly long. Full of people who received help, said thank you and meant it… then went on to do good things with what they were given.

I sat there feeling slightly ridiculous… realizing I’d let one person take up the space of a thousand good ones.

Turns out Eve was the exception. Not the rule.

She was an outlier. As well as an all-out liar.

And I refused to become less of me… because one person showed low character values.

That said, I have updated how I show up with my generosity.

I no longer do backend deals with commissions. No more creative financial arrangements.

Sorry, not going near that specific fiery stove top again!

Here’s the last thing I want to say about people like Eve.

At some point you’re going to want revenge.

That’s okay. It’s human. Want it. Feel it fully.

Then let it go.

Not because the person deserves your grace.

But because obsessing over someone who wronged you… is just you staying trapped inside that cave.

And you need to get out.

Plus here’s what actually happens to people like Eve… without any help from you.

They can’t stop doing what they do.

Not won’t. Can’t.

It’s who they are.

So they repeat the pattern with others. Same story. Different cast. Over and over.

Eventually enough people compare notes… and the pattern becomes visible.

The story tells itself.

It always does.

In fact, this eventually happened with Eve!

The karma bus runs on its own schedule. But it always makes its stops.

So you don’t have to do a single thing… except get yourself out of the cave.

I’m out.

Still helping people. Still trusting my gut. Still showing up with my whole heart.

Still me.

Please hit the ❤️ button.

Think of it as applause, but quieter.
Here’s my ❤️ back to you for doing that!

👇Now it’s your turn.👇

→ Who is your Eve or Adam?
What’s one Bear Thought you struggled with most after being betrayed?

→Which of the 5 Permanent and Pervasive beliefs hit closest to home for you?
And how did you start to break it?

→Are you currently in a cave or a cocoon? How do you know?

A few sentences. Drop ‘em in the comments.

Leave a comment

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I’m about to tell you a true story about a toxic relationship.

But this is not a love story. Or an anti-love story.

It’s a survival story… an anti-giving-up story.

And the lesson at the end is for anyone currently white-knuckling their way through anything terrible.

I’ll get there eventually. But first, the embarrassing part.

A story from a desperate time in my life… otherwise known as my thirties.

Many, many years ago I was involved with a toxic partner.

Let’s call him Tox. Short for toxicity.

However, please know that Tox had good qualities too.

This is one of the most inconvenient features of toxic people. The person isn’t a cartoon villain. They’re charming and funny and bring you soup when you’re sick.

Sure enough, in many ways Tox appeared to be an amazing catch. Ivy League. Successful. Romantic. Handsome. He inundated me with flowers and candlelit dinners. And he had a laugh that made entire rooms turn around to see who was having that much fun.

But in the end we were two very different kinds of people.

You see, I am a morning person.

And he was a narcissistic control freak with sadistic tendencies.

I’m joking. But I’m also very serious.

Tox had a hidden, dark, jealous underbelly.

For example, Tox didn’t like it when I went to yoga classes.

His concern, as best I could understand it, was that yoga studios are a hotbed of sexual danger.

Which, first of all: NO.

I have been to many yoga classes. The vibe is not sexual shenanigans. The vibe is expensive leggings and someone in the front row who is definitely showing off.

However, Tox believed that if I showed up somewhere in yoga pants, men would immediately start hitting on me and I’d cheat.

Ditto on me wearing anything slightly low in neckline.

“When you dress sexy,” Tox told me, “it makes me think you’re interested in meeting other men.”

For the record: I was not dressing to signal availability. I was dressing to feel like myself. A woman in her thirties who worked hard and occasionally wanted to look good.

I had been dressing myself for decades without incident and did not feel that additional supervision was necessary.

However, I loved Tox.

And love, it turns out, is a remarkable appetite suppressant for one’s own dignity.

So I stopped wearing things that upset him. And started dressing to please him.

(Turtlenecks became a staple throughout all four seasons.)

My good friend Lisa jokingly referred to this time as my “Amish Girl Period.”

“If you ask me,” Lisa said, “you’re not involved in a relationship. It’s a hazing experience.”

Lisa then gave me a book about successful marriages.

While reading it, I kept misreading the words “love mates” as “love mats.”

Every single time.

I found this funny… but then wondered…

• Am I a love mat in this relationship? Am I letting Tox walk all over me?

I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to look directly at it. The way you know it’s dangerous to stare at the sun. Or your credit card statement after the holidays.

And although my gut kept warning me something was wrong, I couldn’t bring myself to leave.

My parents adored Tox. And they wondered how I could even consider jumping off a relationship that was sailing straight toward marriage and babies.

Each week they’d gently, lovingly, terrifyingly remind me that I was a woman in her “thirties.” And by “thirties” they meant ”The CLOCK, Karen, THE CLOCK!” … and that leaving a man who was Ivy League and Successful and Pointed Toward Marriage was tantamount to blowing up my life.

So, I stayed.

I even got engaged to Tox and moved in with him.

This then brought new problems.

Tox wanted a 9 pm curfew on all phone calls.

Lisa would call at 9:21 to chat, and Tox would tell me not to answer, even if he was in the other room watching TV.

“When you’re home with me, you should be home with me,” he explained. “After 9 pm is our private time.”

Lisa became increasingly worried.

“When someone is that possessive, they’re not in love with you,” she said. “They’re monitoring you.”

And then.

AND THEN.

(Now I need you to be fully present for this particularly bizarre next part.)

Tox announced he was going to Chicago for a full week on business.

Before he walked out the door, he pressed a small white box into my hands.

Inside was a plastic button pin.

The pin read: Don’t even think of sleeping with me.

Tox held the pin out for me to take. “I saw this in a store,” he said. “You could wear it while I’m in Chicago.”

“You’re joking, right?” I asked.

Tox flashed me a crooked smile. “You can put it on if you want to. It’s kinda funny, right?”

I didn’t wear the pin.

But I did show it to Lisa.

“Tell him I want a pin too,” Lisa said immediately. “One that says ‘Don’t even think of sleeping with Karen.’ I’ll wear mine wherever I go.”

And then we laughed … the way you laugh at something that is also a little terrible. The kind of laugh that was doing the work that crying should do.

I confess that in that moment I was quite scared. Because I could more clearly see what I was desperately trying not to know:

• This relationship was not going to get better.

After all, a man who hands you a chastity pin before a business trip is telling you something very specific. He sees you as a variable to be controlled.

I knew that.

My nervous system knew that.

So I started to see a very good therapist named Sid. And with his help I eventually left Tox and moved back into my own apartment. (I wrote about Tox + Sid here, but I named Tox “Bruce” in this essay.)

Now, I wish I could tell you that leaving Tox felt triumphant.

It did not.

Instead I felt like I had made a catastrophic mistake.

Like I had blown up my life and the debris was going to rain down on me forever.

Although I did the right thing, I began to fall completely, spectacularly apart.

Every day I’d wake up and start crying over my morning coffee… which, for the record, does not improve the flavor.

I cried everywhere you’re not supposed to cry.

On the subway. In restaurants. Briefly, but memorably, at a work event.

I simply couldn’t shake the feeling that this breakup was a redirection toward an unhappily ever after.

THIS is what rock bottom does to you.

It crowds out the light.

It sits down in the middle of your life, takes up all the space, and convinces you that this terrible thing that’s happening is not just a temporary part of your life. It’s the rest of your life.

I was sitting with that exact feeling one morning, crying into my coffee, as was now my custom, when I remembered a related mathematical principle.

The part cannot be greater than the whole.

And I thought: Wait a minute. That’s objectively, inarguably true.

A part is a thing that lives inside a whole.

Which means this catastrophe I was drowning in?

It was inside my life.

It was not my entire life.

It was a slice.

A terrible, flavored-wrong slice… but a slice.

And it was up to me to keep this “slice of life” in perspective, and not let it overwhelm me.

Nothing is everything. The part is not greater than the whole.

When I started thinking about the breakup that way (as a mere slice of my life) I gave myself permission to go out and find the rest of the pie.

And I realized there was a lot more pie in my life to enjoy.

Friends who showed up with wine and no agenda.

Work that still mattered.

Mornings that kept arriving whether I was ready for them or not.

And lots of nontoxic wonderful men who wanted a family. And did not feel the need to pin a chastity notice to my lapel.

All of it. Still out there. Still mine to enjoy.

Because nothing is EVER everything.

Not the job that implodes.

Not the plan that collapses.

Not the grief that arrives without warning.

Not the year that just takes and takes and takes from you… things you’re still not sure you’ll ever get back.

None of it…. NONE of it… is the whole story.

One terrible chapter is not the whole book.

It just isn't.

Even if it feels that way.

The truth is: Feelings are terrible at math.

Like, dangerously bad.

They see one hard time and multiply it by infinity.

If your feelings were your accountant, you would fire them immediately.

Because it is an objective mathematical fact:

The part cannot be greater than the whole.

This is more than a logical principle.

It’s one of the most healing sentences I know.

This sentence became my mantra. It encouraged me to zoom out from my current catastrophe… and keep searching for those missing pieces of my life.

And I found them. Including a partner and a family that arrived in a way so unexpected, so gloriously weird, that Past Amish Girl Me would have never seen it coming.

But that’s a story for another day.

For now I’ll just say this:

If you’ve hit rock bottom, and you’re crying into your coffee, stop telling yourself that this is your whole life now.

It isn’t.

Zoom out. Look around. Ask yourself what this hard thing is blocking you from seeing.

Find even one good thing you can see from where you’re standing.

Start there.

Then keep looking.

There’s far more Life Pie out there for you to enjoy.

There’s always more.

Go get it.

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Recently, I arranged to meet my 90-year-old self for coffee.

I had questions about life I couldn't answer on my own. The hard ones. The ones people in their 40s, 50s, and 60s write to me about constantly. And I wrestle with too.

I figured if anyone had perspective on life, it would be my 90-year-old self.

She showed up at my apartment early. At 7 AM. She walked right in. She had a key.

(Of course she had a key. She’s me.)

She was wearing red sneakers.

I noticed the sneakers before anything else. Not the face. Not the hands. Because shoes are a choice. And at 90, every choice is a declaration.

And her red sneakers declared: I might be 90, but I’m not done yet.

Next thing I noticed: her hair. It was entirely white. And she wore it like she’d won it. Not like something that happened to her.

“You’re here early,” I said. “It’s only 7 AM.”

“I have a brunch date at 10, and I wanted to give us enough time to talk. But first, coffee.”

She headed straight into the kitchen like she owned the place, which - depending on your feelings about the space-time continuum - she did.

“Where are those pretty purple mugs?” 90-year-old me asked.

Then she opened the right cabinet on the first try.

“Wait,” I said. “You’re using the good mugs?”

“They were tired of being on the shelf,” she said. “Unused. Because you keep saving them for some special occasion.”

Then she winked at me.

Yes. My 90-year-old self winked at my 65-year-old self. In that very specific gotcha way.

That’s when I realized something important about what it’s like to be in the presence of someone who is you, but has twenty-five more years of data.

It is not comfortable.

After all, they have the full inventory on you, including the parts you’ve been editing out on social media.

It’s like being in a room with someone who has read your diary. Every entry. Including the things you scribbled in the margins because you were trying to be extra honest.

But then (and this was the part I wasn’t expecting) I relaxed. Because I realized that this older version of me had (miraculously) decided to love me anyway.

Ninety-year-old me hummed a little as she poured out two mugs of coffee. One for me. One for her.

I looked at her hands. They were just like mine, but with more veins.

I also noticed she wore exotic rings on four of her ten fingers. The kind you buy at a street market in a foreign country. Evidence of having been somewhere.

We went into the living room and sat on the L-shaped sofa, facing each other.

That’s when I noticed how much smaller than me she was.

Not fragile. Just compressed, like a file that’s been zipped. All the same information, less packaging.

I reached down and grabbed my notebook and pen from the coffee table.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t write what I say into your notebook. If you try to turn this into content, you’ll miss the actual conversation.”

“I’m a writer. This is what I - ”

“I know what you do. That’s part of what we need to talk about. You turn everything into material so fast… you skip the part where you actually feel it. Close the notebook.”

I closed the notebook.

Mostly.

“So,” she said. “You’ve got questions.”

“Many.”

“Well, I drove here from the future. Let’s go!”

I took a breath. The kind you take before jumping into a pool when you’re not sure about the temperature.

“Okay,” I said, “Here’s a topic a lot of my women readers struggle with. Anger.”

“Oh, that’s a goodie,” she replied. “Now that I’m 90, I can clearly see how society basically gives us women approximately four acceptable emotions: happy, grateful, supportive, and sorry. Anger is not on the list. If you’re angry, you’re difficult. If you’re very angry, you’re unhinged. If you’re angry AND articulate, you’re terrifying, which, to be clear, is a compliment.”

“Are you still angry at age 90?”

“I’ve been angry for a lot of my life. Not screaming furious. The quiet kind. The kind where you smile at the meeting and then go home and your jaw aches because you’ve been clenching it for six hours. The kind where someone says something dismissive about your work or your age or your body… and you make a joke because that’s what’s expected.”

“What should we do with this anger?”

“Use it as fuel. Anger is the purest, cleanest fuel there is, if you can figure out where to direct it. The problem is that women are trained to turn their anger inward, and it becomes depression, or anxiety, or perfectionism.”

“So what does anger look like if it’s used as fuel?”

“Books. Movements. Boundaries. Leaving. Starting something. Every interesting thing I’ve ever done started as anger. Not inspiration. Anger. Inspiration is what you call anger after you’ve made it socially acceptable.”

“That is… uncomfortably accurate.”

“I’m 90. Uncomfortable accuracy is what I do best.”

“Gotcha. Let’s keep going. Tell me… What do you wish you’d stopped doing sooner?”

“Asking for permission.”

She blurted it so fast it was almost rude. Like the answer had been sitting in her mouth for twenty-five years and she’d been waiting for someone to finally ask.

“Permission for what?”

“Everything. Permission to take up space. Have an opinion. Say no. Change my mind. I spent decades running every decision through a Permission Committee, mostly in my brain… and mostly made up of people who didn’t even like me that much.”

“What does life look like when you stop asking permission?”

“Faster. Quieter. You just do the thing. You want to leave the party, you leave the party. Don’t want to go to the thing? Don’t. And you don’t need to manufacture a stomachache or a ‘something came up.’ You just say: I’m not going to do that. Then you don’t. And nothing happens. The world continues to rotate. And you’re home in your pajamas watching something terrible on television… and you are at peace.”

“Hmmmm. That brings me to my next question. What do you wish you’d worried less about in life?”

“What people think of me after I leave a room.”

“Ooof! That’s a big one.”

“One of the biggest! I spent far too many years replaying conversations in my head. Did I say the wrong thing? Was that joke too much? Did she seem weird when I said that? Should I text? Should I not text? Should I text… and then apologize for texting? I was running a full-time post-production department for social interactions… that other people forgot about eleven seconds after they happened.”

“How do you know they forgot?”

“Because I forgot theirs. That’s the whole scam. Everyone is so busy worrying about how THEY come across… that nobody is actually analyzing how YOU came across. We are all the anxious star of a movie that nobody else is watching.”

“That’s either very comforting or deeply lonely.”

“It’s both. Welcome to being alive.”

“Noted. Filing that under ‘things I will think about at 2 AM.’”

I shifted on the sofa. “Next up, what do you wish you’d done more of?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I wish I’d done more nothing. I wish I’d stared out more windows. Sat in more silence. Let more afternoons go completely unproductive. I was so afraid of wasting time that I filled every hour. And it turns out that filling every hour IS wasting time. Because a lot of the best things that ever happened to me happened in the gaps. In the unscheduled spaces.”

“Like what?”

“Like the conversation I had with a stranger on a bench because I had nowhere to be. Or the morning I sat in a cafe by myself …and came up with a thought that became a favorite thing I ever wrote.”

My 90 year old self looked at me. “You can’t schedule an epiphany. You can only create the conditions for one. And the condition is: empty space.”

“Same thing goes for joy, too,” I said. “You need empty space for joy to arrive. Like last month Howard and I got lost going to a restaurant. We walked an extra twelve blocks. At first we thought this was a waste of time. But then we passed a bakery that was closing. And the woman gave us a free bag of rolls. So we sat on a stoop eating warm bread. It was the best twenty minutes. And it was accidentally hiding inside twelve wrong blocks and a bag of almost-garbage.”

“Yes, I still remember those warm rolls… even now at age 90,” she said. “And how Howard fought us for that last roll.”

She paused for a moment, brushed a crumb off her knee that wasn’t there.

“Anyway...” she said, the way people say “anyway” when they think they might cry. She took a big breath in. “So, what should we talk about next?”

“I know,” I said. “What do you think is the biggest lie we love to tell ourselves?”

“That we’re fine,” she replied.

“That’s it?”

“That’s the whole thing. ‘I’m fine.’ ‘It’s fine.’ Fine is the word we women particularly love to use when we’ve given up on being heard. Fine is the white flag of emotional communication. Fine means: I have a need, and I’ve decided it’s not worth the effort to express it. Because the last four times I expressed a need, someone made me feel like I was being difficult. So now I just say fine and eat my feelings over the sink at 11 PM.”

I chuckled. “I have never felt more personally attacked by a stream of words.”

“Good,” she said. “You should. Because ‘fine’ is how people disappear. Not all at once. One fine at a time.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“The alternative is being not fine. Out loud. To someone. Which is terrifying, because it means admitting you need something. And needing something has been framed as weakness for so long… that most women would rather develop a mysterious chronic pain… rather than say ‘I’m unhappy and I need help.’”

I made a mental note to think about why my back has been hurting lately, in private, possibly while eating ice cream.

“You know what? Let’s talk about something lighter,” I suggested.

“No.”

“No?”

“You always do this,” she said. “Things get close to the bone and you make a joke or change the subject or suddenly need ice cream. I’ve watched you do it for ninety years. We’re not going lighter.”

“Okay, so what should we talk about next?”

“How about… the most destructive life habit there is,” she suggested.

“What’s that?”

“Finishing things you don’t enjoy …simply because you started them,” she answered. “Bad books. Dead-end jobs. Friendships that have been running on fumes and birthday texts for a decade. People think sticking it out is noble. It's not. It's hoarding. And most people's lives are full of clutter they need to throw away."

She was talking about me and we both knew it.

I am a hoarder of obligations. I finish books I don't like. I go to dinners I don't want to attend. I stay on committees and group chats because leaving would mean a confrontation I’m not yet evolved enough to handle.

"Ending things is hard," I said. "Even the things you know are terrible."

“Of course it’s hard. Every ending is like a small death. And death is so damn permanent.”

In that moment our eyes locked.

And I knew 90-year-old me and 65-year-old me had arrived at the same moment.

“I still miss dad,” we said at the same time, with the same crack in the voice.

Like a thing that had been rehearsed, except it hadn’t.

It had just been true for so long it didn’t need a cue.

I reached for her hand. She reached for mine. Her grip was stronger than I expected.

She was 90 and she still had the face of a young daughter who misses her father.

Which is to say: some things don’t age.

“So,” I said, when I could talk again. “How do you live with losing someone you love?”

“You don’t live with it. You live next to it. It's at the table when you're eating. In the car when you're driving.” She leaned toward me. “But once you stop pretending the people you love are permanent, something happens. You love them better while they’re here. You listen harder. You feel things deeper. The phone call isn’t just another phone call. The stupid walk to the wrong restaurant becomes the beautiful thing you remember at 90. Because you’re finally not in a rush. Because you know that it’s all temporary. And that knowing makes the moments more vibrant and alive.”

“Hey… that’s the thesis of my book,” I said.

“Yes, it’s what Your To Die For Life is all about. How we’re here, then we’re not, and it’s up to us to make the ‘here’ part as meaningful as possible.”

“Wait a minute…. Did you just blurb my book?”

“I’m you. Of course I blurbed our book.”

I laughed and gave her a high five, which is a thing I apparently do with my 90-year-old self.

“Okay… next question,” I said. “It’s a scary one. Tell me something I need to hear right now — at age 65 — that I don’t want to hear.”

She looked me right in my eyes. Our eyes.

“You need to hear that you’re allowed to be a beginner again.”

“A beginner?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve spent forty years building expertise. You know who you are professionally. You’re the bestselling author. And all of that is real. But it’s also a tower. And you’ve gotten so used to standing at the top of the tower…. that the idea of climbing down to ground level…. and starting something new …. something where you’re clumsy and uncertain and NOT the expert…. makes you nauseous.”

“It does make me kinda want to vomit,” I confessed.

“I know. I’m you. We share a stomach. But it’s not just you and me. Everyone has this problem.”

She set her mug on the coffee table. Carefully. Like she was placing a period at the end of everything that came before.

“Now here’s what I need you to understand,” she said. “The next few decades of your life should include versions of yourself that don’t exist yet. And those versions won’t emerge from the top of the tower. They’ll emerge from the bottom of something new. From the willingness to not know. To be bad at something. To walk into a room where your credentials don’t matter…. and the only thing you have is your curiosity and the guts to be a beginner.”

“And if I don’t risk being a beginner?”

“Then you spend the next twenty-five years being very, very good at something you’ve already mastered. Which isn’t a tragedy. But it is a repetition. And repetition is its own kind of dying.”

I sat with that for a moment.

“The only problem is… new things make you feel stupid,” I said with a chuckle.

She laughed. “But only at first,” she corrected me. “Let me tell you something. I started piano at 84. I’m still dreadful. My teacher is 22 and very kind …and occasionally makes a face when I play ….that I choose to interpret as awe. But it’s the most alive I’ve felt in years. Because when you’re bad at something, you can’t coast. You have to actually show up. Beginners are the most alive people in any room.”

“So your advice is: be worse at things?” I punched her lovingly in the arm.

She smiled. “My advice is to be uncomfortable on purpose. Discomfort is the price of admission for continued aliveness.”

“I have this 70-something friend who insists on going to the same restaurant. I always thought it just meant she knows what she likes.”

“Sometimes it does,” she said. “But sometimes it means someone has quietly stopped being curious. They’ve closed the borders of their own curiosity and declared their taste complete. It’s a terrible way to live. But nobody stages an intervention… because predictability doesn’t look like a crisis. But it can be one.”

Suddenly I heard a beep, beep, beep. I looked around the room. Then I realized the sound was coming from her hand.

“It’s my Apple Alarm Ring,” she said, holding up her finger the way you’d show off an engagement diamond. Except this one was a ruby-crusted tiny computer ring. “Comes out in 2051. You’ll be obsessed.” She stood up. “I set it to remind me to leave for brunch. Gotta go.”

“When do I see you again?”

“Every morning. In the mirror. Getting closer. Try not to be startled.”

She grabbed our mugs and headed into the kitchen. Washed them. Dried them. Then put them on the counter. Not back in the cabinet. On the counter. Right where I’d see them the next morning…. so I could choose the special mugs more easily.

“I see what you’re doing,” I said. And I winked at her.

She winked back.

So I winked again. Because apparently I had decided this was our thing now.

Next thing I knew we were winking back and forth at each other, like absolute idiots, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and I thought: this is it. This is the thing. Not the wisdom. Not the advice. Not the answers to my questions.

This.

“I wish I could stay,” she said, catching her breath.

“You’re 90. You can be late.”

“I’m 90. Which is exactly why I can’t.”

I walked her to the door.

“Where are you heading?”

“Forward. Only direction available. To either of us.”

She paused. Then she got this look… the face of someone about to say the thing they actually came to say.

“Be patient with yourself,” she said. “Being alive is hard. Trying to do it well is harder. And trying to do it well…. while being honest about how often you’re failing at it? Hardest thing there is. Give yourself credit. Not because you’ve earned it. Because you need it. And needing things is allowed.”

She hugged me. The kind of hug that says: I’m not letting go until I decide to.

Then she was gone.

Please hit the ❤️ button.

Think of it as applause, but quieter. Here’s my ❤️ back to you for doing that!

Now it’s your turn.

If your 90-year-old self showed up at your door - with strong opinions while drinking strong coffee - what would they say to you?

Or share about what resonated most… in what my 90-year-old me said!

A few sentences. Drop ‘em in the comments!

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Note

I founded the Mortality Awareness Movement
because I believe we’re all walking around
pretending we’re not going to die,
and it’s making us miss our own lives.

I also wrote a book called ”Your To-Die-For Life” - and it’s a #1 new release.
If you enjoy the sensation of someone grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you gently while also making you laugh as you ponder your life… then you’ll love my book! It’s about death, but in a fun way, which sounds like a contradiction, but then again so is being alive, and we manage that every day.

Explore my book here!

I’m scared to get in a self-driving car.

You’re basically FedEx-ing yourself across town. Like a package. Or a wealthy person’s dog.

But what if you typed in the wrong destination?

What if you changed your mind about where you want to go?

What if the map is old, and the car tries to turn left at a Blockbuster that no longer exists?

So many things could go catastrophically wrong.

Well, guess what?

A lot of us are living our lives like we’re in a self-driving car. On autopilot.

Maybe you programmed your “Life Destination” when you were 22, and barely knew how to cook pasta. Then you just stopped paying attention.

Or maybe you updated your “Life Destination” at age 34 or 41. But you let autopilot pick the path. And it chose what felt safe.

Eventually you’ll look around at your life and think, "Wait, how the hell did I end up HERE?"

Autopilot is sneaky like that.

No worries. I’m here to get you out of the passenger seat and back behind the wheel of your life… where you BELONG.

But first…

Let me explain how you can wind up living a self-driving autopilot life.

1. Your subconscious considers itself the designated driver of your life.

Cognitive neuroscientists estimate that 95% of your brain activity happens below conscious awareness.

Your decisions? Emotions? Behaviors?

Ninety-five percent are happening without you!

Here’s why:

• Your unconscious mind processes about 11 million bits of information per second.

• Your conscious mind is a slowpoke. It processes only about 40 bits per second.

Meaning?

• Your conscious mind has a hard time competing for a say in your life.

So even though you think your conscious mind is in charge, it’s basically holding a toy steering wheel suction-cupped to the window going, “Vroooom!”

Meanwhile, your subconscious is in the actual driver’s seat, following routes it memorized when you were as young as six.

Yes. Six. When you were eating sand. That’s who programmed a lot of your emotional GPS.

Which is why you wind up at age 31 wondering: Why do I keep dating the same guy?

Or at 43 wondering: Why can’t I leave this job?

Plus it's why you keep saying "I'm fine" when you're not. Why you pour another glass of wine instead of having the conversation. Why you scroll for 45 minutes instead of writing that proposal that could change everything.

Your subconscious isn’t doing this randomly. It’s running a very specific program. And it does NOT want to be interrupted.

2. Decision fatigue quietly hands the wheel to your worst impulses.

Every choice you make (from teeny to huge) draws from the same limited mental gas tank.

Yep, your brain does not have a fancy tank for big decisions and a little junky one for small decisions.

It’s the same tank.

So when you spend 20 minutes deciding between the salad and the sandwich, that’s the SAME mental energy you need later to make smart decisions about your career or relationship.

Meaning?

• Often by mid-afternoon, you’ve used up your mental gas tank on things that don’t matter, and that’s how you wind up coasting downhill on autopilot.

This is also why Steve Jobs wore the same black turtleneck every single day. Not because the man couldn’t afford options. He was simply conserving his cognitive fuel.

3. Once you’ve committed to a choice, your identity fuses with it. And quitting feels like dying.

Psychologists call this the sunk cost fallacy.

It’s the tendency to keep investing in something simply because you’ve already invested so much.

For example:

Maybe you’ve been in your career for 15 years. You’ve built a reputation. A story about who you are.

Walking away doesn’t just feel like a career change.

It feels like unbecoming yourself.

And this is the same reason people stay in cities they hate, friendships they've outgrown, and apartments that are too small.

On top of this… leaving means admitting the last five years weren't "building toward something." They were just... five years.

Plus here’s what makes all of this even worse.

When you’re living on autopilot, the smartest part of your brain, your prefrontal cortex, actually powers down.

Significantly.

This is a big problem, because your prefrontal cortex is the only part of your brain that handles conscious decision-making, self-reflection, and planning.

It’s also the part of your brain that can:

• Look backward and learn from the past.

• Honestly assess where you are right now.

• Deliberately aim you toward where you actually want to go.

Past. Present. Future. You need all three working together to live well.

I call this having a Trifocal Lens on your life.

And on autopilot? It goes dark.

• Which means you’re not checking your rearview mirror, so mistakes from the past can keep repeating.

• You’re not looking through your windshield, so you can’t see that you’ve drifted into the wrong lane. Or that your tank is running on empty.

• And you’re not checking your GPS, so you have no idea if you’re heading somewhere you TRULY want.

So how do you wake up your prefrontal cortex so you don’t autopilot yourself straight to Regretville?

5 Check-Ins to Make Sure You’re Actually Driving Your Life

1. The Regret Audit Check-In

Take a moment to think about your three biggest regrets from the last decade.

You know the ones that visit you at 3 a.m. when you’re trying to sleep?

Now look for the common thread:

• Did you stay too long in something that wasn’t working?

• Did you play it safe when you should’ve taken a risk?

• Did you choose what other people wanted instead of what you needed?

• Did you ignore your gut because your brain had a "better" argument?

• Did you say yes out of pressure when every cell in your body was screaming no?

Next ask yourself:

• Are you doing these exact patterns again …somewhere else in your life right now?

Because regrets aren’t random accidents.

They’re habits you repeat… until you finally decide to stop.

Why this check-in works:

It connects your past to your present… and helps you protect your future.

It makes you admit you are the common denominator in your life’s issues. Which kind of sucks, because we all want to blame someone or something else.

But it’s also empowering.

Because once you own the pattern, you can disown it.

2. The Mortality Check-In

Imagine you’re 90-something, looking back at your whole life.

Now ask yourself this:

• What do you think future you will treasure most?

I recommend this exercise in my bestselling book, Your To Die For Life - and ask my clients this all the time.

So far, nobody has ever said, “My soul’s pride and joy will be my well-optimized inbox.”

Instead, people say they’ll treasure:

• who they loved

• what they felt

• the experiences where they showed up fully

• the times they were brave instead of playing it safe

• the moments they were unapologetically themselves

So ask yourself right now:

• Who will you wish you’d spent more time with?

• Where will you wish you’d acted more bravely?

• What will you wish you’d said/done more authentically?

• What will you wish you’d worried far less about?

Now here’s the scary part.

Look at your actual calendar for this coming week.

Where is your time and energy really going?

• Are you actively building the life you want to remember?

• Or are you focused on things that are smaller, safer, more regret-shaped?

Why this check-in works:

It makes your present and your future have a conversation.

Your present says, “I’m SO busy with important things!”

Your future snaps back, “C’mon. Are these things really important?”

3. The Last-Time Check-In

One day, something will happen for the last time.

• Your last real conversation with your mom before she gets sick.

• Your last spontaneous coffee with that friend before you drift apart.

• Your last time reading bedtime stories to your kid before they decide they’re too old for that.

So ask yourself:

• What might you be experiencing right now for the last time… without realizing it?

This is a hard question, because you won’t know something is the last time until it’s already over.

So here’s what you can do instead.

Next time you find yourself about to say, “Not now, I’m swamped,” pause and ask:

• How many more times am I realistically going to get this chance?

Because the answer might be seven. Or three. Or this might actually be it.

Why this check-in works:

It makes you actually see your present not as something to get through on your way to something else.

But as the thing that’s happening right now.

The thing you’ll wish you’d paid more attention to when it’s gone.

And it reminds you that “I was too busy” is a terrible thing to regret.

4. The Waiting Room Trap Check-In

Ask yourself:

• What are you waiting for before you allow yourself to live the life you actually want?

Many of my clients answer with things like:

• After I get the promotion.

• After the kids move out.

• After I lose the weight.

• After I have more money saved.

• After things calm down at work.

• After I’m ready.

But here’s the loud truth:

• Things NEVER calm down.

• The kids don’t just move out. They often come BACK. With partners. Sometimes with PETS. Sometimes with DEBT.

• You never have “enough” money. There’s always another thing.

• And you’re never “ready.” Ready is a myth.

Meaning?

You’re not waiting for the right time. You’re just waiting. While your actual life is happening without you.

Next, ask yourself:

• What can you do NOW that doesn’t require perfect conditions?

Because perfect conditions are a fantasy. You must start with what you’ve got. Imperfectly. While still kind of scared. In your current pants size.

Why this check-in works:

It shows you how you’re using the FUTURE as an excuse not to live in the PRESENT.

• “I’ll do it later” just means “I’m scared to do it now.”

Later isn’t a place. It’s an excuse.

5. The Audience Check-In

Write down three big goals you have for your life.

Next to each one, write:

Who is this actually for?

Be brutally honest.

Is it for you? Or someone else?

Because sometimes, if you’re not fully aware, you can spend decades climbing a ladder and not realize your mom put it against that wall.

Or stay in a marriage because your dad’s voice in your head says quitting means failing.

Or keep shrinking yourself years after your ex is gone, because their judgment moved in and never left.

So look at your three goals. Really look. Then ask yourself if they’re for you. Or if someone else’s voice got so loud in your head that you mistook it for yours?

Why this check-in works:

It shows you the whole trifocal picture at once: past voices → present choices → future consequences.

And once you can see who planted those goals in your head, you can finally ask: “OK… but what do I actually want?”

Which is terrifying. Because what if you don’t know yet? What if you’ve been so busy chasing everyone else’s idea of a good life that you never got around to forming your own?

That’s OK. Start to explore this now.

And remember: You cannot get where you want to go if you’re still following someone else’s directions.

Now, here’s a truth I wish wasn’t true:

You don’t have unlimited time on this planet.

I know. Bummer. I’m a joy at parties.

But it’s the kind of scary truth that can wake you up from autopilot …and motivate you to grab the wheel of your life.

Because every day you stay on autopilot is another day your life is being driven somewhere you might not even want to go.

So, regularly look through your Trifocal Lens:

Rearview mirror. Windshield. GPS.

See where you’ve been. See where you are. See where you’re going.

And steer.

On purpose.

Toward something you actually want.

Before you end up at ninety wondering, “Wait… how did I get here?”

That’s a terrible realization to have at ninety.

Don't let it be yours.

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In my thirties, I decided to stop writing books and move to Los Angeles to write TV and movie scripts.

In many ways, this was like deciding to become a professional lottery winner.

For about 18 months, it looked like I might actually pull off my LA dreams.

I somehow managed to snag meetings with important-ish people, many of whom wore sunglasses indoors.

The pattern:

• The indoor-sunglasses people would tell me they’d read my scripts and call them “Brilliant!”

• Then they’d disappear into the Hollywood ether, never to be heard from again.

It was like Tinder dating. But with more lying and worse rejection.

So for 18 months, I lived in this weird purgatory, where I was constantly “almost” successful.

Let me tell you: Almost is torture.

Almost is like constantly smelling delicious cake… but never getting to eat any of it.

Eventually, one producer offered me a job writing for an established sitcom. I considered this for about a week. Then turned it down.

Why?

Because I wanted to write in my own voice about things that actually mattered to me. And I worried that writing someone else’s sitcom would make me feel like a very well-paid ventriloquist dummy.

Eventually, on my 19th month in L.A., I packed up and moved back to N.Y. to refocus on book writing.

The plan worked out.

Some of my books went on to become big bestsellers.

In theory, I should feel completely at peace with my decision.

Right?

But nope.

My brain has decided to be a complete bitch about things.

Decades later, it still hasn’t shut up about how I should have stayed in L.A. longer. Tried harder. Made it work.

Every time I watch a good movie, or see a palm tree, or even hear the word “screenplay,” my brain starts harassing me:

• What if you’d stayed in L.A. for another year?

• What if you’d taken that sitcom job?

• What if what if what if?

It’s like having a really mean roommate in my head, whose only hobby is pointing out all the ways I’ve potentially messed up my life.

Maybe you do this too?

Maybe your brain has its own heavily bookmarked What-If Folder.

• The relationship that ended without the closure conversation.

• The job you quit before you could succeed or fail completely.

• The friendship that died after that one fight you never resolved.

• The version of yourself you were becoming before fear made you retreat.

These incomplete stories live in your head like ghosts who refuse to leave… because they haven’t figured out they’re dead yet.

Here’s why…

There’s a psychological phenomenon called the Zeigarnik Effect.

Back in the 1920s, a psychologist named Bluma Zeigarnik was sitting in a Viennese café watching waiters work when she discovered something weird.

The waiters could remember every detail of every yet-to-be-paid order. Perfectly. Every modification. Every request. Every word.

But once the bill was settled? Poof. The memory of the order and orderer vanished.

Zeigarnik found this so intriguing she decided to test it.

She gave two groups of people the same task.

One group she interrupted right in the middle.

The other group she let finish the task to completion.

The interrupted group wound up remembering their tasks 90% better than those who finished.

Yes. 90% better.

That’s not a rounding error. That’s your brain yelling, “HEY. WE’RE NOT DONE HERE.”

This became known as The Zeigarnik Effect. It’s the tendency for your brain to remember unresolved things far more vividly than completed ones.

This also explains why cliffhangers work on TV shows.

They trigger your Zeigarnik Effect to keep you hooked.

Think about it.

The most infuriating thing a show can do is end an episode right when something important is about to happen.

• Will Ross choose Rachel or Emily?

• Did Carrie sleep with Big?

• Is Tony Soprano actually dead in that diner?

Your brain cannot stand unresolved storylines because it can’t file them away as “complete.”

Television writers have essentially learned how to weaponize this quirk of human psychology.

But here’s some unexpected good news.

Interruption isn’t always the enemy.

In the right dose, it can actually make you more focused.

This is why the Pomodoro Technique works for productivity.

Haven’t heard of the Pomodoro Technique?

• It’s this thing where you work in short bursts with breaks, and it’s named after those little tomato timers.

Here’s how it works:

• You work for 25 minutes, then deliberately stop.

• Even if you’re in the middle of something.

• Even if you’re on a roll.

• You stop anyway.

This drives most people crazy at first. It’s like being forced to pause in the middle of a really good book.

But that interruption creates just enough mental tension to keep your brain engaged, so when you come back to the task, your focus is sharper than if you’d just powered through.

Your brain, it turns out, likes an open loop.

As long as it trusts you’re coming back to close it.

The problem starts when the loop feels abandoned.

When there’s no plan. No promise. No sense that the story will ever reach a satisfying ending.

That’s when your brain decides to keep those “What-If Files” open indefinitely…. just to nudge you to return.

And there’s a reason it does this.

Evolution made your brain a drama queen.

Back in our caveman days, we were constantly worried about lions, tigers and bears, oh my!

And so our ancestors’ brains evolved to obsessively track “unfinished threats,” because forgetting about the rustling bush was how you became another animal’s dinner.

But evolution didn’t fully update itself for modern life, where today’s “unfinished threats” are things like career mishaps and broken relationships.

So now your brain treats these decades-old decisions like active emergencies.

Plus there’s another culprit to blame.

Something called “Loss Aversion.”

Studies show that losses feel about twice as painful as equivalent gains feel good.

Meaning?

My sense of loss over my L.A. screenwriting career hits twice as hard as the actual joy of selling millions of books.

Loss aversion then teams up with its equally annoying friend: Negativity Bias.

This is our tendency to fixate on what went wrong far more intensely than what went right.

It’s why I can remember every word of a mean book review. But have to actively concentrate to recall the thousands of glowing book reviews.

It’s also why you can instantly remember every criticism your mother ever made…
but need a moment to recall the compliments.

Our brains are like bad accountants who mainly focus on debits… and conveniently lose track of all the credits.

I see this pattern with my clients all the time.

• There’s Susan, who finally left her cheating husband. But instead of celebrating her freedom, she keeps asking, “What if I’d been more understanding? What if I’d tried harder?” Her brain has completely forgotten the years she felt lonely and unseen. (More on this topic here.)

• There’s alo Steve, who passed on a house with foundation problems and asbestos. But all he can think about is the beautiful hardwood floors and how he should’ve offered more money.

Same brain pattern. Different life details.

So what can we actually do about this psychological harassment?

Here are 2 helpful tools.

1. The Question Swap

When your brain asks its favorite masochistic question: “What if I’d made different choices?” …. interrupt it.

Do a stop-and-swap!

Redirect to the far more useful question: What did those choices teach me that I couldn’t have learned any other way?

This works because it tricks your brain into being curious instead of punitive.

2. The Reset Button

This tool helps you to reframe your regret story.

Here's how I use it.

Let’s say my brain starts pestering me: “What if you'd stayed in L.A.?"

I immediately think about my fifteen-year-old son Ari.

Specifically, I think about this:

• Everything that happened before my son Ari was born had to happen exactly the way it did …in order for Ari to exist in this world.

• If I’d stayed in L.A., if I’d taken that sitcom job, there would be no Ari.

• And I wouldn’t trade my Ari for all the Oscars in Hollywood.

So Ari becomes my reset button. The thing that helps me to forgive everything that came before him.

Everybody has their own reset buttons:

• The rescue dog you got after the divorce. If he hadn’t cheated, no Buddy sleeping on your feet every night.

• The job you love, which you only applied for because you got laid off. No pink slip, no dream career.

• The best friend you met in line at the pharmacy, both picking up antidepressants. No breakdown, no Sarah.

Your reset button is whatever makes your brain shut up about the path not taken… because the path you took led to something you wouldn’t trade for anything.

My mildly hopeful ending….

Understanding the Zeigarnik Effect, loss aversion, and negativity bias hasn’t magically cured my “What-If” ruminations.

My brain still occasionally brings up L.A. like an overly enthusiastic dog dropping a tennis ball at my feet. Persistent, slightly annoying, and oblivious to the fact that I’m trying to eat dinner.

But now at least I understand what’s happening.

It’s not evidence that I did life wrong.

It’s just my brain doing what brains do. Trying to protect me with outdated software and terrible timing.

Your turn.

What’s your Zeigarnik Effect?

What’s the unfinished story your brain refuses to file away?

Share below in the comments area.

Leave a comment

And remember:

We all have lives we almost lived.

But the life you’re actually living… the one with the strange choices, the wrong turns, the unexpected gifts, the moments that didn’t go according to plan…

That’s the life that matters most.

Even if your brain is still trying to catch up to it.

If this essay helped you to see something
about your life a little more clearly…
you might enjoy the Paid Premium Side
of the Stand Up Philosopher…
where I share deeper tools that
help people to rejigger their lives.

Paid subscribers get monthly live Life Wake-Up Calls … video meet ups where we work through a range of life challenges. (Starts in April.)

AND… $300 worth of my life-boosting video courses.

Plus bonus essays, audio essays, and worksheets from my coaching practice that unstick people. Prepare to be one of them.

Psssst… this publication regularly ranks among Substack’s Top Philosophy Bestsellers (like #6 this week).

Subscribe or UPGRADE now!

Modern life can be freaking exhausting.

Everything feels like a lot these days.

So I started writing these quirky “Dear Universe” letters, asking for quick divine intervention to help me with daily life.

Which sounds weird, I know. But it’s actually been very helpful.

Turns out when you name what’s overwhelming you (even if it’s something kinda stupid) it loses its grip on you.

Plus you can then laugh about it, which is better than spiraling about it.

These amusingly honest “Dear Universe” prayers have become a kind of therapy.

So I'm sharing them here.

• Feel free to borrow mine & use them when you need them most.

• Plus… when you’re done reading mine, I’d love to hear yours! Write your own “Dear Universe” prayers in the comments. It’s fun and therapeutic.

Leave a comment

1. A PRAYER FOR THE EXHAUSTED

Dear Universe,

I’d like to report that I’m not handling things well lately.

Every time I sit down to rest, I immediately think of 47 things I should be doing instead.

It’s exhausting.

Here’s what I need:

A day where nothing needs me.

Where “resting” doesn’t feel like I’m shirking some invisible responsibility to stay in perpetual motion until I die.

Also… could you maybe pause time?

Just pause it for everyone else… but let me keep moving through it.

So I can catch up on sleep without missing anything.

I know that’s not how time works.

I know this violates several laws of physics.

But you’re the Universe. Figure it out. I believe in you.

I’m not asking to be skinny.
Or to win the lottery.
Or to achieve enlightenment.

I'm asking for the extremely reasonable miracle
of not feeling like a sentient panic attack
for eight consecutive hours.

Thank you for your time, which is infinite.
Unlike mine,
which feels like it’s constantly running late.

Amen.

##

2. A PRAYER FOR WHEN YOU NEED TO DISAPPOINT SOMEONE

Dear Universe,

I’m about to let someone down.
And they’re going to do that thing where they say: “It’s fine”
But their face says: “I will remember this betrayal forever.”

Here’s what I need:

Could you give them amnesia?

Just about this one specific thing they asked me to do?

They can keep everything else.
Their childhood memories.
Their PIN number.
All of it.

Just erase their one request to me.

If that’s not an option,
could you give me the ability to say “no”
without my voice going up at the end like it’s a question?

I’m not asking for world peace.
I’m simply asking for your help to disappoint one person
without me feeling like I’m a war criminal.

This seems reasonable.

Amen.

###

3. A PRAYER FOR ADMITTING I HAVEN’T READ/WATCHED THE THING EVERYONE’S TALKING ABOUT

Dear Universe,

Everyone is talking about this show and I haven’t seen it.
Not one episode.

And I just got asked “wait, you haven’t SEEN it?”
in that tone people use when you tell them something bizarre,
like you’ve never had pizza.

Here’s what I need:

Could you just implant the entire plot directly into my brain?
Like The Matrix, but instead of learning kung fu,
I just vaguely know who betrays whom in episode six
and why everyone’s mad about the ending.

Or could you make everyone else forget they’ve seen it…
so we can all start over?

Or… and this seems easiest…
could you make it socially acceptable to just say
“I haven’t seen it and I’m not going to”
without everyone acting like I’m personally insulting them?

Otherwise I’m gonna have to keep pretending I know what’s happening…
while living in constant fear
that someone’s gonna ask me a follow-up question.

Thank you. Amen.

4. A PRAYER FOR SUNDAY NIGHT WHEN MONDAY MORNING IS COMING

Dear Universe,

It’s Sunday and I just felt it.

The thing.

That specific stomach drop
when you realize the weekend is over
and tomorrow you have to be a person again.

With an alarm.
And pants that zip.

Here’s the situation:
I spent all weekend telling myself I was going to prep for the week.
Meal prep. Work prep. Wardrobe prep.

Instead I watched 7 episodes of a show I’ve already seen,
and ate fancy cheese directly off the cutting board.

And now it’s Sunday and I’m spiraling.

Here’s what I need:

Could you add two more days to the weekend?

Not Saturday and Sunday again.
I already wasted those.

Two NEW days.

Like a Secondsaturday.
And a Superveryextrafreesunday.

Days where I can actually do the things I said I was going to do this weekend…
but didn’t because I was “resting.”

Or could you make Monday mornings start at like, 11am?

That way I could sleep in,
have a nice breakfast,
maybe watch half of a Nancy Meyers movie,
THEN start work.

Thank you. Amen.

###

5. A PRAYER FOR MOTIVATING MYSELF TO GO TO THE GYM

Dear Universe,

I understand why I should go to the gym.

Live longer.
Be healthier.
Not feel like I need a nap after stairs.

Conceptually, I’m on board.
The issue is the logistics.

Going to the gym requires me to put on special clothes,
that only exist for suffering,
leave my house,
and enter a room full of other people
who are also sweating on purpose.

And then I have to do movements I don’t enjoy…
while watching the clock like I’m in prison.

My request:

Could you maybe make exercise not terrible?

Or (hear me out) just redesign human bodies
so they get fit from sitting on the couch?

I know that’s not how biology works.

But also, you designed biology.
You made giraffes. You can do this.

Otherwise I need motivation that doesn’t disappear after three days.

That’s it.
That’s the prayer.

Thank you.
Amen.

##

6. A PRAYER FOR MIDLIFE CLARITY

Dear Universe,

I’m in my midlife and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

Except now I’m supposedly already grown up.

This is it. This is the grown-up part.

And I’ve spent the last 25 years collecting things I thought I wanted:
the job, the responsibilities, the stuff.

Now I’m standing here going: “Wait, did I actually want any of this?
Or was I just doing what I thought I was supposed to do?”

Here’s what I need:

Clarity.

The kind where I can tell the difference between what I actually want…
and what I’ve been trained to want.

Could you maybe send a sign?
Nothing cryptic.
Not a freaking bird.
Or a license plate that says something vague.

I need something concrete.

Like maybe an invoice in my inbox
that shows me exactly how much time I’ve wasted on things I don’t care about?

Thank you in advance for your honesty.

Amen.

7. A PRAYER FOR RESPONDING TO A TEXT I’VE BEEN IGNORING FOR 11 DAYS

Dear Universe,

There’s a text message in my phone from 11 days ago
and I still haven’t responded to it.

Not because I don’t like the person.
I LOVE the person.

That’s actually the problem.
Because now it’s been so long that if I respond
I have to ACKNOWLEDGE that it’s been 11 days.

The text isn’t even complicated.
It says “want to grab coffee sometime?”

That’s it. A NORMAL HUMAN QUESTION.

And my brain went “NOPE TOO HARD.”
And now here we are.

Here’s what I need:

Could you make it so text messages expire after 72 hours?

Like Snapchat,
but for my crippling avoidance issues?

Just DELETE THE TEXT from both phones?
Wipe it from existence.
We both start fresh.
No questions.
No follow-ups.
No accountability.

Thank you for understanding
that this is NOT about NOT wanting coffee.
I love coffee.
It’s one of my favorite inventions of yours.

Anyway, Amen.

###

8. A PRAYER FOR LEAVING A STORE WITHOUT BUYING ANYTHING

Dear Universe,

I walked into this store because I thought I wanted something.

And now I’ve been in here for 20 minutes and I don’t want anything.

And there’s one employee
and she’s been watching me the entire time and I need to leave but I CAN’T.

Not because she’s blocking the door.

Because my brain has decided that leaving without buying something is WRONG.

Which doesn’t make sense.

But somehow browsing without purchasing feels like a CRIME
and now I’m trapped in here
pretending to be interested in decorative pillows I would never put in my house.

Here’s what I need:

Could you make the employee go to the bathroom?

Just for like two minutes… so I can escape.

Or Plan B:
Could you create an exit that ISN’T directly past the employee?
Like a trap door that leads directly to the parking lot?

Otherwise I’m gonna buy a $35 candle I’ll never light just to avoid this feeling.

And that feels like a bad system.

Thank you for listening.

Amen.

###

9. A PRAYER FOR HATING BEING ON CAMERA FOR A VIDEO CALL

Dear Universe,

I’m on a Zoom call.
And my face is on the screen.
Which feels unnecessary.
Because I already know what my face looks like.
Or at least I thought I did.

Why does my face look like that?

Is that what I always look like?

Do other people see me like this?

I’ve adjusted the camera angle seventeen times,
and somehow I look WORSE in every position.

Too high: triple chin.
Too low: nostrils.
Straight on: dead inside.

Here’s what I need:

Could you turn off my video but
make it look like it’s a technical issue and not a choice?
So people think my camera broke
and not that I’m hiding in shame?

Or could you make everyone else on this call also look terrible?

Like REALLY terrible?

Just enough that I feel like we’re all in this together.

Looking forward to your prompt response.

Amen.

Which of these prayers did you relate to most right now?

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Plus… tell me:

• What are you struggling with most right now?

Share in comments & I might write a Dear Universe Prayer for YOU!

And if you’re feeling particularly feisty today……

Write your own “Dear Universe” prayer and share it below.

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I recently found an old photo of myself and I thought: “Damn, look at her. That little bitch had it good.”

I know that sounds terrible.

But I didn’t think this in a mean way.

It was more like admiration mixed with grief.

Plus… nostalgia for the person I used to be… before I became middle-aged and turned into someone who says “oof” a lot.

So… when I saw that photo of younger me… looking smooth… and muscular… and very pleased with herself… of course I began cursing at her.

While simultaneously wondering why the hell she ever thought she was fat!

But you know what? It’s okay. I can admit it.

I’m jealous of my younger self.

After all, she had boobs that defied gravity.

And the ability to go out drinking, sleep three hours, and wake up looking like a dewy dumpling.

She could sneeze without crossing her legs. She didn’t have to think about her pelvic floor. She didn’t even know she had a pelvic floor!

Meanwhile, these days if I eat one slice of pizza, I feel bloated for days, and look like I’m in my second trimester.

In contrast Younger Me was living in easy mode… and she was too clueless to appreciate it.

But here’s the part the photo did not show.

Younger Me was often a goddamn train wreck.

She had no boundaries.

She was like an emotional open house. Anyone could walk in. She called it “being open-minded.”

She had no idea who she was.

She was constantly trying on different personalities like they were outfits at Forever 21, seeing which one got her the most compliments.

(And she thought confidence came from push-up bras and pretending.)

And then there were the men.

Oh my GOD, the men.

She dated guys who were “finding themselves.”

Which is code for lost.

And she was like, “That’s okay. I’ll be his compass.”

She actually believed that if she just loved someone hard enough, they’d magically stop being an asshole.

(Adorable. Truly.)

Plus she struggled with work.

She said yes to everything.

Every project. Every extra task. Every “hey, can you just quickly…” that was never actually quick.

She thought being busy meant being valuable.

She thought being exhausted meant being impressive.

Her friendships were painful too.

She had people who only called when they needed something.

People who made her feel small and stupid.

But she stayed.

Because what if she ended up alone?

She apologized constantly too.

For talking.

For taking up space.

For having opinions.

She also thought gray hair was a tragedy. She believed 40 was old.

(Yes, you have full permission to reach back in time and slap her.)

Looking back now… I realize:

Midlife Me is actually HAPPIER than Younger Me ever was.

Yes, Younger Me could wear a crop top without thinking about it.

But her people picker was broken. Midlife Me can now spot a toxic human in thirty seconds.

Sure, Younger Me had better knees.

But Midlife Me has a stronger spine. I know what I want and how to ask for it.

At work. In relationships. In bed. Even in restaurants. I now order what I actually want, instead of getting a salad because I think it makes me look “healthy.”

I don’t perform anymore. I don’t fake smiles, laughter, or orgasms for anyone.

Yes, more things hurt on me now.

But at least I don’t hurt myself like I used to.

Because I actually like myself more. The REAL version of me. The one who often talks too much and has very strong opinions and is not afraid to blurt them.

At this point, I’m guessing if Younger Me could see me now, SHE would be jealous of ME.

She’d whisper, “Holy sh*t, you can just... say no? And not explain? You can leave a party early and not feel guilty? You can ask for what you want OUT LOUD? You can eat CARBS in PUBLIC?”

Yeah. Turns out you can.

And that’s the real glow-up.

So in the end I forgive Younger Me.

And I honor her clueless, adorable, tinier ass.

Because I know she was doing the best she could at the time.

The proof?

Midlife Me is now an upgraded, happier model.

A little dented. A little louder. A lot wiser.

But still here.

And still becoming.

• which core values help you to dodge the top regrets of the dying

• how to tap into The Popcorn Theory on Creativity and be more creative

• how to juggle many different roles and wear many different hats - and not feel overwhelmed

• how to tap into The Haggen Dazs Theory On Productivity and be BOTH more productive and more happy

• the benefits of mortality awareness and my #1 new release book “Your To-Die-For Life: How To Maximize Joy and Minimize Regret Before Your Time Runs Out.” Learn more here!

• the many shared life philosophies between me and the awesome Scott Perry…. plus lots more

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I’m a late-in-life mom. I became pregnant in my late 40’s.

After my son was born, I quickly developed what I lovingly called “Mom-ory Loss.”

I’d walk into the kitchen for a needed “Mom Support Coffee” and immediately forget why I was there.

Eventually it became clear. If I wanted to keep making money, I needed to learn how to make passive income in my sleep (and/or in my sleepiness!).

Online courses seemed like the answer.

But there was a problem.

I was in my 50’s… and had zero idea how to use the technology.

It all looked like a highly voluptuous learning curve.

Then one day, my 8 year old son Ari walked into my office.

“Mom,” he said, “will you buy me Adobe Premiere?”

I looked at this small person who still couldn’t tie his shoes properly and said, “Adobe Premiere? Why do you want that?”

“I want to make movies,” he said. “Cool ones.”

Now, I have a lot of skills. I can write a bestselling book. I can make a decent marinara from scratch.

But Adobe Premiere? Not in my arsenal.

“Honey,” I said, “Mommy doesn’t know Adobe Premiere. I can’t teach you that.”

He looked at me and confidently replied: ”That’s okay. I can teach myself.”

“Fine,” I told him, “I’ll buy it for you month-to-month.”

As soon as I purchased it, Ari ran to his room.

Two hours later, he called me in.

“Look what I made, mommy!” he announced proudly.

On the screen was an actual movie. Flying fonts. Sound effects. Transitions that looked professional.

My 8 year old son had taught himself Adobe Premiere.

And that’s when it hit me! If my eight-year-old could teach himself professional editing software in two hours, what the hell was my excuse not to learn the online course business?

I was using “I’m too old” as a (b)lame excuse to stay stuck.

So I learned all about creating an online course business - the whole digital infrastructure I’d been avoiding.

But I didn’t simply boost my income from courses.

• I boosted it from learning email sequences.

• Viral social media content tricks.

• Then SEO secrets.

• And quirky book promotion strategies.

• Plus, Substack when that showed up. In fact I launched this Stand Up Philosopher Substack in Feb 2025 - and in 1 year I researched and learned how to build it into a Substack Paid Bestseller with over 80K subscribers.. with it regularly hitting number 6 on the Rising List.

Every time I worried “I’m too old for this” … I reminded myself.. “Wait, if Ari can do it...I can do it too!”

And that shift (being willing to be uncomfortable and adopt a lifelong learner mentality) …it changed everything.

Eventually this mindset led me to making my strongest income ever in my 60’s!

I share everything I learned and do
in my April + May 2026 Mastermind!

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I was going to call this the Hot Seat… but that sounded too scary! And truly... a Hot Throne is more what it feels like - because I’m giving you my loving 1-on-1 attention.

You bring your questions, I bring solutions.

We brainstorm, troubleshoot, and figure out what’s actually going to work for your specific situation.

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