Because we live in a time when everybody wants me to tell them that if they go on a retreat, meditate every morning, or come to therapy for a few months, they won’t have any feelings anymore. They won’t get activated. They won’t lose their shit. They will somehow rise above all this messy human stuff. But that has never been my message.

I think mental health can be seen in what happens after we get activated. When a younger part of us blends with us and we act irrationally, how long does it take us to get back in our seat? Can we notice what happened? Can we take responsibility when we hurt someone? Can we repair?

And maybe, over time, can we get back in our seat a little quicker than we did the last time? Mental health is never going to mean I am flatlined. That would mean I’m dead. One of my very first Buddhist teachers, Ajahn Brahm, used to joke that the only guaranteed way we’re going to reach peace is when we are RIP: resting in peace. Until then, we’re going to be human. We’re going to struggle with our feelings. We’re going to get things wrong. Our best efforts are simply that: efforts.

What I have found are tools. Tools that help me return to myself again and again and again.

Recently I was activated. Really activated. And I did something I don’t think I’ve ever done before. I put my hands on my heart and asked myself, “What would Jacqui do?” That might not sound particularly profound, but it stopped me.

For most of my life, I’ve looked outside myself in those moments. What would Dr. O. do? What would this teacher say? What would that teacher tell me? I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have therapists and teachers whose voices I’ve carried around inside me, and I’ve needed them.

But this time I didn’t ask any of them.

I asked, what would Jacqui do?

The 63-year-old Jacqui. The one who survived all of it. The one who has built a life and raised children and loved people and fucked things up and repaired things and sat with hundreds of people while they tried to find their own way back to themselves. The one who has been practicing and meditating and going to therapy and getting activated and getting back in her seat for decades.

What would she do? And maybe this is one of the strangest gifts of getting older. At some point, if we’re lucky, we realize that all those teachers we’ve been listening to have helped us become someone we can finally listen to. Maybe returning to myself isn’t just a metaphor anymore. Maybe I actually trust her.

I have been in therapy since my 20s, and I recently turned 63. Not continuously. Not in a straight line. Not with the same therapist. But mostly, over the course of my adult life, I’ve been in therapy. Why? Because it keeps me steady.

Especially because I’m someone who spends a lot of time holding the container for other people who are having strong feelings. I’m pretty good at holding that container. But having somewhere to bring my own frustrations, grief, anger, confusion, and big feelings, to someone who has some spaciousness for all of it, is incredibly helpful.

Recently I was sitting with my therapist talking about the memoir I wrote. The one I thought I was going to submit for publication. And I admitted something I’m not particularly proud of. Part of the reason I wanted to put that book out into the world was so people could see the childhood I survived and maybe give me a break.

Maybe if you knew what happened to me, you would understand why I sometimes have such a strong reaction. Why I get scared. Why I get angry. Why I have sometimes begged for connection from people who kept hurting me. Maybe you’d understand the parts of me that can still take over. Maybe my history could explain me. And my therapist said something very simple:

Maybe you wrote the book for you.

Jesus. A flood of emotions came forward.

Because first of all, I’m not used to doing much just for me. There are usually all kinds of underlying safety features attached. Who will this help? What will it become? How can I use it? How can I make it mean something? But maybe I needed to write that book simply because I needed to read it. Until I put pen to paper and went through my life chronologically, parts of me still thought maybe it wasn’t that bad.

But it was. Bad. Really bad. People who know me and read the manuscript had a hard time reading it. Some wondered how I survived it.

And strangely, writing it helped me understand something I have spent decades trying to teach other people: we don’t heal by pretending the terrible things weren’t terrible. And we don’t heal by using the terrible things as an explanation for everything we do for the rest of our lives.

Both things get to be true. What happened to me mattered. And I am responsible for the life I live now.

I’m working on a different book these days. One where I’m more firmly in my seat as a mental health provider, a spiritual teacher, and even a little bit of a witch. A book where I can talk about the things that have actually helped me become more regulated, more spacious, and more able to live inside my own life.

I’ll still use myself as a case study. You’ll see snippets of where I came from. But I don’t need you to read the whole brutal story anymore in order to give me permission to be human.

Maybe I needed to give that permission to myself. And maybe that’s part of what healing actually looks like. Not becoming a person who never gets activated. Not waiting until we are healed before we start living. Not never hurting someone’s feelings or having an old part take over or lying awake at 2:00 in the morning thinking about something we wish we had done differently.

Maybe it’s noticing that the thing that once gave us these sleepless nights now gives us one sleepless hour. Maybe it’s catching ourselves in the middle of an old pattern instead of three days later. Maybe it’s saying, “Oh. There I am again.” And finding our way back to our seat. Again, and again, and again.

The next time you have difficulty with your own feelings, instead of trying to wish them away or retreat them away or meditate them away, maybe consider your own humanness when building your toolbox. Maybe stop asking how you can stop feeling and ask, “How can I build the capacity to handle the feelings, and move back to my seat.”

That might not look like enlightenment. But after 63 years of being human, I think it looks a hell of a lot like healing.

In 1993, at the age of 30, I received a bachelor’s degree in English from the University of Utah. At the time I was an avid reader, because English majors read all the time. But then life and the internet happened. Moves across the country, marriage, jobs, kids, birth and death over and over and over again. And those pesky devices began invading my life!

In the spring of 2026, my 27-year-old daughter and I took a trip from Maryland to the Pacific Northwest. It was a big trip. Once we flew across the country, we covered over a thousand miles. I was stressed about what to take. I wasn’t worried about clothes; I was worried about devices.

Laptop, so I could write and work? Tablet to watch the Baltimore Orioles games? Phone? Ha. For sure.

I was chatting with my daughter and she said, “Don’t take the laptop.”

I was like, “OK!”

But inside, my breathing got more shallow and my heart raced a bit. I mean, I need my laptop, right? For hours I would put it in the suitcase and take it out. I literally could not just leave it.

In the end I did, and I am glad I did. Not because it was freeing. No. I was like a junkie in withdrawal. It was painful, and it was exactly what I needed.

A reset.

I am not as flexible as I like to think I am. When I travel across the country, it takes me a long time to get out of the East Coast time zone and into the West Coast time zone. My daughter, however, is different. She had no trouble adjusting almost immediately.

During the nights when we had a hotel room, I would be up at 5 AM fumbling around in the dark trying to let her sleep, mostly unsuccessfully. And because I didn’t have my laptop, and there was often little cell service outside the hotel, I had a dilemma.

Do I sit in the bathroom on my cell phone so as to let her sleep?

Or do I walk on an incredible beach where there’s absolutely no service?

These might sound like no-brainers to you. But I’m addicted. Well, I was. And I still am to some degree. But that vacation gave me the reset I needed.

Whenever we have traveled as a family, we’ve found bookstores, mostly used or independent. These are places we can all easily spend several hours. Early in the trip my daughter and I found a cool indie bookstore where I felt like she kept asking, “Have you read this? How about this? This?”

And I kept saying, “Uhhhh . . . no!”

I asked her how she read so much. She’s always been an avid reader. She began reading at four, and I would tell folks, “If she gets grumpy, just hand her a book!” Even when she was in law school, she would read four or five novels a month.

I used to be an avid reader too. And each year around the beginning of January, I vowed to begin reading again. I even started a book group so I could read at least one book a month. But my brain had changed. I couldn’t get into it. I couldn’t find the pleasure in it that I used to.

When I asked my daughter how she did it, she shrugged and said, “You just make a choice.”

So I started reading on the trip.

When I got back to Maryland and sat on my porch, the pull was hard. Do I pick up the phone and play Wordle? Do I finish watching the last season of this or that? Or do I pick up the book?

I felt that same feeling I did when deciding whether or not to bring the laptop. The shallow breathing. The tightness in my chest. But each time, I reached for the book.

And eventually, I couldn’t put the book down.

That was in May. We’re now sitting in August and I have read The Correspondent, The House in the Cerulean Sea, All the Glimmering Stars, Oona Out of Order, Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, The Harder I Fight the More I Love You, and Remarkably Bright Creatures. I am currently working my way through Hagitude: Reimagining the Second Half of Life.

Bonus! After reading The Correspondent, I began writing letters.

It feels almost archaic. Even writing this essay right now, I’m talking to text. When I text you, I’m talking to text. My brain goes so fast these days that even a keyboard can’t keep up with it.

So when I decided to put pen to paper and actually write letters to people, it was agonizing. First of all, I couldn’t stand my handwriting. Second, the pen wouldn’t move fast enough to keep up with my thoughts. And there was some weird part of me that thought I could just talk to the paper and the words would appear. Kind of like when you know the power is out but you keep turning on the light switch.

It was cuckoo.

But as I sit here in August, I’m pleased with the way my brain has shifted this summer. Sure, I still have that phone in my pocket. I can still pull it out irresponsibly during a conversation with a friend or at dinner. But I’m taking long stretches away from it.

And the letters have taught me something I wasn’t expecting.

You just put them in the mail.

A lot of people I have written to have never told me they got a letter from me. And I’m realizing that is part of the point. You just write the letter. You don’t wait for the return text immediately. You don’t watch for the bubbles to appear to see if they’re still reading it. You don’t keep refreshing your browser to see if someone has responded to your email or liked some post on Instagram.

You let it go.

Real change has never happened to me, or anyone I know, with ease. It takes spaciousness. It takes sitting through the discomfort long enough to choose something different, even when the different thing initially feels more uncomfortable.

The funniest thing about all of this is that even though it feels so good, there’s a little quiet voice in me that knows it won’t last. Why? Because in just a few days I’ll be 63 years old, and I’ve spent most of my adult life being really curious about who I am and why I do what I do. And one thing I know is that I’m a serial hobbyist (aka a 7 on the Enneagram). I have some through lines in my life, of course, but things like reading or writing letters or even having house concerts tend to come and go.

Knowing this about myself has done several things for me. One is that I try not to convince everyone else they should do the things I do because by the time they pick it up, I’ll probably be onto something else. And it also just grounds me in the doing.

Just be here now.

For right now, I’m reading and writing letters. And it feels incredibly joyous and spacious.

P.S. What are you reading? And if you want to give me your address, I might surprise you with a letter. But there are no guarantees. Just like everything else in the world

She was always tan, almost always with a cigarette, her hair impeccably done. In one picture she’s wearing tiny white shorts, a lime green bikini top, and heeled slides, standing high above a town with the ocean stretched out behind her. Her hair isn’t quite as over-the-top tall as it was in the ‘60s and ‘70s, but it’s still teased and perfect. In another she is dressed to the nines in a bright red dress, matching jewelry, hair and makeup perfect, hugging her beautiful white German Shepherd. In yet another she is walking out of what appears to be Caribbean waters in a tiny string bikini -- she must be in her fifties but wearing it with such confidence. She looks fearless. I was in awe of her looking through these photos.

The only problem is, I’m writing a book that contains some pretty shitty things she did when I was a kid. I remember being ten, and she was often out late at bars after work. Even when I was fevered and sick, I’d call her on the bar’s pay phone and beg her to come home. “Right after this drink,” she’d say, and it would be hours before she stumbled in. I worry readers would never get to meet the woman I eventually knew.

Neither the woman in the photographs nor the woman in the opening chapters of my book is the whole story.

Even though we went through hard things, we eventually shared a home together. She helped raise our kids. We had a warm and loving relationship; unfortunately, the little girl in me didn’t get the memo. She wasn’t looking for the woman who helped raise my children. She was still looking for her mommy. My little girl’s healing had to wait until after my mom died.

Writing this book has taken me to some dark places these past couple of years. For the first time, I let the little girl inside me feel what happened. I spent countless days on my porch holding her, grieving and crying with her, for her. That was the first draft.

The second draft is different. The therapist in me showed up. I found myself reading my own story the way I’d read a client’s -- with more curiosity than fear. The beginning is still brutal; my early childhood and adolescence were horrifying. But for the first time, reading it doesn’t horrify me in real time. At 62, I finally have more distance from that childhood than I’ve ever had.

None of this was possible while she was alive. I couldn’t have written a book like this one then, and I couldn’t have even let myself feel little Jackie’s anger at her mother -- it was too messy. There was a part of me that needed everything to stay smooth and loving. And it mostly was: as long as we lived together, and given how hard it is to live with extended family in general, I can barely remember a disagreement that lasted longer than five minutes.

It’s only after her death that both things became possible -- the grief, and the book.

Then I saw those pictures of my mom, felt that rush of love, and thought maybe I shouldn’t write this book.

Can you tell the truth about someone and not betray the love you have for them? I wasn’t afraid of telling the truth. I was afraid of telling only part of it.

And although at the beginning of this book my mom looks less than saintly, my early life was simply a season of her life as well -- something I could never have imagined when I needed my mommy. My mom had three kids pretty close together, and then, almost seven years later, I came along. Sitting here as an adult, it makes sense that she was finally seeking her own freedom. But when you’re five, six, seven, or eight, and you just need your mommy, none of this makes sense.

I’ll be forever grateful that as I grew up and got to know her as my mother, we built a life together. I’d like to believe that wherever my mom is, she is healed and has let go of any guilt over past mistakes, that’s what I want to believe happens to us after we leave these bodies. In life, we made our peace. More than made our peace, we lived in a forgiveness, and I’ll be forever grateful for what she gave to our family.

It’s nice to have the space to see she was a full-dimensional person with lots of seasons to her life. I’m grateful to the wise people who helped me see that once I reached a certain age, I didn’t need my mother to be my mommy anymore. That gave both of us freedom -- and it’s how we got to the woman in the lime green bikini, fearless above the water, who I still miss.

For me, change has always been much harder than that.

When I was younger, anytime I got excited about something new, I would declare it life-changing. But now, sitting here in my sixties looking back on my life, I realize there have been very few things that were truly life-changing. At least for me.

One of those things has been meditation.

I’m not even sure it would be life-changing for everyone else. Although it is an incredibly helpful practice for everyone, just maybe not life-changing. It changed my life because of the kind of mind I have. My busy monkey mind. The mind that just goes and goes and goes, creating one story after another. The mind that is terrified of missing out and has a hard time sitting still because there might be something more important happening somewhere else. I also had no idea what a pause button was or what it felt like to pause before grasping.

It’s the reason I put off learning to meditate for years after it was first introduced to me. I had a million excuses. I don’t have enough time. I could never clear my mind. There are too many important things to do besides sitting still.

The biggest myth I believed was that I had to clear my mind in order to meditate. Discovering that meditation wasn’t about clearing my mind but learning to watch it changed everything.

That’s also why it was so hard in the beginning. I would sit down, get comfortable (yeah, right), focus on my breath, and before I knew it I was completely lost in the stories in my head.

How long have we been doing this? My foot is cold. I wonder what I should have for lunch. How much time is left? Is everybody else thinking about things? Everybody else looks so peaceful. I must be doing this wrong. This is so stupid. Okay...focus on the breath.

That was meditation.

Little by little, and by talking to other people about their experiences, I realized that almost everyone had the exact same experience. So you might ask, what’s so life-changing about sitting there feeling frustrated and miserable?

You don’t react to the frustration and misery. Eventually it goes away.

The thing that seemed so important a minute ago, the thing that stole your attention away from your breath and away from the present moment, disappears. Sometimes you can’t even remember what it was.

This is what changed my life.

Thoughts and feelings arise, plateau, and fall. What keeps them around is usually our attachment to them. We grab hold of them. We build stories around them. We rehearse them. We argue with them.

After years of practicing, I realized I could simply watch a thought arise, smile, because isn’t the mind fascinating, and then watch it disappear. The same with feelings. They all arise. They all pass.

I learned to sit with whatever arises.

That is what changed me. Because what happens on the meditation cushion or chair, we take into our lives.

These days I still don’t practice alone all the time. Every Sunday morning I sit with a long-standing Zoom meditation group that has been practicing together for years. On Wednesday mornings from 8:00 to 8:20, I have the privilege of leading a free online meditation that is open to anyone.

I often tell people that meditating with others is one of the easiest ways to begin. If you’re sitting by yourself and you’re not used to watching thoughts and feelings arise and fall, it’s awfully tempting to get up. Your mind will come up with all kinds of convincing reasons why you should be doing something else. But when you’re sitting with a group, something shifts. Maybe it’s accountability. Maybe it’s because we’re social creatures and everyone else is still sitting there. Whatever the reason, staying in your seat gives you the chance to discover that thoughts and feelings really do come and go.

Over time you begin to notice the part of you that wants to get up and do something else. Mine usually has some very convincing reasons. But instead of following it every time, I can smile, thank it for trying to help, and stay right where I am.

Yesterday morning I woke up convinced it was Monday when it was actually Sunday. My stomach dropped. I had such a busy day ahead of me and visitors in town I wanted to spend time with. Then I went back to the lessons meditation has taught me. Follow the breath. Put my hand on my heart. Be here now.

Eventually I realized it was only Sunday. Why would I spend Sunday living in Monday? And now that it is Monday, it is simply unfolding one minute at a time - no real problem with Monday - unless I am in it on Sunday!

Meditation has taught me that I can always return to this moment. If this moment is wonderful, enjoy it because it won’t last forever. If this moment is painful, stay with it because it won’t last forever either.

Everything changes.

Meditation hasn’t made me less human. It hasn’t guaranteed that I’ll always pause before I speak or that I’ll never react or make mistakes. I’m still very much a human being.

What it has given me are tools to find my way back.

One of the biggest things meditation has taught me is that whenever I’m disturbed, I can almost always trace it back to the same thing: someone, or some institution, isn’t acting the way I think they should.

That realization almost always makes me smile.

Why in the world would I expect life to unfold according to my preferences?

I’d love to hear about your meditation practice or what keeps you form beginning one. Seriously, I am all ears!

P.S. If you’ve been curious about meditation but aren’t sure where to begin, I’ve been using the free Insight Timer app for decades. There are in-app purchases, but I’ve never found them necessary. There are thousands of wonderful teachers on there, and, as it turns out, a few of my meditations are there too. If you’re curious, I’d love for you to check them out. If something resonates, give me a follow, or better yet, leave an honest review. Knowing what people find helpful helps me create better meditations.

And if you’d rather meditate live with a community, you’re always welcome to join us on Wednesday mornings from 8:00-8:20 a.m. ET. It’s free, it’s on Zoom, and no experience is necessary. Check it out here.

Last weekend I hosted a private retreat for members of The Both/And Way Membership Group. Although my retreats always include a bit of Parts Work, mindful meditation, a dash of the Enneagram, and a whole lot of community building in a trusting, healing circle, each one is a little different. They evolve depending on what I’m receiving, what I’m discussing with the teachers I work with, what I’m reading, and what’s happening in the world.

Lately I’ve been reading Hagitude: Reimagining the Second Half of Life by Sharon Blackie. One of the ideas she explores is the possibility of seeing menopause as more than a disease or something to dread. She describes cultures where women are not considered elders or medicine women until after menopause. She also points out that in many of these cultures, “elder” is not synonymous with “elderly.” Aging is not something to fight. It is something to grow into.

It was beautiful to watch the women at the retreat begin to wonder if aging and menopause might not be the terrible experience we’ve been taught to expect.

Don’t get me wrong. Some women experience truly awful symptoms during menopause, and of course they deserve treatment and support. But we also talked about listening to our bodies differently. Maybe our bodies need a little more rest. Maybe they need a little more moisture.

My skin is definitely drier than it used to be, so I invest in good moisturizers. Not because I want to look younger, but because aging naturally changes our skin.

I’m not anti-aging.

I’m pro-aging.

At one point during the retreat, while we were taking a relaxed break from the circle, we found ourselves having what I laughingly called an “old people conversation.” We were comparing notes about the ways our bodies are changing. I got so excited that I interrupted everyone and said, “We’re having an old people conversation. How cool is that?”

It reminded me of a time when my sister was frustrated with my dad, who was living with her then, because all he wanted to talk about were old people topics.

My sister died at 52.

She never got the privilege of having an old people conversation herself.

She never got old.

That’s why I’m pro-aging.

I’ve known too many people who never had the privilege of growing older.

I think these conversations matter. Not because I want everyone to think about aging the way I do, but because I want us to notice where our beliefs come from. Are they truly ours? Or were they handed to us by our families, our culture, advertising, or an industry that benefits from convincing us we always need fixing?

More and more I’m realizing that this is the kind of community I want to create. One where we gently question the messages we’ve inherited. One where we choose our values with intention instead of simply absorbing the values of the culture around us. In many ways, it feels like a quiet, countercultural way of living.

Those are the conversations I want to keep having.

So I’m curious.

What beliefs about aging have you inherited?

And which ones have you chosen for yourself?

____________________________________________________________________________

P.S. This conversation inspired me to create a one-day retreat exploring aging, elders, and the stories we've inherited about getting older. If you'd like to join us, here's the information. Also, here is the playlist form last weekend’s retreat. Enjoy!

“One of the greatest things that happened in my relationship with my father was when he was approaching death I finally allowed him to be who he was instead of trying to make him into who I thought he should be and he stopped trying to make me into who he thought I should be and we became friends.” Ram Dass

I recently got home from a grand adventure with my 27-year-old daughter. As usual for me, I get the pre-trip jitters. And especially if I’m traveling with anyone besides my husband who knows all of me, therefore, I’m not worried that I’m going to do something to make him end the relationship or need space from me or any of the things my mind makes up for me.

When I’m traveling with anybody but him, I worry about all kinds of things. It’s my ego’s way of protecting me by thinking I can hide the warts and uglier parts of myself that I don’t want exposed. As if those people who love me haven’t seen all of that anyway.

This was a pretty big trip, we were covering a lot of ground: The Olympic Peninsula, Mt. Ranier, Seattle, and Vancouver. At the end of it all we drove 1194 miles after flying across the country as well. We only stayed two consecutive nights in one place — other than that we were going from place to place to place.

I’ve never been to the Pacific Northwest, and it was unbelievable. Some of the beaches were so stark and raw and intense that you felt like you were standing at the end of the world on some distant planet, not even on earth anymore. And the weather out there isn’t for sissies, although it isn’t as bad as you might imagine if you have the right headspace and clothes. Moody is the word someone used when I sent out pictures — and I couldn’t agree more.

But the thing that kept rolling around in my head was why was I so worried about my daughter and I traveling together. As the days unfolded, it became apparent to me that we knew each other incredibly well. And even those parts of each other that may bug us a little bit weren’t going to be some big shock on a trip together.

I am kind of a hot mess. My stuff spreads everywhere. You can hand me a car or room key and within two minutes I have no idea where I put it. She on the other hand is one of the most organized, detailed people I’ve ever met. And one of the beautiful things about being on this trip was that she planned a lot of the itinerary. When we would walk to dinner all I had to do was follow her because she knew exactly where we were going. There was a real freedom in that, and a trust. No decision fatigue at all!

And she already knows I’m a hot mess so even if it annoyed her, it didn’t surprise her, and she certainly wasn’t ready to break off our relationship because I would lose things or forget to zip up a bag and have its contents spill out three or four times in a row. We even talked about how we understand each other’s differences in a way that is not judgmental anymore.

I can’t imagine that she had any fear that something would happen on the trip to hurt our relationship, but I did. And I was really struck by this fact, especially on the longer drives and on the airplane trip home when I had time to let my mind run amuck. What is it in me that gets stirred up to actually believe that my kids would divorce me?

The easiest answer is to talk about the side effects of working in the profession I do - as a therapist. If I was a pediatric oncologist, I may be more obsessive over their physical health but being a therapist, I see adult clients come in and discuss the complexities in their parental relationships. Or read articles about the epidemic of adult children no contacting parents. I’ve certainly had to set boundaries that sometimes turned into no contact.

But it’s rare.

Normally it isn’t extreme or dramatic. Often in my adult life when relationships end, they do so more in a fizzling out type of way. Not in a dramatic, grand gesture breakup kind of way.

Most of the spiritual practices I’ve engaged in throughout my life have never pointed me in the direction of divorcing people. They’ve pointed me in the direction of a U-turn. Why is this hurting me, why is it affecting me, why is this so upsetting to me? Because I’ve learned that mostly people are simply doing things, they are not doing things to me.

That realization changed my life.

I was raised by a mom who was incredibly neglectful during my childhood, to the point where she was unaware of the abuse that was happening to me. As I got older, I entered into my own therapy. I had lots of feelings about my mother, but as I became an adult and didn’t need my mother to be my mother anymore, to be my mommy. When I didn’t need her to feed and clothe and care for and protect me, I was able to just have a grownup relationship with her.

And it was lovely — enough. I mean, she could still irritate the hell out of me the way only a mother can. I do remember a time when she was cooking the Polish golumpki for a Christmas meal and we were both sharing the kitchen. She was doing something to irritate me in the way that only a mother can irritate a daughter. I gave an eye roll. She didn’t see it, no one saw it. But I looked around and saw my two elementary school girls and had this thought: “My girls are going to roll me too. It’s inevitable.”

My mom actually helped my husband and I raise our children. She was an integral part of our lives. I did good work in intense therapy to understand my own projections from my own childhood and my neglect. I started making meaning of why I did the things I did, and a lot of it was a direct result of her parenting. I had serious wounds. What happened to me as a child was in no way my fault, but it was my responsibility to repair those wounds once I came of age. And by of age I mean when my frontal lobe was fully formed in my mid-20s.

To be fair, I wasn’t in an adult relationship with a mother who didn’t respect my boundaries at that point. If I asked her not to give my children sugar, she wouldn’t give them sugar. When my partner and I would get into an argument she would excuse herself. So, I’m not comparing my situation to those who have asked people to respect boundaries that they’ve repeatedly pushed back on. I get that. When that happens, sometimes separation is the only answer.

But I think separation is sometimes too easy. Mostly we can enter into relationships and figure things out without having to run away. But that middle ground, that gray area, that’s a really uncomfortable place to be. And somehow, we’ve lost sight of that.

Back to my trip and my daughter. What I noticed on the trip was how different we are in so many ways and yet how connected and alike we are. On the way home, as we got on the bus from the rental car facility to the airport, I just started crying. Not shoulder-shaking crying, more like crunched-up-face, tears-streaming down my cheeks crying. And it lasted almost all the way through the morning.

At one point on the bus my daughter noticed I was crying and she just let me be. She didn’t ask me what was wrong, and it’s a good thing because I wasn’t exactly sure. Later on in the evening she mentioned noticing earlier that I was crying. It was in this way of noting that I’m a big sappy, crying mother and she sees it as simply a part of who I am, not something to change or fix.

It was so beautiful.

And although my kids and I certainly disagree on lots of issues, I think we’re all at an age where we’re trying to simply let each other be. Isn’t that really what love is? When we can stop fearing that someone isn’t meeting our expectations and just let them be who they are and not define them on one opinion or behavior — that is unconditional. I think of all the different phases of parenthood when we so desperately tried to control our kids. We say we love them unconditionally and of course we do, but I bet it doesn’t feel like that to them very often.

I don’t say this often, but if I had to do it all over again I would parent quite differently. I didn’t have much of a pause button back then or as much practice looking inward. I certainly parented out of fear and worry about how people saw me, as if my kids were some extension of who I am. Think of the ways we encourage kids to be liked instead of honest — getting them to be polite and engaging and all of the things that we like in people, when the fact is people are very different. Think of how we ask kids to lie about gifts they receive. Why are we worried about a five-year-old hurting a 55-year-old’s feelings? I don’t think we are — I think we’re worried about what that 55-year-old will think of our kid, and in turn, us.

When I worked in a high school this was so apparent to me as well — the way the administration and other teachers would judge parents on how kids dressed or spoke. And I thought it was so unfair at the time, even though I couldn’t unhook myself from the very same trappings.

If you know the details of my younger life, you will say that I probably had a lot of reasons to disown my own mother. My childhood was brutal. However, if I hadn’t figured out how to heal my own wounds and have a relationship with her, I would never have learned how to make golumpki or appreciate the gardens that she left for me after she died. She taught me how to clean a house — really clean, on my hands and knees, getting into the corners. Or how to wrap a Christmas present.

I would’ve thrown all that out if I had waited for her to heal me. Instead, I learned how to reparent myself. And I’m so grateful I did. Not just because of the relationship I have with my mother, but because of all the weight of my own childhood wounds I can now put down in order to appreciate this next phase of parenthood — where there’s a chance we can actually be friends with our children.

My girls are 27 and 30 now. Completely independent. My job is no longer to fix or change them — it’s simply to love them, fiercely. And I am beginning to see that is what they are doing in turn as well.

Crying because all the annoying things I normally have to deal with in the morning were gone. I didn’t have to worry about cutting the pill exactly in half, or keeping the big dog Granola away from little dog Penny’s food. I didn’t have to deal with the gate at the top of the steps just to go open the front door and let the sunshine in. I didn’t have to carry Penny down the steps and wait and watch and make sure she went to the bathroom. I didn’t have to use the flashlight to go over the floors and check if she’d made a mess in the night — because sometimes I walked right into her pee.

These are the things that most annoyed me about her. And the ones that broke my heart when I didn’t have to do them anymore, after she died.

This is loss. This is grief. I’ve experienced it so many times in my life. And maybe it’s just me — but when someone dies, the things that irritated me, the things I wished I didn’t have to deal with, those become the things that crush me after they’re gone. The things I miss the most.

We knew it was only a matter of days before we were going to euthanize Penny. She had lived a good life, but she was a mere shadow of herself these last few months. I learned a lot about aging watching her age. And I hope the humans in my life treat me with enough dignity and compassion the way we treated her. We let her roam around at night — getting her steps in, as we used to say. We let her age. Kept her safe. And hoped we would know when it was time to let go. I didn’t want to keep her alive for my sake. But I also didn’t want to put her down too soon just because she was becoming more difficult.

Every Wednesday morning at 8 AM I gather with a beautiful group of people to meditate. Yesterday when I woke, Penny was in her bed but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t get out of it. It was apparent she had had a seizure. I held her and cried, knowing that today would be the day. But in my small human mind I thought I could get on with my morning — do the meditation from 8 to 8:20, call the vet, take her over, and all would be well.

I had called my daughter and she was on her way over, and Jeff had a meeting at eight, so we would all be here and ready after the meditation was finished. But at 7:58, right before I was getting ready to join the meditation — a meditation I had decided to make about impermanence — Penny had another seizure. I got to witness this. I got to hold her on my lap. And it was incredibly difficult. I felt so powerless and helpless. I just cried and held her and tried to soothe her. But I don’t really think her brain was online at that point, which made me feel even more powerless.

Luckily, the people who show up to meditate on Wednesdays are compassionate humans who love the practice and who care for me as well. When I told them what was going on, they sent so much love to our family as we accompanied Penny on her last journey to peace.

I called the vet and we did the thing.

When I came home, I did what makes me comfortable. What brings me comfort. I made an altar for Penny. Her favorite food. A candle burning. A poem the vet gave us. Some pretty flowers — because who doesn’t like pretty flowers. A picture of her when she was most full of life. And we gathered around and lit a candle.

My human brain thought that would be it. I had no idea that waking up this morning would bring so many more tears, so much more grief. Loss is such a universal condition. There is no one alive who hasn’t experienced it. Even the youngest among us have experienced a broken toy, a friendship moved across the country, a grandparent or a pet dying. And yet it still grabs our heart and twists it like nothing else can. And when we witness someone else’s grief, our own comes rushing back. So many friends I spoke to yesterday cried with me — thinking of their own losses. Some with pets, some with people, some with relationships.

I recorded this meditation on impermanence yesterday — right in the middle of all of it. If you’d like to sit with this for a few minutes, I invite you to listen.

Listen: A Meditation on Impermanence

But here’s the thing. Here’s the meditation I finally got around to doing yesterday.

Everything is temporary.

There was no delusion that Penny’s life would go on and on and on. We all know when we get a pet that we’re going to bury that pet. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the teaching of impermanence, it’s simply this: everything is temporary. We attach to things as if they’re going to be ours forever. We attach to things as if they’re never going to change. But every single thing we’ve ever been with — a feeling, a thought, a relationship, an inanimate piece of clothing or furniture — it all arises, plateaus, changes, and ceases to exist.

Even your worst moments pass.

Think about a really difficult time in your life. The loss of something. A job, a loved one, a relationship, a marriage, your favorite mug, a pet. Think just for a minute about how you felt when it first happened. The acute pain of it. The intensity of it. Do you remember? Now, sitting here, yes — you might get teary thinking about it. You might even feel a little pang of resentment or anger. But it’s nothing like it was in that acute phase. Isn’t that something? Especially those big losses, where we thought we couldn’t go on. Where we thought we would always feel this way. And yet here we are. Not feeling that way at all. It’s different. It changes. It moves.

But now think about something so beautiful. Getting a new puppy or a kitten. A new baby, a new home, a new love. The joy of that, the beauty of that. That too, you can’t quite bring back.

That too is temporary.

So where does that leave us?

It leaves us here. In this moment. Now. This is the basic message. Whenever we return to this moment, to this breath, to this body — that’s all we have. And the beautiful thing is, sitting here this morning crying and grieving my little Penny, I know from this practice that tomorrow will be different. The day after will be different. The day after that will be different. In fact, later this afternoon, when I’m sitting across from a client, I will not feel like this.

But I’m also acutely aware that when I’m visiting the Pacific Northwest in a few weeks, my job is to be totally and fully present to the beauty of it — because it will all fade away too.

So now. Can you, just for this moment, take a deep inhale through your nostrils and a deeper exhale through your mouth, and just be with this moment?

Whatever you are feeling will not last. But there may be a lesson in it for you that you’ll miss if you can’t just be here now.

This moment is truly all you have.

However, as I was reading, something wasn’t sitting right with me. The author draws on her own childhood trauma to make the case that her fawning way of being came from that trauma. She describes times when her body and brain wanted to get away, but instead of fleeing or fighting, she stayed and played a part. I get that in trauma situations this happens automatically. But I’d also argue that it happens to women automatically

all

the

time.

I think we are traumatized, on some level, by the rules of the patriarchy. Think of any dad worrying about his daughter around men. We teach girls from a very young age to be afraid.

Don’t walk around with earbuds.

Survey your surroundings.

Don’t be alone.

Guard your drink.

Again and again we deliver this fear to them just for existing in the world. We transfer our anxieties directly onto them, and then we wonder why kids are so anxious.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t do this. It is a scary world out there. What I am saying is that fawning is almost inbred in women at this point.

I witnessed it firsthand recently in a dermatology waiting room. I was sitting there intentionally not on my phone, just taking a few deep breaths. A few seats away was a young woman, legs crossed, minding her business. An elderly man walked by and she pulled her legs in. He said thank you, then accidentally clipped her boot and used it as an opener. He started telling her how in certain parts of London you could get killed for boots like that, people would take them right off you. Her little laugh was nervous, not authentic. At least I could tell the difference. She kept saying “OK, OK” and going back to her phone, but he kept going.

Eventually I turned all the way around, took in that she was maybe 18, and gave him a long, slow side eye. And you know what? Because someone witnessed what he was doing and looked him in the eye, he shut the fuck up.

I don’t know that man. Maybe he’s perfectly nice. But I am so tired of men taking these liberties, over and over.

A few weeks ago I was hosting a house show. There was an older guy there, probably close to 80. I introduced him to one of my close friends, who’s around 60. She put out her hand to shake his and he grabbed her and pulled her into a hug. I watched her do this thing. A nervous laugh. “Oh, OK, we’re doing this.”

The men in my life, my husband included, would never do that. What is wrong with these guys?

I think girls and women are walking around in a low-grade state of trauma. And we keep telling them to be careful, to protect themselves.

What are we saying to the boys?

A couple of months ago I was talking with a woman around 50 about her worries for her young daughter. She mentioned a poster that used to hang in her college bathroom warning female students not to be naive their first semester, not to be alone with a boy.

What posters are in the boys’ bathroom?

How have we not gotten further than this? Why is it still acceptable for men to make women uncomfortable? Why do we have to smile and chat and perform warmth for men we don’t care about? And yet we’ve all learned this fawning response because it keeps us safe.

We have to do better. We have to raise men who would never do this. And we have to teach women to do exactly what I did in that waiting room. Sometimes all it takes is a glance that says: I see you. I know exactly what you’re doing.

And to the men who mean no harm, I see you too. Maybe you’re not part of the problem. Maybe you just wanted a friendly chat. But here’s what I need you to understand: in a patriarchal world, you carry power whether you want it or not. That’s not your fault. But it is your responsibility. So if you want to chat, go chat with another guy. Because when you approach a woman on a hiking trail, on the street, in a waiting room, she cannot determine your intentions. Her nervous system doesn’t care how nice you are. It just knows you’re a man and it starts running calculations she never asked to run. Give her a wide berth. Keep walking. That small act of awareness might be the kindest thing a man can do.

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What’s your waiting room story? Drop it in the comments.

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This post was inspired by Fawning by Ingrid Clayton.

Yesterday at my meditation group we were laughing. You know that laugh that is fury disguised as laughter. We decided that for the next month, anytime we forget something or lose our patience or just feel completely dysregulated, we’re blaming it on the time change. That gives us at least 30 days of cover.

When I was an English major in college I wrote an essay on liminal characters in literature. Ever since then I’ve often been drawn back to that word. Liminal. It comes from the Latin limen, meaning threshold. A liminal moment is that in-between space, not quite where you were, not yet where you’re going. The doorway you’re standing in. You can see the other side but you’re just not there yet.

The space between the exhale and the inhale.

What I learned writing that essay was that the liminal characters, think Persephone, think Odysseus, weren’t weakened by living in the in-between. They were powered by it. Standing in both worlds gave them access to something people firmly planted on one side never had. I think about that a lot lately. Maybe the invitation of early spring isn’t to rush toward summer. Maybe it’s to practice standing in the doorway, coat in one hand, sunglasses in the other, and being okay with not knowing what the day will bring.

It’s no wonder I named my business the Both/And Way. Because that’s what liminality really is. Not either/or. Not this or that. Both. And.

I don’t know if you’re like me, but every time I find myself feeling joy lately, or managing to set down the heaviness of the world for a moment, something crawls up into my lap and makes me feel guilty. Last night on a walk around my neighborhood it was so gorgeous. Birds, quiet, green space, the whole gift of it. And I almost let myself have it fully. But there was that guilty part, thinking of all the people who never get to live in a neighborhood like this, who are suffering in ways I can’t fully imagine. I took a deep breath. I sat with it. And then I reminded myself that guilt doesn’t help anyone who is struggling. What helps is presence, and intention, and action when I can offer it. I thought of all the teachers from marginalized communities throughout history who still found ways to celebrate, to love, to bring children into the world even in the darkest of times. They weren’t waiting for the world to be okay before they let themselves live. Neither should we.

I think about this with relationships too. Writing my memoir right now has me looking back at the people I love most, the ones I would stand in front of a train for, and realizing that even they bugged the hell out of me at least 20% of the time. Maybe more.

And that’s not a flaw in the relationship. That’s the relationship.

The liminal space in loving someone is learning to stand in that doorway too, holding both the profound love and the very real irritation, without running toward either exit. What I’ve found is that my deepest relationships aren’t the ones without rupture. They’re the ones with the spaciousness to repair.

That threshold, the in-between, the both/and, the eggshell morning where you genuinely don’t know if you’ll need sunscreen or a snow brush, that’s not a problem to solve. That’s just where we are right now. All of us. Together in the doorway.

So wherever you are this Monday, restless with early spring, heartbroken over the state of the world, exhausted by the news, navigating a relationship that is asking you to never make a mistake, or just genuinely furious about the time change, I see you. Coat in one hand. Sunglasses in the other.

We’ll get to the other side.

I always turn to the poets in times like these.

won’t you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.

— Lucille Clifton (1936–2010)

What are you standing in the doorway of right now? I’d love to know.

If you notice parts arising as you read, see if you can bring some gentleness and healing energy toward them.

Take care of yourself as you read.

I decided to buy a new pair of pants

The other day I was multitasking. On the phone with a friend and getting ready for work. At one point I said my pants looked tight. I didn’t like the way my belly looked.

My go-to line is often:
“I need to lose weight because I don’t want to buy new clothes.”

At 62 I finally said,
“Maybe I need to buy some new clothes.”

I am 5’4” and I weigh around 150 pounds. I have never been this heavy before.
And I have never been 62 before either.

I am fairly active. I walk two to three miles a few times a week, often in the woods. I occasionally run. I do some strength training when my parts are on board.

My body seems to be pulling me toward 150. Even if I got a strong grip on nighttime eating, I cannot imagine being 140 again.

And the deeper question is: why do I want to be?

My numbers at my yearly physical are good. And even when something edges up, it often has more to do with genetics than lifestyle.

Having elevated cholesterol is not a moral failing.

Why do I think it is?

Of course, if there is something I can do to support my blood pressure or cholesterol, I will. But I do not believe restricting entire food groups is the answer.

And honestly… WTF, diet culture?!?!?

How much money are these folks making off of us while also making us smaller, quieter, and honestly a little more boring?

The book group that drove me batty

Many years ago I was part of a book group. Every time we gathered there was beautiful food on the table.

And almost immediately the conversation would turn to bodies.

What people could eat
What they couldn’t eat
What they “shouldn’t” eat

These beautiful, intelligent women reduced to conversations about weight and control.

It drove me batty.

It felt like we were all chasing a pre-pubescent body with no softness, no padding, no history.

Why?

Because someone else told us how we should look.

And if you live long enough, those standards keep changing anyway.

Throwing off the conditioning

So here I am.

Finally loosening my grip on the seductive conditioning.

Buying a new pair of jeans instead of restricting for a few weeks, only to have my body return to the place it seems to want to live.

Last summer I led a day retreat about numbers: weight, age, and finances.

I began by saying, plainly:

I am 62
I weigh 149
My household income (for two of us) is 120K

Then I asked people to notice what happened inside them.

Did you compare?
Did you feel guilty?
Relieved?
Competitive?
Ashamed?
Superior?
Behind?

That inner reaction is the real material.

Because what do any of these numbers actually say about me as a human being?

I am a person who cares deeply for others.
A person who has done a tremendous amount of healing work.
A person who has not organized her life around wealth or beauty.

And still… I feel the pangs of living in a culture that tells me those are the measures that matter.

So here is where I am today

I am buying the jeans.

I am letting my body be a body that has lived.

I am noticing the parts of me that still want to shrink, compare, and perform.

And I am turning toward them with curiosity instead of control or fear or anger.

A Parts Work Reflection

Take a breath.

Notice what you feel in your body right now as you think about your own numbers…
your weight, your age, your finances, your health.

See if you can gently ask inside:

What part of me gets activated around my body and my worth?

You might notice a critic.
A pusher.
A comparer.
A scared part who learned that love was tied to appearance.
A young part who was watched or judged or not protected.

Just notice who shows up.

See if you can let them know:

I see you.
I understand why you work so hard.
You don’t have to do this alone.

Then gently ask:

What does this part need from me right now?

More kindness?
More rest?
More nourishment?
More truth?

Let whatever arises be enough.

No fixing.
Just noticing.
Just offering presence.

Every time I hear another story about powerful men and young girls, something in my tender heart breaks. I remember the feeling of not telling or telling and being dismissed.

I was often home alone as a child. My mom was out, and her husband at the time, had drilled holes in my wall and was peeping at me. He would also dress in teeny tiny robes and let his junk hang out while me and my friends cut school and he allowed us to smoke weed with him. I learned early what it felt like to be watched, to be exposed, to not be protected.

When I was 13, a family moved in across the street from us.

One day the new neighbor woman knocked on our door because she was locked out of her house and needed to use the phone. We talked. She asked if I babysat. I said yes.

I began spending time in their home.

I think they smelled prey.

They welcomed me in. They fed me. They taught me how to cook “with love” as they said. They played games with me. They helped me with homework. They gave me a version of family I had been longing for.

And then one day, while she was in the bathroom, the man of the house took my hand and put it in his crotch.

I pulled away.

He told me that if I didn’t want to do that, I could go back to that empty, dark house where no one wanted me anyway.

I was 13.

There are still moments in my life where I wonder why I didn’t just walk out. But I didn’t. I was a child who had been groomed with belonging and threatened with abandonment. . . again.

The day after my 14th birthday, he had intercourse with me.

What followed was nearly a decade of being sold to his friends, of being used, humiliated, and harmed again and again.

Eventually, I got out.

I built a life. I found love. I met my soulmate. I became a therapist. I built a life that looks nothing like what I came from.

A few months before my wedding, I came back to Baltimore and tried to press charges.

I was told that if the intercourse had happened when I was 13 it would have been a felony. Because it happened when I was 14, it was considered a misdemeanor, and no one would pick up the case.

This is what gets stirred in me when I hear the Epstein stories and all the ways our broken systems fail victims.

It lands in my body as the same old knowing: nobody really cares what men do to children.

And I know that is not entirely true. I know there are good people, good parents, good advocates, good prosecutors, good men.

And also, this happens. Over and over again. And girls and women are asked to carry the shame, the silence, and the consequences.

It also brings up compassion in me for the way I parented my daughters.

Yes, I was protective. Yes, I limited sleepovers. Yes, I probably carried more anxiety about men and safety than I wish I had.

But how could I not?

When your body knows what is possible in the world, your protectors show up.

Even now, I don’t know if anyone ever hurt my daughters in ways they never told me about. Because it isn’t just families that keep these secrets. It is our culture. It is the quiet agreements to not speak. It is the fear of humiliation. It is the way we teach girls to be nice and not make trouble.

I know so many women who didn’t admit to being raped until decades later because they didn’t realize it was rape and they blamed themselves for being somewhere that exposed them to it.

So this week I am sitting with all of that.

The grief.
The anger.
The compassion for my younger self.
The fierce love for my daughters.
The ache that justice so often doesn’t come.

And also this:

I am here.
I survived.

I thrived
I built a life rooted in love, truth, and healing.
I use my voice now in ways I could not then.

And I notice something else that is new for me. I just finished writing my trauma memoir through a Parts Work lens, and it has made my inner world more visible and more accessible to me.

These triggers are still here, but now I can recognize the parts that are getting activated instead of pushing them away or acting them out. I can turn toward them with compassion. I can soothe the protectors who are trying to keep me safe. I can tend to the younger parts who still carry so much.

I reach out to people I trust. I stay close to my therapist. I walk in nature and let my nervous system settle.

This is different than how I used to live. This is healing in real time.If you are someone who has lived through something similar, you are not alone. What happened to you was not your fault. The ways you survived made sense.

If you are a parent who has erred on the side of protection, I see the love underneath that.

And if you are someone who has never had to carry this kind of story, I ask you to believe us when we tell the truth.

We need a world that protects children, not one that believes power and money should be protected more than children.

I often feel this body of mine simply gets in the way. Oh Jesus, I have to pee again. What a pain. Ugh, I feel nauseous and I have too much to do to deal with this. Dentist. Doctors. Weight gain. Blood pressure. Why do I have to worry about this stuff?

It all just gets in the way.

I recently wrote a trauma memoir, and it brought all of this into a stark reality of gratitude. Thank God I’m a walking, talking head. When I look back on the trauma I’ve experienced, I am so grateful that my body wasn’t present for most of it. It was all just in my head. My head took me away, took me to other places, created stories, and protected me from being fully present when I was in real danger.

I’ve spent a lifetime trying to get back into my body, because it’s important to simply be here now. To have my mind and body in the same place. To notice when my joints hurt, or when I bite down and my tooth hurts, and to take that as a signal to make a dentist appointment, instead of flying into the future every time pain shows up.

Sometime in my thirties, I began to meditate. It changed my life, and I don’t say that lightly. I later learned that I’m a Seven on the Enneagram. The main thing to know about that is this: I’m a head case. I live in my head, and I’m incredibly future-oriented. Think about planning a vacation for an entire year and then, the moment you arrive, starting to plan the next one. That’s how I lived most of my life.

But meditation helped me simply be here. To not be afraid of this moment. To not be afraid of painful moments from the past. To trust I can hold all of the feelings in this moment.

As a young child, I don’t remember any of my physical needs going unmet, unless you consider not going to the dentist until age eight or nine a problem. I was fed and clothed. The house was heated. But I don’t remember anyone ever talking to me about my thoughts or feelings, so I was left to make up stories about how I felt or didn’t feel, and about how others made me feel and how I made them feel.

I got lost in music and stories, and I felt things deeply. So deeply that I thought I was unique. I thought no one else could possibly understand me. I developed an uncanny sense of humor and a kind of charisma that drew people in. Unfortunately, that charisma also attracted the wrong people. Men who were much older than me. It was almost as if I wore a sign on my forehead that said willing prey. They paid attention to me, and I fell for it.

I once heard someone say they can understand abuse happening to children, but that once people become adults, they should be able to get away. I don’t know how to explain this except to say that once certain neural pathways are set, it takes enormous effort to change them. When the message you’ve received your entire life is that you are awful, that you have nothing to offer unless you are attached to a dominant male figure, and that acting out sexually is the only way to be loved, that doesn’t magically disappear at eighteen or twenty-one or thirty-two.

I consider myself lucky that I eventually met someone who loved me as unconditionally as possible. And still, I tried to sabotage that relationship. I also feel deeply privileged that I was able to sit my ass in therapy for decades to slowly change the pathways in my brain. That kind of healing doesn’t happen overnight, or in a week, or even in a month. It took years.

Maybe I’m just a slow learner.

I’m not particularly into diagnoses, but I imagine what I experienced could be described as complex PTSD, accompanied by a shit ton of anxiety. I was on a low dose of an SSRI for about ten years, during the years when I needed to parent my kids through adolescence and early adulthood. I eventually titrated off, but I will always be grateful for those meds. They helped turn down the volume of my anxiety so my trauma didn’t completely bleed all over my children.

In the same way, I’m grateful for being a head case. Being in my head keeps me going. Being in my head keeps me working.

I’m writing this for anyone who has survived by leaving, and is now wondering how to stay.

Now, at sixty-two, I want more peace. I’ve known stillness for a long time, but I’ve learned it has to be practiced again and again. I want to sit with all parts of myself, including my body. I notice parts of me get activated when I hear teachers or healers talk about how easy these life-changing acrobatics are. Maybe it’s because they aren’t head cases. Maybe for people like me, or as Pema Chödrön once called us, nut cases, it’s a daily practice of reminding ourselves to bring mind and body into the same place, anchored by the breath.

It doesn’t happen naturally for me. I once read, while studying the Enneagram, that self-remembering never becomes a habit, and I like that idea. I have to create my own habits. I have to keep placing my hands on my heart and reminding myself to anchor into the breath. And if this is as good as it gets, I’ll take it.

But my guess is that it will keep getting better, as long as I continue the practice of remembering.

Here in Maryland, it has been cold.

Many inches of snow, layered with ice, and near-zero temperatures — and none of it is going anywhere fast.

Winter has something to tell us.

Even if you live in the South, the light still shifts. Winter still happens. Maybe not like it’s happening here, but it is still a season we move through.

And yet… the wheel continues to turn.

The light is returning.

This weekend we celebrated Imbolc — the holy day that sits halfway between the winter solstice (December 21) and the spring equinox (March 20). These seasonal markers aren’t really about temperature; they’re about light and darkness. Although it is bitterly cold today, the light is coming back. And under the snow and ice and dirt, things are quickening.

Isn’t that marvelous?

So what about in you?

Imbolc isn’t a day for big declarations or bold awakenings. It’s a liminalholiday — a threshold. A between-time. It’s a time to stretch, like a bear coming out of the den. Slowly. Without rushing.

It’s a time to gently wonder about the intentions you planted six weeks ago.
What might be stirring? What is just beginning to sprout?

I just returned from my final week of being on staff for an IFS training, and it is always a wild and sacred thing to be part of that container. Those of us inside it are keenly aware of our own internal systems, so conversations sound like: “Can I offer feedback?” or “How did that land?” Everything slows. Everything becomes deliberate.

What I took away most, though, is this:
Being activated -- or blended with a part -- is not a moral failing.

I had several moments of activation myself. I have a very strong comparing part, and a part that wants to be seen as special or exceptional. And having just written a trauma memoir, little Jacqui and her big feeling are very close to the surface these days. She and I have been spending a lot of time together.

And in a space where people are practicing this work in a deeply spiritual way -- all of it is welcomed.

And this is where the inner and outer worlds collide.

Even the shoulder-shaking sobs of a participant who is on the front lines of protecting her neighbors in her Minneapolis community. The stories she shared were agonizing. In recent weeks, she has been witnessing the most devastating human behavior while also trying to hold the most beautiful.

While she was with us, three of her neighbors were disappeared by ICE.
They are not criminals. They are not undocumented. They are in process, here legally, but not yet through the long, daunting path to citizenship. Simply taken. Because of a quota.

My hope is that this, too, will shift. That the wheel will turn again.

I do what I can to support those in need. And I try to keep my heart open to the best of humanity, while also not turning away from the viciousness that exists. Holding both feels like part of the work right now.

May this Imbolc remind us that even beneath frozen ground, life is stirring.
May we move slowly, tend what is waking, and trust the light that is quietly, faithfully returning.

I hope you take some time today with the poem at the top of this musing and check out my favorite Imbolc song here by my friends The Honey Badgers!

What seeds are sprouting deep inside your belly today?

Have you ever seen those feeling posters? The ones with all the little faces and every possible emotion listed out? I swear I could circle half of them this time of year.

I slid into the holiday season full of excitement for my Solstice Gathering. I spent weeks preparing, and my heart was so happy to host nearly forty women for an evening of food, laughter, silence, breath, ritual, sacredness, and burning. It was one of those nights that fills you all the way up.

And then the very next day, I hosted a family brunch.

There wasn’t much time to relish or savor anything in between — just tired, bleary eyes and moving on to the next thing. And when I didn’t have those moments to pause, I found myself weepy.

Why? Who knows. I’m not even sure it matters.

This time of year seems to invite melancholy and nostalgia — especially if you’ve lived a few decades. As I come to the end of writing the book I’ve been working on this year, I’m realizing how much trauma and grief I’ve moved through without ever really giving myself a minute to sit with it all.

I think maybe this is my time.

That’s what this year has felt like — lots of crying, lots of gentleness. For the first time, really cradling little Jacqui in a way I hadn’t before. Letting her have all of the feelings.

Maybe I’m crying over Christmases past. Or the present ones that keep changing year after year. I remember holidays with little kids and big gatherings of relatives — many of whom are no longer here. I spend a good chunk of my life trying to be present, but I’m learning that presence isn’t always the remedy.

Sometimes we have to grieve the past.
Sometimes we have to grieve the changes we didn’t ask for.

The good news is that I’ve begun creating rituals and traditions of my own. One of them is the Solstice Gathering. It grounds me to the earth and the light in a way that gently invites me inward.

Lately, that has meant spending more time in the lower level of my house, near my altar. Lighting candles. Burning my thirteen wishes. Simply being in a part of my home I wrote off for many years — for many reasons. One of them being that my mom lived down there, and she died down there. That was over ten years ago now.

So I’m reclaiming spaces.
In my home.
And within myself.

I’m curious what you’re noticing and feeling these days. I can’t be the only one riding the waves — one moment full of joy, the next moment steeped in grief. Noticing how often I want to gather people when what I really need is to be with myself.

And still, I’m grateful. Even when the lessons leak out of my eyes.

No big takeaway here. Just a musing.
Holding joy and grief at the same time.

It’s Both/And, baby.

PS: As January takes shape, I’ll be offering a class for therapists, a one-day retreat in my home, continuing our free Wednesday morning meditations on Zoom, and hosting a small pre-launch gathering for my book on January 23rd. More soon.

In the Northern Hemisphere, we are moving through the longest night of the year — the winter solstice — which literally means the sun stands still. Stillness is a rarity for most of us, and this invitation is something to be savored.

Just stand still for a bit.

Last night I hosted my annual Solstice Gathering. Forty women gathered at my home to feast, talk, and be in community with one another. We lit candles, read poetry, told stories of ancient traditions, experienced silence, made a great circle of light around a bonfire, and called our names into the circle.

It was magical.

Hosting, community-building, and gathering this way can be vulnerable. It can break something small and quiet open in you — at least it can for me. But I don’t think I fully realized that until last night. I looked around and, for a moment, I was overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed by the joy.
Overwhelmed by the conversation.
Overwhelmed by several worlds colliding.

Guess what I did?

I paused.
I put my hands on my heart.
I took a breath.
And I let the moment in.

It was magical.

It is counterintuitive to make room for moments like these, but the benefit is extraordinary. The pace of society is lightning speed, and we are seduced into believing we must catch up — must stay in the race.

So I am imploring you, during this busiest time of the year…

Stand still.

Or better yet — sit.

Place a hand (or two) on your beating heart.
Light a candle.
Let it all arise.

The darkness.
The cold.
The bitter.
The sweet.
The connection.
The loneliness.

It is all there anyway, just waiting for your attention. Don’t run from it. Turn toward it. Embrace it. And watch how it moves through you.

A Few Things from the Night

Here is the playlist from last night on Spotify and Apple Music.

And below is a poem/prayer we read near the end — just before the joyful screaming and bell ringing began.

A Winter Solstice Prayer

Edward Hays

The dark shadow of space leans over us…
We are mindful that the darkness of greed, exploitation, and hatred
also lengthens its shadow over our small planet Earth.

As our ancestors feared death and evil and all the dark powers of winter,
we fear that the darkness of war, discrimination, and selfishness
may doom us and our planet to an eternal winter.

May we find hope in the lights we have kindled on this sacred night,
hope in one another and in all who form the web-work of peace and justice
that spans the world.

In the heart of every person on this Earth
burns the spark of luminous goodness;
in no heart is there total darkness.

May we who have celebrated this winter solstice,
by our lives and service, by our prayers and love,
call forth from one another the light and the love
that is hidden in every heart.

Amen.

Peace to you and yours on this longest night.

If this landed for you, you’re welcome to share it with someone who might need a little stillness too. Thank you for being part of this shared circle.

Like a kid.

Like wow — isn’t it wild how early the sun slips away? How different it is from just a day or two ago? That is so wild.

And look at how the light pours in during early mornings and late afternoons, so intense and bright it’s almost blinding. It’s so different than summer.

And being different isn’t always bad. It’s just… different.

I get it, I do — you’re all saying that at 6 o’clock it already feels like 10.
But maybe that’s not a bad thing either.
Maybe we’re supposed to hunker down early.

One thing I know for sure: seasons change, and so do we.
But what if we were more connected to the seasons and the Earth? Maybe in turn we’d be more connected to ourselves and to what actually fulfills us — rather than hopping on the hedonistic treadmill, doing too much, spending too much, pushing ourselves to keep up when the darkness is actually asking us to slow down.

The Season of Ease-Fullness

I’m also leaning into some of the ease-fulness that’s been coming after a transformational few months this summer and fall. It’s been hard and beautiful — you know, BOTH/AND.

For decades, the only thing on my bucket list was to write a book. And I’m almost there.
I’ve written over 45,000 words of a 60,000-word manuscript.

Writing my trauma story in a tangible timeline — like a book with a beginning, middle, and end — has given me space to grieve for my little girl.
Most of my life, I was busy working, raising kids, taking care of sick people, or burying the dead. (Don’t get me wrong, I still work a lot.) But now the people in my life are independent and can caring for themselves in beautiful ways.

And this became the time where I finally had the capacity to write and grieve and heal in a way I haven’t been able to in decades.

“You Always Seemed So Joyful…”

As I’ve talked with close friends and family about this shift toward ease-fulness and inner freedom, most of them say:

“You’ve always seemed joy-filled and free.”

And I get that.
But they couldn’t see my insides.

They couldn’t see how twisted-up I was.
The fear-awakenings in the middle of the night.
The constant anxiety, the lightheadedness, the upset stomach.
Always worrying about being connected and loved because it felt like my life depended on it.

And then… suddenly, something shifted.
Like the sudden darkness of November.

It feels sudden, but I know it’s not -- I truly believe from the inside out that I am enough. That I don’t have to put more on or do more or give more. That who I am — the essence of my being -- is enough to deserve love and connection. And I believe the same for you.

May You Find Rest

May you find rest in these dark days.
I love you. Keep going.

I say the above as much for me as for you.
Because even as delicious as this shift feels, there will be more to heal. There always is.

But the thing is:
Each time I go through a major shift or healing, the next time something surfaces, I get to the pause sooner.
And the pause is always where the healing begins

.

The first time I sat in an IFS Level 1 training, I was overwhelmed. I wanted so badly to “get it right,” to be seen, to belong. But under all my professionalism and well-timed questions, younger parts of me were quietly desperate for something else: love, reassurance, safety.

Those parts looked toward the adults in the room -- the lead trainer, the assistant trainer -- hoping they’d notice the little girl hiding behind the capable therapist. Of course, they didn’t. They saw what I showed them: confidence, curiosity, engagement. They treated me the way they treated everyone else.

But for that little girl inside, it wasn’t nearly enough.

There were so many subgroups of people who had been doing the model for so long. They seem to have inside jokes and mention Dick Schwartz and other leaders’ names. I felt so left out like I didn’t belong here. And of course, with learning a new orientation there was the critiquing. Thart was something my little girl just couldn’t handle. Feeling like I didn’t fit in, not getting the inside jokes, and now being judged.

When that ache went unmet, a protector stepped in, sharp and defensive. It whispered that IFS was no different from anything else. That Dick Schwartz was just another white dude with a microphone and a penis. That maybe this wasn’t my space after all.

I left that training with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. I was grateful for what I’d learned, but guarded. I knew the model was powerful, but I didn’t yet know how to love the parts of me that felt left out of its power.

Returning as Staff

Fast forward to this year, when I returned to Level 1, not as a participant, but as a staff member.

Same energy. Same format. Same long days of demos, small groups, and breakout sessions. And surprise, surprise same parts.

Only this time, I recognized them.

It was tough at first, sitting through the staff meetings where every time I spoke I felt judged. I felt like I was the only one with these parts coming up and everyone else was constantly Self-Led.

But I turned inward. When those familiar pangs of not belonging arose, I could pause. I could turn inward instead of outward. I could notice the little girl who still wanted to be chosen, and I could choose her.

One night after a long day, I sat alone in on my porch and spoke softly to her.
I let her know that I saw her, that she wasn’t invisible anymore, that she didn’t need to earn love or attention by being good, smart, or useful. I recognized her as the neglected little girl wanting so badly for the adults in the room to see her. To be with her.

And something softened.

The Turning Point

The next morning, in our staff meeting, I was able to speak for those parts instead of from them. I shared, openly, that parts of me had been activated. And instead of shame, I felt acceptance. Instead of distance, I felt connection.

That was the turning point: realizing that healing isn’t about never getting triggered again, it’s about knowing what to do when you are.

IFS didn’t fail me that first time around. I just didn’t yet know how to bring enough Self energy to those young ones who needed me most. And I didn’t realize the nature of the trainings were a petri dish for these parts to be exposed. There are rarely these kinds of petri dishes in my life anymore – most likely because my Manager Parts protect me from them!

Full Circle

Coming back as staff gave me a second chance -- not to prove anything, but to love the parts that once thought they didn’t belong.

And this time, I stayed in my seat.

Reflection

• What parts of you still long to be seen in the rooms you enter?

• How do you care for the little one inside who wants so badly to belong?

• What would it look like to stay in your seat — even when those old stories start whispering again?

• And how might you thank the protectors who once believed leaving was the only way to stay safe?

I’ve known this truth forever: you don’t have to be perfect to be good enough.

At retreats, I often say everything that happens is perfect, not because life is tidy or easy, but because once something has happened, it’s all we have. We can’t change the past, we can only learn from it and learn to tolerate our mistakes (and others) with a modicum of tact and dignity!

Perfection doesn’t exist anyway. (Except in Nature as the picture below proves!!) We are human. We are learning. We are doing the best we can with the tools we have. And we are so messy!

Recently, I bumped into this truth again in a very real, painful way. I’ve been practicing IFS (Parts Work) for many years now. I’m Level 1 and Level 2 trained, and I love this model in so many ways.

But a part of me resisted the idea of getting officially certified -- jumping through hoops to prove I was “enough.” Another part bristled at how the model is still dominated by a white dude, and how much people love to name-drop about him which activates another part who feels I don’t belong!

Still, I love the work. I believe in it. And another part of me did want the recognition.

So, I did it. I submitted my video for certification.

And…I passed!

But the critique that came with it was brutal. Honest. Necessary. But it hurt my ego! I sent a note back saying, essentially, uggggh, that was hard to read — but you’re right. No defenses, no protective parts, just truth. Everything the reviewer said was valid.

It brought me back to being in grad school at 38 and getting client videos critiqued. I was proficient in my professional role at the time so the critique was hard to take and I was unaware of my defensive parts back then. Just like now, so hearing this was tough. Both times, it was hard to grasp that yes in my field I was good and knowledgable, but when learning something new, we have to lean into critique in order to grow!

Thank goodness for the work I’ve done between now and then!

The moment I could respond without defensiveness, I realized I had been given a gift -- a clear path for growth.

It took a day or two to move through the sting, to quiet the imposter parts. And then something shifted. I felt re-energized. Curious again. Motivated to refine my skill and collaborate even more.

It turns out, that’s what being good enough really means -- showing up imperfectly, learning openly, and letting the process itself be part of your journey.

I’m reminded again:
You don’t need to be perfect to be good enough.
You just have to keep showing up fully.

Maybe, after all, imperfection is its own kind of perfection.

When I was in grad school, I learned about a guy named Winnicott, who talked about the concept of the “good enough mother.” His idea was that children don’t need a perfect parent, they need one who shows up consistently, makes mistakes, and repairs them. It’s through those small imperfections that trust and resilience actually grow. That concept helped me so much when I saw my own mistakes raising my kids. It still helps me now: both in my work and in my life.

Reflection Questions

• When was the last time you received hard feedback — and how did your parts respond?

• Can you remember a time when “good enough” actually became a doorway to growth?

• Which perfectionist parts in you might be ready to soften or rest?

• What would it look like to show up this week with self-compassion instead of self-critique?

As always, I love putting. themed playlist together for these musings! This Week’s Playlist: Good Enough: Here it is on Spotify and here is is on Apple

As always, I’d love to hear if this resonates with you or just how you are caring for yourself these days!

P.S. Speaking of “good enough,” our Room to Breathe Retreat in November is almost here: four days in the Shenandoah Valley filled with rest, reflection, yoga, art, and community. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about remembering that good enough is already perfect.

Only ONE SPOT left — maybe this is your time to come breathe and let go of perfection! Check it out here! The next retreat isn’t until April, 2026!

It is not the first time the song has undone me. For my 60th birthday, my husband played Thunder Road just for me. At the time it felt like a song about longing for youth or romance, the way Bruce saw Mary dancing across the porch as the radio played.

But this past year, something has shifted. As I have gone deeper into my trauma work, maybe because of writing a memoir, maybe because of the empty nest, maybe because I’m not on any medications, or maybe simply because the Universe said it is time, I have realized this song is not about romance at all.

It is about connection

When you grow up with neglect, without that secure tether of love and attention, you carry an insatiable longing to be seen. Any hint of disconnection later in life can feel like agony. You know you are “overreacting.” You tell yourself it does not make sense. But your body does not listen. The pit in your chest is real.

And yet, healing is possible.

A small moment of healing

Just last week, while driving in my car, I felt that familiar ache and panic rising in my chest during a rift with someone I love. But instead of spiraling, I put my hand on my heart, tapped gently, and spoke to little Jackie:

“It’s okay, sweetie. We are so loved. We are so held. We are seen by so many people. We will never be alone. We are safe and secure. You grew up. You aren’t 8 any longer.”

And for the first time, the words worked. The anxious part softened. I could feel Self holding her.

Yet, I did have a sadness arrive as well. A sadness that it's taken me into my 60s to get to this point. But that's also the good news. Healing literally is like peeling an onion. Just because I'm doing deep work in my 60s doesn't mean all of the other healing wasn't good enough at the time. It allowed me to choose a soulmate, continue in a successful three decade marriage, raise two fiercely independent women, stay put in a home for over 25 years, and build a business that pays the bills.

Keep going

So here is what I want to say to you today:

Keep going.
Keep tending to your parts, your heart, your story.
Tell your younger self what they have always needed to hear.

And if no one has told you lately,
I love you.
Keep going.
It is worth it.

Sending you lots of healing love,
Jacqui