For months after discovering a noticeable crack in my bathroom rinse cup, I shrugged it off. Probably a superficial wound, I concluded, carrying on the twice-daily ritual of teeth-brushing. Eventually, I noticed a puddle on the counter and saw the crack had deepened to a crystalline fault-line. No big deal, I shrugged, admiring the scar…it’s just water. After every session it became customary to tend to aftermath of the leakage by wiping the counter with a towel and setting it on a rack to dry in time for the next round.

The puddles gradually enlarged and so did the task of sopping up the water. I even attempted rushing the brushing in hopes of not having as big a puddle to clean. Then - at long last - the dawning of an intervening thought brought the needless ritual to a halt.

Why not just get a new bathroom cup?

A simple solution, yet one that had completely evaded me. The long-overdue revelation also brought to light shadows of ancient beliefs I thought I’d long disposed of: Don’t ask for anything; don’t make waves; and above all, remember your role: to shut up and put up.

For those weaned on negative messages and an overall lack of emotional support, it’s not hard to connect the dots. Anyone who grew up with criticism as a primary form of communication, wasn’t protected and supported by parents and caretakers, or who was a target of ridicule, has a subtle-but-powerful soundtrack playing underneath our cerebral cortex. It’s an album full of debilitating hits that informs self-perception. And self-perception affects everything.

A mentor of mine once revealed that, decades after the crimes occurred, she still had to wrestle with her mother’s searing (and oft-repeated) definition of her as “stupid,” a proclamation that was delivered in tandem with a swat to her eight-year-old head. Considerable effort and years of long-term supplanting of the negative label ensued. Eventually, my mentor triumphed over past programming, but admitted every now and then, the shadow belief crept in uninvited.

My parents knew I experienced relentless bullying at school and were quick to remind me I had only myself to blame because I couldn’t stick to a 700-calorie-a-day diet. Not caring to hear another degrading lecture, I stopped expecting support from them, kept the pain to myself, and comforted the emotional ache by sneaking food with stealth precision impressive enough to qualify me for CIA employment. They voiced their disappointment in me often, which only further paralyzed any shot at self-esteem.

“Childhood messages don’t simply influence how we feel about ourselves,” said holistic psychologist Veronica Cole. “They establish what we believe we deserve.”

I became superior at ignoring distress signals of all size and intensities. If the big ones like dread of facing the day and getting out of bed in the morning could be sublimated, innocuous issues like a cracked bathroom cup didn’t even make the radar. Putting up with undesirable situations of all sizes became a survival mechanism when I was younger. But in adulthood, I worked in earnest to turn the ship of embedded beliefs in the opposite direction.

It involved a lot of digging and discarding of beliefs formed by negative experiences, unsupportive people, and a misogynistic culture. Thanks to therapy, support groups, falling asleep to cassette tapes embedded with affirming subliminal messages, and other techniques, I progressed. Which is why the recent cracked-cup scenario stunned me in its revelation of a still-present tendency.

That’s the thing about beliefs: Some are easy to access, while others hide within the indiscernible darkness of the sub-conscious. By nature, they fly under the radar. But viable clues can be behavior, reactions, and aversions. I wasn’t just averse to buying myself a new cup, I was completely blind to it as an option.

But once my eyes opened to the worn-out pattern, I sprung into action, driving myself to the nearest home décor emporium. I’d make it fun, I decided, marching purposefully down the aisles in search of a pink bathroom cup – the color was the only non-negotiable part of the mission. There were no pink cups in the bathroom department, but I I kept scouring - for nearly half an hour - even retracing my steps back to the bathroom aisle. Finally, I found it in clearance on a bottom shelf obscured by a pile of towels: A diamond-cut pink bathroom cup. Sturdier than the one before and probably crack-proof. But the point is, I replaced a defective model for the simple reason that I would no longer live with the twice-daily aggravation of managing the aftermath of a leaky cup.

Once I realized I had a choice, the rest was easy. Replacement and renewal is always an option, whether it’s a household item, a bad relationship dynamic, or a self-defeating mental habit (still have a few of those).

Freedom really is as basic as a shift in perspective, followed by a revelation, and always cemented with action.

I sometimes spend hours in the kitchen. Even on beautiful, sunny days, the urge to be ricocheting between sink and stove is often more compelling.

It’s not unusual for the kitchen – generally the heartbeat of the home – to be designated a happy-place-zone. But feeling at ease there wasn’t always my natural state. Without sounding too hyperbolic, it’s accurate to say my kitchen of origin was a place where I was routinely…triggered. I know that’s an overused term but how could it not apply? It was in the kitchen where I tended to be glared at, viewed as an intruder, and made to feel decidedly unwelcome.

My weight issues provided evergreen fodder for being at odds with the primal basic instinct for nourishment. As a chubby kid, my parents’ strategy was calorie restriction – all day every day. It was a horrible game plan, both psychologically and biologically, since growing bodies do best when not in a state of deprivation. The fallout that ensued cut deeply, and perpetuated cycles of shame-eating in my room, basement, attic, - wherever I could find relief. Even though I knew I was committing a serious infraction, biology spurred me onward to find covert ways to eat.

There were the semi-annual rounds of mandatory dieting starting at age 9, and though every one of them proved disastrous, my parents kept going back to the well, believing that one day the magic would kick in and at last, there would be a metamorphosis into acceptability and non-embarrassment.

Diets, of course, were logically followed by stretches of revenge eating. The oversized portions of all the foods denied me was how I expressed the sorrow and rage that broiled from within. But how could I express it verbally and properly in a culture where we embrace that which is not only shallow, but almost wholly unattainable? If it is by some miracle attained, rarely is it sustained.

When I realized there was no fast-track to self-worth through trying to change my body, and no lasting satisfaction to be found in binge-eating, I began to exhale, drop the outmoded tactics, and relax into the middle road. What does that look like?

Well, I may not have set out to do it consciously, but I began a kitchen remodeling project; not in the sense of hardware and color scheme overhauls. My quest centered around an emotional makeover. I revived the innate love of cooking that I discovered in second grade during weekly afterschool gatherings with my Brownie troop. I still recall poring over recipes and kitchen tips in the orange, weather-worn Brownie handbook. One pointer I never forgot was the practical suggestion to put everything away (spices, measuring spoons, bags of flour, mixing bowls – whatever) as soon as you use it to eliminate pile-ups overwhelm when creating. I began piecing together all the positive elements of my relationship with food that I could recall, and gave myself permission to be curious again.

This time, the kitchen was all mine: my space, my body, my rules. I was free to create, and nourish myself, and nourish those for whom I care. No food groups were disallowed. Portions weren’t scrutinized, and guess what? I ended up having fun…in a place that had once been a designated war zone.

Now, when the kitchen and all its possibilities call, I respond with tail wagging, like I did this morning. Some of it may seem more chore-centric than creative, but at the core of what makes me tick now is the desire to treat myself well – and for some reason, that’s never dull or feels like drudgery.

A few random but pleasureful tasks checked off the list were:

· Making tomorrow’s coffee ahead of time

· Picking fresh oregano and thyme from the garden to enhance a pot of bone broth

· Making dairy-free strawberry ice cream

· Sautéing a tomato to use as a garnish in a lunch of restaurant leftovers

· Whipping up a batch of gluten-free matzo ball mix to chill for dinner

· Handwashing the pots and pans and loading the rest in the dishwasher

· Giving all the countertops a Mrs. Meyers spritz-down

I did all this by choice and inspiration – not out of desperation or misplaced escape. The emotional remodeling is complete and took root years ago – but I’m never not aware of how grateful I am that my relationship with the kitchen is permanently healed and continues to bloom.

I’d just awoken from a nap, blinking to adjust to daylight after a blissful sleep. Looking around, I saw that I wasn’t alone in the second-floor guest bedroom of my aunt’s house. Glaring at me through the wooden bars of my crib was an extended family member, 10 years my senior, poised to partake in their custom of expressing disdain for me. “You are bad, Stacey…bad!” they muttered in a guttural tone laced with loathing. “Yeah, you are BAD!” They had brought a friend with them that afternoon and both continued the stare-down until they got bored and turned to leave. I was somewhere between the age of 2 and 3, and it was my earliest memory of the relative’s unquenchable deployment of their vendetta.

Our strained relationship was molded by resentment of my birth, which, according to them, spoiled this spoiled brat’s standing in the family and ‘stole’ their status as youngest. “When you were born, you took alllll the attention,” they told me with a straight face when they were graying and in middle-age, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to remark upon.

That’s how the tone was set with this seething malcontent. Their mother often babysat me, and unlike their older sibling, who always treated me with kindness and affection, the malcontent lived to crap on me whenever they could get away with it. Post-crib phase, they would amuse themselves by terrorizing me in their bedroom, insisting there was a ghost in the closet who wanted to kill me. My tearful pleas from under their bed (a haven for colonies of dust bunnies as repulsive as their owner) only made them more delighted. My cries lit them up and seemed to imbue them with vigor and joy. One afternoon during a torture session, I could take no more and made a break for it, tearing down the stairs sobbing, as I made a beeline for safety in the kitchen. When their mother put two and two together, she rebuked the sulking malcontent, who glared at me for exposing their misdeeds. It was the only time I saw my aunt hold to account her maladapted offspring – which was a huge part of the problem where the absence of character-building was concerned. There was never consequence meted out, and their unchecked self-centeredness grew like a toxic mold over the years.

As we aged, they carefully kept their resentment of me masqueraded under more socially acceptable patterns of sarcasm and deftly placed micro-aggressions. But even my siblings began to notice the disparity and how this relative singled me out for the digs. My younger siblings weren’t charged with any similar crimes, for only I had brought ruination to their life (I never said they were rational).

My response to it all was to become the cheerful appeaser. It’s a common survival tactic of the abused and confused, to adopt (out of desperation) the belief that if we’re just nice enough, just helpful enough, just good enough to our abuser, there will eventually come a conversion. There was never a time when I didn’t cede to their will or did their bidding when they were in need. Fully aware of my weakness and adept at exploiting the power imbalance, they ran on the warped belief that reparations toward them would be required of me in perpetuity.

The merry-go-round kept going and would probably still be spinning, if not for a turning point no one saw coming: the night the gates of whatever demonic lair they dwell in opened a little wider and they unleashed a torrent of ritual humiliation on me at a family dinner. As you may have guessed, I had not, at that point, accrued the strength to stop the abuse then and there. Please don’t tell me what I ‘should’ have done. I’m well aware of what would have been an ideal course of action, but my role and self-perception for most of my life was that of shit-taker, human dumpster, a pathetic weakling who can’t and won’t fight back. It was enforced by the adults and caretakers around me and unless you’ve lived a similar life path, solutions in retrospect and rebukes are nothing but inappropriate judgement.

So, on that fateful night, I ignored each arrow for the sake of harmony. About ¾ of the way through the tortured event came the revelation, cleansing as a sprinkling of baptismal font holy water: this miserable, unpleasable creature will never stop resenting me. The resentment only, in fact, intensified over the decades with each selfless act I performed in hopes of improving the dynamic between us: nursing them through infirmities, being there for both parents on their deathbeds, bringing care packages of food in times of need. None of it mattered. It was all forgotten the minute the goodwill was devoured, never to be thought of again. And to be clear: I was not seeking perpetual thanks or adoration, only the common respect that they gave freely to others, who did far less for them, if anything at all.

That night, as I left their house silently distraught and loaded with the humiliating pockmarks of their shrapnel, I knew it would be the very last time they would ever mistreat me. I was laser-clear on that. After a lifetime of overlooking, excusing, and feigning amnesia, I’d reached my limit. I’d more than done my time in the trenches, and it only proved the truism that appeasement of abusers never works…it only worsens their character flaws.

Eventually, they took notice of my distance and attempted to remedy it with a pity-laced smackdown, complete with sarcastic apologies for apparently being too toxic. If only it had been a moment of genuine clarity and culpability, but it was just another manipulative tug to make me feel the need to come to my senses and resume ministering to them. When I sent back a polite response indicating I wouldn’t be traveling down the appeasement road, coupled with the invitation to meet in person and attempt a hash-out, it was returned with angry rejection.

An ancient pattern had officially been destroyed. I took a stand and stuck to my position with my most longstanding abuser. And while my mind was effervescent with relief, my body was reacting much differently.

In her March 10th Substack titled “When the Body Speaks,” Paula Gibson writes of the significance of physical symptoms. Not just their existence, but what they can mean in terms of stored emotion. She stated how the function of the beleaguered body part or organ can be a major clue to the emotional patterns they hold. For example, the liver, in Chinese Medicine, is known as the storehouse of anger while the skin, said Gibson, is a metaphor for boundaries. Rashes and other visible irritations can indicate that our boundaries are being challenged.

Entire books, including the seminal “The Body Keeps The Score” by Bessel van der Kolk, M.D., have been written on the subject of the body’s role in storing trauma within its deepest chambers. Sometimes it’s released voluntarily by boundary-setting and other wake-up calls, and in more unfortunate cases, it appears as illness or an unignorable imbalance.

Knowing I’d reached a crossroads with this antagonistic relationship was equal parts relief and panic. My line in the sand resulted in more than just butterflies in my stomach – I broke out in a rash. It was a symptom as loud as an ambulance siren and manifested on the back of my thighs in burning red welts – almost as if I’d been struck there. The doctor prescribed cream, but instinct told me to look deeper, as it was likely connected to the stand I took and the anxiety it caused me. I finally said no to them. This meant reality as I knew it was turned upside down and I was unsure of how to handle it.

It didn’t take long for a deeply buried memory to surface from age seven featuring an episode when they came to babysit my siblings and me (a misbegotten assignment if there ever was one). It was bedtime and as seven-year-olds sometimes do, I blew off a little evening steam by jumping on my bed, trampoline-style. I was in mid-air when I felt it: a hard slap on the back of my bare thighs. They’d snuck up behind me and wordlessly let me know there’d be no more jumping on the bed. The skin on the back of my legs stung and my eyes welled with tears. I lay down and faced the wall to avoid their hateful gaze. My parents never hit me that way, nor had any other babysitter. I was stunned and humiliated. The rotten relative didn’t bat an eye or show a shred of remorse.

Decades after the fact, red, stinging welts popped up on the same region. I knew what was happening, the wounds simply wanted to be seen – and maybe a little bit heard - after all that time in lockdown. And the memory reassured me that taking a stand for my dignity was not only the right thing, but long overdue. In the end, it wasn’t over any singular incident that caused our relationship to topple – it was one incident too many. The bough broke, and I instantly had the courage to become my own knight in shining armor.

My body was both glad and terrified because I conquered something that scared and overwhelmed me my entire life. Soon enough, the red welts disappeared, never to return. And I’d like to think the same is true of my willingness to look with other way in the face of inexcusable behavior.

In retrospect, I’m glad they fired hard artillery at me that night. Shifting from under-the-radar micro-aggressions to belittling me in front of an audience woke me up and dislodged the ancient and completely ineffective defense mechanism of submissiveness. The perma-smile I wore reflexively in their presence was sent packing as well. In its place, I now work on being true to myself and retraining my psyche - misaligned from years of energy-draining people pleasing – to greenlight a smile when I genuinely feel it, not because of delusions of winning over that which is unwinnable.

To an outsider, or to one who had self-esteem conscientiously nailed in place by their caretakers, it may have seemed like no-brainer that I should have done this long ago. The reasons we tolerate abuse are mysterious, misunderstood, and multi-layered. Almost always, the abuse takes place at the hand of someone close to us. There are bloodlines and emotional dynamics, social ties, power structures, and entrenched attachments involved.

To say it’s complicated is an understatement. But listening to that small-but-powerful schism in your heart telling you that something isn’t right is the beginning. Keep listening and allow those distress signals to guide you. They are utterly pure in their trustworthiness and will never lead you astray.

And, if at all possible, don’t follow my lead and wait too long. Take control, realize what you don’t deserve, and slam down the gavel on an unhealthy relationship. The only one who pays the price of appeasement is you.

The year 2011 was an especially prestigious one for me: on the heels of a monumental weight loss (170 pounds) I’d suddenly become the toast of the blogosphere, was lauded by both local and national media, and enjoyed star pupil-status by the fitness guru who helped me achieve this state of grace.

It was a life I never thought I’d be living after weighing in excess of 300 pounds for so long. After years of near-immobility, I suddenly was able to do things like skip across parking lots in dainty capri pants and fashionable mules; hop into a high-top seat at a restaurant; and walk seven miles as easily if it were 7 yards. The sense of physical freedom was euphoric.

But most gratifying of all was the feeling that came from helping others. And there was no shortage of opportunities: Long lost classmates materialized out of thin air with simultaneous shouts of congratulations coupled with requests to share my ‘secrets’ with them. Strangers contacted me for tips though my website, and friends who wanted weight loss advice filled my roster of free time with either coffee dates or phone sessions.

It filled me with purpose and, I suppose, a ballasted sense of worthiness. Oh heck, who am I kidding, it INFUSED me with a Sally Fields variety of “You like me…you really like me,” relief. The validation ship I’d been longing for was at last anchored in the harbor. My sense of esteem seemed like it was cementing. But the truth was, it was conditional and hinged on a considerable investment of time, plus the expectation of a rescue. Gladly, I answered each request - and why not? I needed boatloads of encouragement when I began my journey and was happy to return the cosmic favor.

But a sudden tragedy in 2014 (from which I’ve never fully recovered) brought my full-steam-ahead engines of vigor and glory to a smacking halt. One of my closest friends and confidents dropped dead in front of me, just as we were about to have dinner one cozy November evening. Even though Bill called 911 immediately, nothing could be done. I knew my friend was gone when the EMS crew silently carried his lifeless body out the front door after 15 fruitless minutes of administering defibrillation shocks to his heart.

In the aftermath, I descended into a haze of shocked sadness for months, and not just because I was mourning his death.

Unlike the legions of people I’d ministered to during the previous four years, this friend, I’d realized, was left behind in the dust of my success. I kind of sped along ahead and forgot about him for a while. When he was felled by a massive heart attack, I was back at his side unconditionally but couldn’t deny I’d been neglectful. He suffered alone all those years I was ‘gone,’ and it’s something I can neither fix or fully forgive myself for.

My mind gradually came back to what passed for functional, but not my body. Energy was slowly being siphoned away, and in its place came aches and pains. Diagnoses of rheumatoid and autoimmune conditions provided answers, but years later, relief remains as elusive as the circle of admirers who once rushed my door. Not entirely illogical, since I’m no longer a weight loss inspiration, but for the ones who purported to be friends, the sting of withdrawal smarts. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe someone’s physical dimensions should carry no weight where the value of a friendship is concerned.

A lifelong friend who could accurately be described as her own worst enemy was my shadow during the ‘lean years.’ And the worthless rescuer was always on standby with encouragement, strategies, and an accommodating shoulder for her laments – all of it done out of genuine empathy for her. But in the spirit of transparency, I was also keen on shedding the reptilian skin of worthlessness I’d been saddled with since childhood. As my weight came back, her distance grew in proportion. I was hoping that I might just be imagining it, but her avoidance gradually morphed into unreturned phone calls. Yowch.

Sometimes I ponder the existential lessons to be gleaned from this reversal of fortune. Maybe I had it coming in karmic payback for the years I wasn’t there for my friend - I accept that. And I acknowledge my willing participation in a co-dependent tango in exchange for the payoff of validation and the belief that I was accepted. I also own my promiscuity in the way I over gave my time and energy: to my former fitness guru (who was fond of reminding me how I ‘owed’ him), to strangers piling into my in box, and to those with whom I had personal relationships.

Emotionally, this passage has gifted me with the newfound ability of discernment – a power I didn’t realize was always an option. I don’t contort myself for the needy and for the voracious takers anymore. Reciprocity - whether it’s a concrete offering or that non-negotiable intangible of respect - is required. And for those who regard me with disdain or have dropped me altogether because of weight gain, well…I thank them for the reminder that we’re all flawed gems in need of a polishing cloth.

Physically, my task is to dig myself out of this hole to a new (markedly lower) version of higher ground. I imagine Vegas would lay odds that I’ll never replicate my peak physical condition of 2011, when life was packed with two-hour lifting routines at the gym, power yoga, power-dating, and capping it all off with three-mile evening walks. It was a part-time job, and one I’m probably no longer qualified for. But 12 years later, I’m returning to life because I can’t tolerate treading water anymore. The traumatizing memories from 2014 will always be a part of my psyche but I can’t let them run me, and it’s time to disconnect from the belief that haunting guilt is my forever lot.

The load I carry is also lighter thanks to the fair-weather evacuees. But the empty space leaves room to enjoy a discovery that I was utterly blind to: that I matter. All along, it was Stacey-at-any-size who mattered every bit as much as those to whom I ministered. No matter what my stats, and however others choose to assess me, I MATTER.

And I no longer require the hollow victory of outside validation to know that.

Photo courtesy of www.artwithjennyk.com

It was just another afternoon in 7^th grade art class, until I looked across the table and noticed the shyest boy in our grade sitting quietly in front of his painting project, crying. The rivulet of a tear silently rolling down one cheek was the only evidence of his pain that wouldn’t keep itself hidden. Paul barely spoke as it was, and during the times he was on the ropes, he went further within – a common defense mechanism of the social outcasts and the bullied with which I was well-practiced.

Paul’s social circle was the geek squad: the boys with an inordinate gifting of brains but very little brawn. Most of the time, things were harmonious amongst the group of them. But on that afternoon, they suddenly turned on Paul and made him their sport. Even the scrawniest of the scrawny feel the need to flex and posture like Johnny Weissmuller, I reckon.

I hadn’t been privy to the entire scenario from my vantage point at the 50-foot stretch of communal table, but they were standing over Paul, leering while they took turns landing verbal punches. Paul sat there in absorption mode, helpless, humiliated and outnumbered.

That is until Leopoldo did something about it. He materialized without any of them noticing, standing in the fray nonchalantly to ask what was going on. The geeks were suddenly speechless, freezing in their tracks with mouths agape.

“You picking on this guy?” he inquired evenly to one of them, staring him square in the eye. Wide-eyed, he could only respond with a faint shaking of his head.

“Yes, you are. I saw it,” said Leopoldo, folding his arms.

Leopoldo was new to the scene in our tiny upstate school district, and he stuck out like a sore thumb…in a way that fascinated teachers and students alike. He possessed a confidence and outgoing personality not usually associated with new-kid syndrome. Leopoldo’s outer-borough city accent only added to the intrigue. And when he talked tough, all of us knew it wasn’t mere posturing – even the older guys gave Leopoldo a wide berth in the hallway. But the most interesting thing about him was, Leopoldo never abused his cache of streetwise power; he seemed utterly uninterested in getting his jollies through random bullying and intimidation.

Which only proves the immutable truths of two of the most well-known of the personality archetypes: bullies are the insecure cowards, choosing without fail a softer, weaker target in order to fabricate the power they wish they had. Those with genuine strength, on the other hand, don’t have any psychological axes to grind; and Leopoldo was Exhibit A for the fortuitous, at-ease-in-his-skin sort of human.

About as rough as Leopoldo got was the occasional laceration-by-sarcasm to put conceited cheerleader in her place, but only if she’d worn down his patience with the repetition of her “I’m better than everyone,” façade that she was accustomed to performing without blowback.

My own history with bullying and being catnip for posturing weaklings is well documented, and yet, Leopoldo never laid a glove on me. That says it all.

I continued to watch the drama unfold across the table, fascinated by the wondrous combination of attention-commanding machismo woven with diplomacy that Leopoldo was wielding without even raising his voice. He continued talking to the boys in measured tones about how what they were doing to Paul was wrong, and would they want it done to them.

Gently but firmly, Leopoldo pressed on with his negotiations and gave the boys a suggestion they decided not to refuse - apologize on the spot to Paul. They did so, contritely, one at a time, heads hanging in shame. Paul continued to sit in his chair staring at his unfinished art project, mortified by both his friends’ sudden cruelty plus the realization that the entire room was now watching the drama as it unfolded.

“You OK?” Leopoldo asked, bending down to look at Paul, who nodded silently. Satisfied, Leopoldo gave him a double-pat on the back and strode back to the other end of the table.

I’ve thought of this incident that took place almost a half-century ago from time to time over the years, and it always astounds me in its grace. I never witnessed anything like it before or since. It was a measured and merciful intervention when a tortured and abused kid needed it the most, and it stuck. The geeks never reverted to their old ways, and I’m sure that made Paul’s not-so-great social life at school that much easier.

Leopoldo went on to do various things with his life: a turn as an MMA fighter, running his own construction business, and even some alleged drug dealing. People from school loved to focus on the latter and malign him for that. I don’t condone drug dealing, but will forever be in admiration of Leopoldo for his kindness that day.

Several years ago, our paths crossed at an area restaurant. I recognized his exuberant confidence immediately and when he and his family walked by my table on their way out, I couldn’t resist a re-introduction. I reminded Leopoldo about that day, and although he had no memory of the incident, it brought a smile to not only his face, but his wife’s, who turned to Leopoldo, beaming, to declare, “I never knew that about you!”

I do a lot of (justified) railing against bullies in my autobiographical writings, but I love nothing more than to uphold the people who lead with their hearts - the helpers - as Mr. Rogers once described. They who take the sting out of life’s considerable underbelly are what make it all bearable in the long run. Leopoldo was definitely a helper, showing me and the rest of the 7^th grade class that day that, even on the cusp of adolescence, when we’re at our most lost and confused, there is always the option of taking a higher road.

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There we were, sitting canal-side at a restaurant in Venice. The eatery had closed to the public in order to accommodate the group of 75: dozens of American college students, as well as professors, chaperones, plus a few civilians who took advantage of a relatively affordable opportunity to explore Italy for a month.

I was the lone wolf from a small upstate New York community college amongst the more urbane crowd of street-savvy students from New York University and Montclair State. Shy by nature, I easily could have remained solo that sweltering month of July 1987, but fate had other ideas. My dining companions that evening were members of the Valentino family…the Clifton, N.J. Valentinos. They promptly took me into the fold upon noticing I belonged to neither college group, and adopted me as their own. Their daughter Rene was a fellow student who, like me, took the study abroad program for college credit. Parents, Philomena and Michael, were second-generation Italian-Americans who jumped at the chance to enjoy an extended visit in the Motherland.

To say the family dynamics differed from my strain of WASP heritage was an understatement, and I was riveted by the contrast. In my eyes, Mrs. Valentino was a one-woman sit-com - brash, ferociously protective, short-tempered, and prone to cursing streaks - she was a complete 180 from the women who molded me. And I couldn’t get enough of this alien custom of shooting from the hip.

Take the dinner in Venice, for instance. We arrived hungry and primed for a feast of gastronomic delights that surely would include no shortage of pasta. Instead, we were informed by the restaurant staff that we were in for a set menu of broiled fish and a few vegetable sides. The look on Mrs. Valentino’s face made it clear that the heat coming from Vesuvius was officially on the rise. “I don’t want anything,” she tersely informed the waitress, staring straight ahead.

Twenty minutes later, when a plate of Branzino was set before Mrs. Valentino anyway, Vesuvius emitted the ominous warning of its first rumble. “Take it,” she hissed to the waitress, who likely didn’t speak English and turned to walk away. “TAAAAAKE IT!”

The entire restaurant froze and everyone looked in our direction. The waitress, amid the awkward silence, needed no further translation and whisked the plate away while Mrs. Valentino cemented Plan B.

“C’mon,” she said, rising to her feet. “Let’s get the hell outta’ here and find some food.” That episode taught me two things:

1. Don’t serve Philomena Valentino fish when in the land of tagliatelle and scialatielli…and…

2. Never disrespect an Italian-American woman from New Jersey (because it won’t end well).

Post-outburst, Mrs. Valentino wafted into comparatively Zen-like serenity, and why not? Cork popped, she reverted naturally to a state of being unruffled, unbothered, and blithely free of suppressed anger. It was a way of navigating life that both fascinated and inspired me.

But it wasn’t just Mrs. Valentino’s temper (which she proudly noted stemmed from her Neapolitan heritage) that enthralled me. She was protective: shouting rebukes at some of the fresh and uninhibited local men who hit on me, and showering concern my way those few days of the expedition I was under the weather, bringing me tea and hot plates of food from the university cafeteria.

Last, but hardly least, Mrs. Valentino was nurturing and generous, as I found out once we returned to the states. By that time, I was attending school in Manhattan and the Valentinos regularly had me over for dinner – a quick bus ride across the Hudson. The first visit was like landing in technicolor Oz as I beheld a table laden with Mrs. Valentino’s handmade cavatelli with marinara, fresh baked bread, salads, antipasti, and other delights. I may even have clapped my hands in joyful excitement.

Halfway through the meal, when Mrs. Valentino offered me a second helping (of everything!), I knew I was definitely no longer in Kansas. Food wasn’t judged and rationed, and the dinner was spent talking, laughing, and sans obsessive scrutiny over table manners. And her offers for seconds weren’t just hollow gestures. For Mrs. V., second go-rounds were a metric of how greatly her food was enjoyed. On one occasion, when an unsuspecting dinner guest politely declined her offer a second helping, she spun on her heel with the vat of pasta while muttering, “aaahh, go ta’ hell.” For Rene it was business as usual, but I never tired of Mrs. Valentino’s salty salvos. Often, they sent me into fits of giggles because they were so contrary to the hide-your-feelings and be a people-pleaser boot camp of my formative years. Seeing this other side of the equation opened my world ten-fold.

Not only did my adopted Mamma flawlessly model freedom of expression, she also provided much-needed healing where food and bonding around the dinner table was concerned.

I owe Mrs. Valentino an unquantifiable debt of gratitude. And even though she passed almost 20 years ago, I think of her often – especially if I’m having a bad day. A framed photo of the two of us aboard a Venetian water taxi sits in my office.

All I have to do is time travel back to 1987 and remember the glorious, raspy bellow of Mrs. V. channeling Ralph Kramden for five hilarious seconds of red-hot rage.

Invariably, I find myself giggling all over again: comforted by the memories, and forever grateful at my good fortune: I got an Italian Mamma dropped in my lap without even asking for one.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Valentino – mi manchi tantissimo - and I promise to have an extra helping at dinner tonight.

I make a pot of soup on average of once a week – sometimes more often. Not only are the tasks involved therapeutic, I’ve grown to love the unmatched flavor of a hand-rendered bowl, whether it’s tomato-chevre, a lemony Avgolemono, or a vegetable-laden lentil.

There was a time when only gloppy canned soup would do. Starch and salt-centric, condensed soup was my salvation that I’d sneak after school. Because my parents harbored a much-ballyhooed hope that one day I’d lose weight and at last look like the model daughter they longed for (or at least one who didn’t embarrass them), eating in between meals was forbidden.

This was a Catch-22 if there ever was one: underfeed a growing kid and what you get is not the outcome of svelteness, but a bewildered youth perpetually in a state of semi-starvation who seeks, out of basic instinct, to mitigate the nourishment deficit.

Snack preparation was a frantic, covert undertaking with heart racing as I slam-emptied a can of cream of chicken into a saucepan, dialed the burner up to medium-high, and counted the seconds while spinning the whisk as quietly as possible. If the heat was too high, I ran the risk of the soup – an emotional lifeline – tasting like scorched earth. But if I had to abort mission because one of my parents were approaching, well, there’s nothing more insipid than cold soup.

Most of the time, I was able to maneuver the operation to completion, hurriedly splashing the pale-orange processed soup into a family-sized salad bowl, then rinsing and storing away the saucepan so there’d be no evidence in the sink. Later, I would tiptoe the empty soup can out to our garage trash barrel. Previously, I naively tossed an empty soup can into our kitchen trash, only to be subjected to a degrading Q&A session by my parents upon discovery, as if I’d been hauled into the downtown precinct on a felony charge. Lesson learned: what I was doing was wrong, perhaps even terrible. Hide evidence at all costs.

Once I’d scrubbed the kitchen of all proof of food consumption, it was up to my room for a clandestine gulp. Ingesting was a blur, and even though the soup filled my stomach, I was always left in a cloud of melancholy.

The next chapter of my strained relationship with food included nearly two decades of calculated revenge-eating, which began in earnest once I had my driver’s license. It was a necessary step in reclaiming autonomy, but the nagging feeling of unfulfillment didn’t disappear as I’d hoped it would.

So, I began to seek wholeness in a completely different arena: by devouring self-help books and 12-step meetings. There, I explored the virgin territory of self-acceptance. Incrementally, I began trusting myself. As it turned out, my judgement and instincts were sound after all, despite the original programming from authority.

When this new condemnation-free perspective began to inform the way I eat, it was anything but a forced, heavy-handed mandate. The evolution was natural and occurred through a confluence of monthly Gourmet magazines (supplied lovingly by my Godmother’s yearly birthday subscriptions), a few compelling cooking shows on PBS, and simple curiosity. And paradoxically, it was through this newfound door of acceptance that shame eventually left the building.

The budding alliance was further solidified during my tenure at a daily newspaper, where I delved head-first into interviewing chefs, grandmothers, and entrepreneurs in my quest to embrace food in a healthy, out-in-the-open way. Eventually, I wrote cookbooks. My first two contained a number of soup recipes, including a dairy-free version of New England Clam Chowder, Cream of Mushroom, Corn Chowder, and a legacy Jewish Penicillin recipe (chicken soup) courtesy of Bill’s father and his Ashkenazi ancestry.

Three days ago, I made a double batch of split lentil soup, using a bag each of green and red lentils. As is a common kitchen practice, I augmented the lentils with what was available, which turned out to be a few cups of leftover Jasmine rice, a jar of cocktail onions and a bag of carrots, which I peeled and diced (a favorite form of meditative focus). Then came the chicken bone broth – an ingredient that’s immutable, and some might say, overused. But I remain insistent on reconstituting rice, lentils, and pasta with bone broth for a more protein-centric nutritional base.

This all takes time, which bothers me not a bit – I love every minute of it. No hiding, rushing, or sweating in anticipatory shame. Just quiet dedication and peaceful focus. Every pot of soup created is a step further away from my old life. And instead of hoarding the goods away in my room, I’m prone to sharing nowadays.

It was a recent act of kindness that inspired this double-batched project when a friend surprised me with a quart of her homemade soup after we returned home from a five-day road trip. She knew our cupboards would be on the bare side and that we’d be exhausted (she was right) so she gifted us with some much-appreciated homemade TLC.

I paid it forward by dropping a jar of my latest creation off to my mother, who’s not so fond of cooking these days. And jars for two friends in their 80s, who light up when they see me coming with occasional food deliveries. When Bill asked if I’d thought of a title for my latest creation, without hesitation, I answered, “Group Soup.”

At its highest purpose, food is an expression of love, and eating is meant to be worry-free. It took me time and considerable trial-and-error to realize that, but now, I can relax around food. No more hiding it, misusing it, or cursing its tempting existence. Nothing is bad or off-limits. But I also take a few moments to discern what I really want – and this includes a vote from my body – not just my mind, which is still subject to restless anxiety and nagging dissatisfaction.

On the challenging days, I accept when life isn’t what I’d like to be, acknowledging the reality that I’m not satisfied. This kind of honesty is the most viable form of insurance against trance-eating I’ve ever come across. Tricks and distractions don’t cut it; whether it’s the recitation of positive affirmations or a bucket of fried chicken that ultimately proves not to be a rescue. It really is as simple as wading through the emotional muck without wishing it away.

It’s been a significant transformational journey from those jittery sessions at the stove as a teenager. My odyssey’s meaning and context transcend physical alterations (translation: weight loss). Even though our appearance-obsessed society insists it’s still the ultimate metric, I know for a fact it’s not.

Love not only heals, it morphs and reshapes wounding at an intangible level. Mysterious? Yes. But still undeniably real.

Personality compositions are a mixed bag - as they’re designed to be. If we were all alike, what a bore that would be.

Something I’ve realized just today, and perhaps a little late in the game, as a sensitive soul (also known as introverts and INFPs on the personality spectrum), is that there are occasions when my sensitivity can work against me. While it makes me a good writer, an empathetic friend, and a stellar observer, it also means I absorb hurt like an unused sponge...and there it can stay…indefinitely. Oh, let’s not be polite. In some cases, pain and hurt feelings have embedded like wall-to-wall carpeting and stayed permanently.

This downside also translates to me having a hard time with forgiveness. I don’t like that tendency, but it’s important to own it without judgement.

As I engaged with my morning contemplative practice several hours ago, I was overwhelmed with a tidal wave of emotion and realization. The information that rolled in was nothing new under the sun, but, in a moment of unguarded receptivity, it descended like a revelation: We all hurt others at one time or another, sometimes deliberately and other times unintentionally. I’ve done it, Lord knows, many times over my lifetime. And if I know that it doesn’t make me a bad person, but a flawed one, how then, can I continue to resent someone who has hurt me? The hardest hurdle of all for me is agreeing to forgive in the absence of admission of error or made-amends, but I’m feeling exceptionally limber at the moment.

Today, I’ve decided to release my grip, enlarge my view of others - heck - why not the entire race of humanity while I’m at it? We all come into this world innocent and overloaded with joy - one of the reasons being in the company of toddlers is so irresistible. Remembering this primal purity helps shift the equation somehow for me.

This space I created on Substack more than two years ago has been an invaluable refuge for a bottled-up former elective mute to release a lifetime of stored explosives that resulted from the atrocities of my past. I’ll continue on that path of respectful release for as long as there’s still a head of steam a-brewing that needs long-overdue attention. Expression is part of the process, and a necessary component to forgiveness. Today, I just took a few giant steps (to quote my favorite childhood game, ‘Mother May I?’) toward my ability to forgive another.

We are born carrying abundant Light. Then Life proceeds to push (or drag) us down some bumpy roads, and we’re violated - and we forget. But the good news is, we can always remember.

Today, I am deciding to do that more often.

Practice, after all, makes practiced.

As March unfolds and spring approaches, I’m taking the opportunity to use this season of renewal to practice acceptance…of what is:

* I’m displaying (after years of enslavement to peroxide) my true hair color. Which has given way to me being delighted with the surprise that I like my gray streaks. 

* The updated and revised picture of what health and well-being look like for me has been duly notated. Exhausted by rounds of equal parts debate and denial, I’ve crossed weight loss off my to-do list. It’s not a viable pursuit, so I can drop the charade of priority. Certainly, I’m open to it happening, but the reasons for the needle not moving are many. And after a lifetime of diet culture immersion, and the shame and confusion that always ensues after playing into its hands, it feels right to step away.

* Food will be enjoyed with freedom and awareness: not too strict, not too loose…but the last thing I need is micromanaging and judgment. Feeding oneself is an intimate and sacred process, and I am adamant now about taking anything remotely unhappy, anxiety-producing, or toxic out of the picture. Even after years of re-grooming my memories of childhood experiences, I still catch myself eating quickly and under a cloak of shame (especially if it’s a food I once deemed forbidden). Rather than ruminate on calories and ingredients, I’d rather convert that energy to doing something that would actually help and heal, such as patiently reminding myself to slow down the chewing and relax - because no one’s coming to pounce on me with a litany of rebukes. That part of my life is over; shadows of it may still reside at the cellular level, but conforming to cultural expectation through self-loathing and the enforcement of ‘acceptable’ food choices only kept me in a place of perpetual pain.

* Less time and focus on outside, illusory forms of information and entertainment - specifically social media - where there’s no shortage of bitter malcontents and desperate-to-be-validated gurus. Especially in light of so many of self-help mavens and influencers being exposed as frauds. I was far too eager to cast my innate wisdom and ability to discern aside in favor of what surely must be a superior source. Besides, what better evidence could there be than millions of followers?

* Connecting with paper. Who remembers what that’s like? The joys of a shiny new magazine, leafing through a newspaper, or sitting down with a good book are profound for me, so I’m putting the phone on the charger to make more time for them. Ditto for writing letters and cards to whose who matter to me - it’s a tangibly beautiful way to stay connected.

* Loving and respecting my body is paramount, and I discover new ways to do that every day: my own version of meditative Tai Chi as the sun rises, epsom salt foot baths, cups of herbal tea after a meal, slathering achy joints with organic castor oil, and enveloping my overworked neck with a warm hot pack. 

Everyone’s path is different where wellness is concerned. I’d love to hear a few of your favorite techniques and practices, because I can always learn.

I’m sure the list will evolve over time, but the bottom line is…I just can’t be hard on myself anymore; and what a relief it is to say it. As it turns out under my new world order: a gray day is a happy day. Let autonomy ring!



I was four when my mother brought me face-to-face with the ocean. We were visiting my grandfather, who lived across from the beach in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. It wasn’t my first encounter with swimming by any means, but it was my maiden voyage with the saline enormity of the Atlantic.

After my mother set up her lounge chair near the other sunbathers, she motioned me toward the waves. I took a few steps forward, and looked back in apprehension, hoping she might walk with me. She responded by motioning me onward with a wave of her hand.

The squishy warmth of the Florida sand was a welcome departure from the cold, impacted grit of the Adirondack beaches back home. I took that as a good omen, but was alternately afraid of and fascinated by the roar of the giant waves as I ventured closer. I took a few more hesitant steps. Suddenly, a rogue wave pushed me backwards. This gave way to an involuntary log roll in the opposite direction towards an angry and inhospitable type of water that I found to be quite rude.

Stunned, I lay on the wet beach, choking on saltwater and sand. Instinct kicked in, and I quickly rose to my feet before the next crashing wave could have its way with me. Regaining my bearings, I became cognizant of the growing volume of outrage erupting: WHERE IS MY MOTHER?

I looked in her direction, and my heart sank. Not having moved from her perch, she sat on the lounge chair laughing as I spit sand out of my mouth. Her reaction angered me; it also revealed a pattern of indifference that was repeated many a time during our relationship.

When your mother won’t rise to the occasion for you, it doesn’t cement a foundation of feeling especially wanted or of value. My first therapist declared it boldly out loud – in our first session - that my shame and lack of self-worth stemmed from my mother’s absence of demonstrating love. Barely out of my teens, I wasn’t yet ready to process the grage (a word I’ve coined that means an amalgamation of grief and rage).

My ability to trust my mother was ruptured that winter day in 1969 on a Fort Lauderdale beach. It was the first of many incursions over the years, and it’s a tragically common dynamic, especially amongst the mother-daughter and father-son crowds. Just as people die every day, so do bonds of trust – only they don’t get obituaries - the fallout is too. hideous to dwell on. If only we’d wake up to the realization of the enormous power we hold over others – especially to those close to us.

And when trust breaks, insecurity abounds.

My mother tended to treat my friends better than she did me – especially the neighborhood super star – whom she gushed over for vapid reasons, such as her beauty, poise, and family’s social standing. My mother would blithely ignore that this vacuous child-demon practiced mean-spiritedness with unquenchable abandon. Each time I came home from an emotional dust-up smarting and humiliated, my mother just shrugged and turned her attention back to what she’d been doing. If I caught her in a bad mood, she’d seethe at me for being too sensitive.

Low self-esteem emits in subtle ways, like a dog whistle that attracts dart-throwers in droves from all directions. Sticks and stones, you say? That’s an ineffectual and intellectually hollow rationale for shitty, unacceptable behavior. Firing squads positioned themselves from all sides: family, false friends, and strangers. I can count on three fingers those who never picked up an arrow: Bruce, Linda, and my German Shepherd. For even the most downtrodden soul, there’s always the possibility of providence, and Bruce and Linda were my manna from heaven: top-notch playmates who brought only joy and adventure to my life. In a cruel irony, though, I only experienced the glow of their kindness for 2 ½ months of the year, when they visited Lake George for the summer. But believe me when I say with deep gratitude, a little bliss is better than none at all.

Aside from the short reprieves, the rest of my formative years were spent in survival mode, and when I reached adulthood, the reproductive years were spent recovering from survival mode.

Now firmly in the phase of my golden years, I’ve concluded that when trust is destroyed at a tender age and it’s followed by an immersion in an unsupportive environment, full restoration of it is out of the question. Actions are consequential. Rather than skirt this reality, as I have for years, I’ve come to realize it’s necessary to acknowledge it.

What am I going to do…keep pretending? Admission is not as unpleasant as you might think, and is far better than being in active denial, which social media encourages nowadays with the never-ending-cavalcade of ‘what a great life I have’ photo collages. And I admit to falling into that trap for a while, until the charade wore itself out.

We don’t win every lottery in life, and after all the rage-writing in journals and honking my nose into therapist-dispensed tissues, I’ve come to a place of acceptance and equilibrium.

Much like degrees of grief following death, the grage from emotional neglect doesn’t disappear. Take yesterday’s phone conversation with my mother: She interrupted me mid-sentence to point out my improper use of grammar. Predictably, she ceremoniously delivered the news as it were life-changing wisdom from the holy grail.

We’ve come a long way in mitigating her criticizing-as-sport fetish. My mother no longer (at my request) critiques my weight. She also agreed to lay off her unforgiving judgement regarding table manners, my posture, food portions, and the flamboyant lipstick shades I’m fond of wearing. The grammar police is a membership she still won’t relinquish. It’s a small, yet still poisonous infraction that sends seismic waves of disruption down to my well-hidden, subterranean grage.

Some days it rolls off, other days it festers. Yesterday was a difficult one emotionally, due to a personal conflict I was ironing out, coupled with receiving upsetting news from a loved one. Translation: I already pre-triggered. Still, I managed to compose myself and pause, while maintaining objective awareness that I wanted to scream at her – and maybe even slide her up a wall by the throat. Taking a breath, I continued with the sentence she’d interrupted and let my primal impulse die – as it usually does when I take a beat.

And that’s about as good as it gets because sometimes, behavioral attachments don’t change. My repeat trips to the well for maternal acceptance have run their course. And I’ve disposed of the whimsical hope for the invention of a vaccine for parents born without proper instinct that thwarts them from committing malpractice. And by that I’m referring to longstanding patterns and repeat choices…not the human mistakes and missteps we all commit.

I continue to manage the multiple sources of the maternal grage so they no longer run me: The day my mother (with a peculiar smile on her face) told me she was unhappy to learn she was pregnant with me. Or her Tourettes-like tendency to abruptly blurt out cruel declarations – such as wishing aloud that a famous 70’s TV star was her daughter instead of me. I’m sure the picture’s clear by now.

And yes – in spite of our battles, I’m fully aware of and grateful for her upsides: The thoughtful reverence my mother always showed for special occasions like Christmases and birthdays. How she sat at my bedside every evening before saying goodnight to pray with me. The night she took me to see The Sound of Music – a experience that changed my life forever. She’s 88 now and in excellent health. Yet logic dictates that the window of our time together is closing.

I’ve worked hard to accept her for who she is and for what can’t be changed…as I have with every abuser in my life. When I realized that the transgressor (whoever it may be) is, in fact, laden with unseen psychological burdens, then I can connect the dots properly and be free from the misinformation that it all occurred because I’m fundamentally flawed or unlovable.

I know there are kids who have gone through far worse. But we’re each handed a particular ball of wax by destiny, and this is mine: The innocent, open-hearted ability to trust a human being 100% may never be restored, but I’m still here. There are many good days, even wonderful ones. And they coexist with the grage, which never has the courtesy to give advanced notice. It always barges in uninvited, badgering me with the reminder that I live life with a prosthetic heart. The innocent one I was born with was damaged by five or six incursions too many - it is altered.

But I honor what remains.

Photo of boxer Silvia Bignami courtesy of Instagram

Content warning: Contains references to sexual harassment and abuse.

There I was during a New York City summer - 1988 to be exact – sweating behind the counter at my summer job. The busy SoHo deli was where I earned money while on break from college. Most mornings, it was chaos as I tried to keep pace with ringing up customers and doctoring coffee orders and bagging to-go breakfasts for the hurried crowd. As I went to retrieve a customer’s bacon and egg sandwich from the short order cook, I noticed a maniacal smile spreading across his face as I approached.

Handing me the order, he leaned in and muttered so no one else could hear the lewd declaration of what he wanted to do me. To eliminate his revolting verbiage, let’s just say it would have involved the need to take a towel to my face after he worked his magic.

You’d think I would have been apoplectic.

I wasn’t – and not just because leering at the deli’s female employees was an open pastime of his. I was also relieved: that he didn’t make a humiliating remark about my weight. That variety of shrapnel came at me since the tender age of five and I was raw from it.

Compared to other 21-year-olds of the day, I had little-to-no experience in absorbing vitriol and disrespect of a sexual nature. (Who says those layers of fat can’t come in handy?) This still didn’t cancel out his vile behavior and the fact that he needed to be taken down a peg – or 17. With deliberate apathy, I pulled back, looked him in the eye, and replied (in his native language, which I studied in high school) ‘OK, then…when and where?’

His eyes widened, and then his jaw clenched.

“You’re…TERRIBLE,” he sputtered, turning his attention back to the grill.

I was happy to take the wind out of his sails; not only for his flagrant misogyny, but because I was flying high with euphoria that my old, festering wound hadn’t been gouged again. It may be impossible for someone who hasn’t lived it to understand, but consider a lifetime of being lectured to by doctors and family members, ridiculed at school, even scream-insulted while entering a Chinese restaurant, and it’s not a stretch to see how reopening a wound that’s been repeatedly poked and chronically infected, can be too much to swallow.

This is not to minimize the heartache and humiliation my slender sisters have experienced from puberty on. The damage is real. And often long-lasting. Adding to both varieties of shrapnel is the reality that the offenders usually feel no remorse, let alone take accountability. I came of age in an era where all varieties of disrespect and degradation directed at women were tolerated, even encouraged. And I’m sure it was worse for preceding generations.

All I knew in that encapsulated moment at the deli grill was…he wasn’t tapping into the reservoir of primal shame I still harbor regarding the size, shape and acceptability-level of my body. And it washed over me like a salve.

I could give a five-installment litany of insults women of every shape and size are subjected to, but herewith is a mere fraction:

• “Yo! Jack LaLane has a warrant out for your arrest!” (shouted to me as walked down the street one day)

• Uninhibited, shameless critiques centering around the blame-game played on women whose breasts are ‘too’ big or ‘too’ small.

• “Get your fat ass out of the way.”

• And this: A true corporate horror story recounted to me by a friend who witnessed a supervisor at a large national company deliberately drop the papers he was clutching so a female underling would have to obediently squat down in front of him and pick them up. This alone is repugnant, but it gets uglier: when the woman handed the papers back to this poor excuse for a man, who towered imperiously over her, he concluded the charade by commanding her to ‘close her mouth, swallow, rise to standing.’ This was witnessed not just by my friend, but several other employees in the company reception area where visitors enter. That’s how overwhelmingly entitled this bastard believed he was. But hey, it was the 80s.

And in the most extreme cases, there are hardcore criminal incidents where inappropriate and harmful physical contact is made, and that’s a whole other study in emotionally infirmed and entitled men. Yeah, I know, this isn’t representative of all men. But one of these types is too many, and we all know we’re not fortunate enough to be down to a single predator roaming the earth.

And so, women are tasked with carrying on, usually without apologies, amends, or justice. That leaves us with unhealed wounds, unmet needs, and untold amounts of time and energy expended attempting to heal and make sense of it all. And by make sense, I mean disinfecting the foul stench of the self-blame women tend to be saddled with. You know, the worn-out gaslighting tactics such as critiquing a woman’s wardrobe or food choices.

How do you cope with being the object of degradation and disrespect as sport? There’s no adequate way to cope while its happening, and there’s no one way to attempt healing once it has occurred.

Sometimes…

You space out

Pretend it’s not happening

Tell someone

Have a drink and try and forget

Binge-eat sugar

Plunge into people-pleasing to make yourself less of a target

I did all but one as a habitual rotation. I guess you could call it a master class in getting through the day without solving the problem. Telling someone, however proved to be a one-and-done when my parents’ response was to blame their eight-year-old daughter for society’s contempt by reminding me, with raised eyebrows, that if I just stuck to my diet it wouldn’t be happening.

Little pro tip, fellas and parents: this type of abuse can start as early as kindergarten. The most extreme case I’ve come across is a middle-aged woman who confided to me her size-phobic mother put her on a diet at age three and it went downhill from there. But since it starts at a tender age, maybe think twice about the remarks you make to a woman or girl at ANY age – unless you’re honest enough to admit that promoting lasting damage is your goal.

The reaction of HALLELUJAH that surged through me that day at the deli was a response to how my body and it’s underground tunnels of stored trauma are architected. That a comment such as that would elicit relief should give anyone with a pulse pause to ask what the FUCK we’re doing to women and girls.

It does not pass for comedy, or bonding, or flexing.

There’s nothing jovial about causing embarrassment or shame because you threw an inappropriate joke or double entendre someone’s way in order to have a little knuckle-dragging fun. Or because you think it’s your right to pass judgement on someone’s appearance.

To those who have the power to curtail this damaging and ingrained behavior (even deciding not to laugh at your friends’ jokes moves the needle), do you want to be part of the problem or part of fomenting the long overdue shift of females feeling safe and secure in their bodies? I kid you not when I say this move would change the world.

And to those recovering, the first step is to not minimize what it did to you (tactic No. 1 of the misogynistic overlords). Then remember the simplicity that you were, are, and always will be a specimen of God’s beauty and splendor.

And then…you can start to make your way home. Or as I like to say, re-matriate.

Head on.

It’s the only way to face a problem. And it took me years to get here.

Let’s just say I have a couple of Ph.D’s under my belt in Running and Hiding. And a few more in People Pleasing, and Pretending I’m Not Damaged. The reasons for this expertise are many, ranging from genetic constitution to an appalling lack of support from the adults around me as I attempted to grow to maturation. No one fought for me, so why would I think to do so for myself?

When the foundation of self-esteem has all the solidity of a pile of graham crackers, it’s no surprise that it can take years to gain the confidence to stand down and not sprint.

There’s no self-criticism in this revelation. We all rely upon defense mechanisms that seem useful at the time. My method of swan-diving away from conflict worked, until it didn’t.

And much like that mythical passage to Carnegie Hall, becoming adept in emotional self-defense took practice, practice, practice. That’s really all you need…Plus the support of a few good people around you. ❤️ And then…

You.

Can.

Do (and say).

ANYTHING.

It’s no secret that a good part of my life is devoted to the endeavor of being healthier. This includes wanting to drop some weight. I’d love to weigh less and have physical existence be more easy. But there are certain things I’m no longer willing to do.

Step back in time with me to the 80s and my favorite past-time of being steeped in the latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine. I considered it to be both aspirational and essential to spinning the compass of a lost and insecure 20-year-old in a better direction. Back in those days, it was helmed by the great Helen Gurley Brown, so the publication actually did have some intelligent content. But the paragraph-long profiles of the cover models were uniformly cringey (in retrospect). They weren’t all that different from the questionnaire Hugh Hefner had the Playboy Bunnies offer his readers. Essentially, it was a light-hearted list of turn-ons and turn-offs; only Cosmo, included the crucial addition of the model’s measurements, which were always wildly different from my own. (Talk about not measuring up).

But what stopped me in my tracks on this particular day was one model who displayed uncharacteristic candor, admitting how she goes through life under-eating in order to retain both her job and standing in the industry. The admission stopped me in my tracks and gave me pause. Is this aspirational after all, or is there an element of nefarious influencing at play that I haven’t wanted to acknowledge? The cover girl concluded her remarks with the rationale that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded because, ‘hunger pangs only last 20 minutes.’

Wow.

Not surprising information, but irrefutably disturbing. And still…I Rose. For many years to come, to every manipulative invitation to diet, deny, and self loath in the name of being better, healthier, lighter, more acceptable. You know the drill. Until the time came when I was exhausted by it, both emotionally and physically, and my entire being was basically begging me to knock it the F off.

I’ve come a long way psychologically. So far, in fact, that I’m immune to the industry’s brazen upping of the ante, as it’s wont to do when it feels threatened with the slightest possibility of extinction. And even though my physician probably could and would green-light me for a GLP-1 if I asked her, I’m not interested. As much as I’m interested in weighing less, I’m not interested in that, and I stress, this is a personal choice for me - not a sweeping judgement of anyone using a GLP-1.

Debates over long-term side effects aside, what I find disconcerting in the immediate, as always, are manipulative big pharma tactics, like the overuse of the new term ‘Food Noise.’ Defined broadly, it’s the continual loop of thinking about food and the battle done in the head of the overeater known as ‘to eat or not to eat.’ Believe me, I’m extremely familiar with it. Based on what I’ve heard from those who use GLP-1’s the desire for and thoughts of food are significantly diminished by the drug. No surprise that a lab-created concoction can flip a switch on a symptom; it’s been done for decades.

But doing so ignores the crucial part of the equation, or what I like to call, the root cause. I suspect big pharms is well aware that remedying root causes usually equates to the cutting of the shackles, which is why they’re so insistent on leading us away from that arena. Let’s be honest, food noise doesn’t occur in a vacuum. For the overeater and those afflicted with an overactive attraction to food, there is other noise which precedes the food noise. For me, past and current triggers have included grief noise, anger noise, repressed emotions noise, feeling trapped in a toxic job or relationship noise, and sorrow noise. Each and every time I’ve overeaten to lower the volume and escape, my mind has been plagued with this variety of noise. And what drug can eradicate that? It doesn’t exist - and don’t get any ideas, big pharma - you’ve done more than enough already.

The truth I didn’t want to embrace for so long is: It’s sometimes an unpleasant slog to stay in the here and now; to remain in reality, handle its pain, and deal with shrapnel as it comes in, piece by piece.

What works for me today is paying close attention to both body signals and what’s going on with me emotionally. A crucial adjunct to this is making it a sustainable process which inexorably includes enjoying food - not as a binge or an escape, but because, why wouldn’t I want to enjoy food? It’s just plain masochistic to leave that part out. But I don’t want to subsist on junk or trance-eating either, so I come up with compromises. Take this morning’s breakfast of zucchini fritters - had ‘em after I returned from the gym.

They made my heart SING, they tasted so good! I shredded organic zucchini mixed with gluten-free all purpose flour, and a few beaten eggs. The great part of this method is you don’t even have to spend all that inordinate time squeezing out the liquid in the zucchini… Leave it in, the flour will do its thing! Fry in light olive oil and you have yourself a treat. It may not be low-calorie, but it’s far healthier than anything processed. As we all know by now, the less processed food ingested means diminished dependence on big pharma.

Another incentive: the truism that processed food is not made with Love.

I make it a point to say good things to my body. With reverent tone and tenor, I bestow regular bouquets of gratitude for how much I appreciate my unique conglomeration of DNA, in all its functional glory. I thank it for getting me through each day, as well as incidentals such as the mystery of cognition which allows me to create, for the reassurance of breath, the pleasure of walking, and all the myriad tasks it silently completes while I’m busy doing other things. It’s an amazing and intricate powerhouse, this body of mine. And though it might sound strange or patronizing to offer obeisances to it, the clear-cut answer to that is…why wouldn’t I?

As a woman, I come with a guarantee to be nit-picked from the neck down by various industries who have a financial stake in keeping me dissatisfied, disgusted, and on a never-ending quest to morph my physique into something more acceptable. I spent most of my life buying into this nefarious scheme of manipulation before finally realizing the absurdity of it.

And then there’s the artillery from men, some, (thankfully not all) of whom possess a driving passion to snicker and critique when we don’t measure up to what they decide are universal standards. If I gave it my best estimate, I wouldn’t be able to count the number of insults I absorbed because of misogyny’s entitled mean streak. For me, it took place during the 70’s and 80’s when such spankings were accepted, encouraged, and embedded into our cultural fabric. They even invaded the most good-natured of sitcoms, as I discovered whilst enjoying an episode of “Happy Days,” one evening. I listened with shock and dismay as the winsome and usually kind Richie Cunningham unabashedly voice his disdain at the prospect of being fixed up with a girl because she might be ‘fat with glasses.’ His words echoed across my living room as I felt the heat of embarrassment I hadn’t expected to feel rise while watching a feel-good TV show. As a fat 14-year-old who wore glasses, I was guilty as charged and lowered my head in shame at being reminded yet again of my repulsiveness.

When critiques were lobbed in person, all I could do was put on my best poker face and play deaf. But I heard every syllable, and so did my body, and I was hardly alone. A former classmate recently admitted she still gets anxiety – 40 years after the fact - at the memory of her school’s upper-classmen (using the word ‘men’ loosely here) who made a daily ritual of lining up near the school cafeteria entrance to leer as they rated aloud the females who filed into the lunch room. You know - the 1 through 10 grading system, with Bo Derek being at the top, and many of the unfortunate student contestants at the bottom. “It was so humiliating the way they’d laugh at us,” she recalled, noting the lifelong damage incurred to her self-image.

I’m not sure how far the needle has moved during the past four decades, but you get the picture: the treatment females are blithely subjected to is savage. Worse than unapologetic riddicule from the opposite sex was the friendly fire from so-called female chums who had dutifully internalized society’s vitriol.

Take Trixie, for example, a lethal frenemy if there ever was one. It’s not something I dwell on voluntarily, but recently a memory popped up, uninvited, of a summer afternoon spent sunbathing when we were 12 and hovering awkwardly on the precipice of puberty. After 30 minutes of frying, I was ready to flip over on my stomach so my back could get equal time. There was dread in my stomach as I asked my friend’s help with putting lotion on my back. Trixie glared at me for the inconvenience, then grabbed the bottle of sunscreen, sighed laboriously, and began quickly slapping it on – making it clear she was loathe to touch me.

“Eww…Gross! Why are you making me do this? It’s disgusting,’ she hissed, before throwing the bottle down next to me and resuming her impression of the Ban de Soleil model. I knew Trixie was referring expressly to my back fat, a part of myself I’d always hated. And down it went: another toxic missile absorbed by my body. By this point I’m sure it was beyond distressed at the truckloads of undeserved shit it took on a regular basis. Eventually, I wielded the whip myself and began the practice of silent berating, until it was an automatic state of mind.

The sunbathing episode plus all the unquantifiable incidents over a lifetime are why I airdrop messages of gratitude, kindness, and appreciation into my body…sending them gently floating down like benevolent paratroopers packing medical supplies. They help immeasurably, as does the principle of repetition. In the beginning I believed not a syllable of the good stuff, but kept it up anyway and now…things have shifted.

Equally important: remembering I never deserved any of it to begin with. If anything, it’s Trixie and the Toxic Upperclassmen (great band name, btw) who deserve to be reviled. Not me…or anyone else for the superfluous crime of not looking the part.

Alas, there are still those roaming the earth who believe there’s no excuse for back fat, and they’re free to ponder its demerits. But let’s finally be clear about the real truth – that there’s absolutely no excuse for the condemnation of it.

Prediction: Our intellectual and emotional evolution will continue its snail-paced trudge if we regularly default to the easier, more gratifying option.

Sure, it’s easier to:

* Lash out at a soft target

* Be dishonest where money is concerned

* Engage in covert infidelity

* Not be happy for someone else’s success

* Gossip

* Condemn someone for their political views

* Snap at the waiter

I’ve engaged in all of these at least once…some quite liberally actually, when I was in my 20s and 30s. But at some point, don’t you start to feel bad about continually making bad choices? I did. Maybe it was thanks to some Divine intervention that I took a step back, but I see people in middle age and beyond doing this crap on auto pilot. Engaging again and again, as if the grotesque were going out of style.

Come on, people…There’s too much at stake now. There must be a practical middle road between poor choices and sainthood. Let’s grab our walking sticks and find it together 🗻🕊️☀️.

There’s a friend whom I’ll call Job; perhaps because he reminds me in some ways of the woe-ridden Biblical figure of the same name. The short version of this particular book is, I’ve spent time recently ministering to him in hopes of pointing Job in the direction of healing from an unhappy childhood.

His woes stem from a jealous older brother who was incensed at Job’s birth. In the elder sibling’s view, baby brother’s inconvenient arrival took the spotlight off the seven-year-old star of the show, and he was no longer the sole focus of familial attention.

Materially speaking, Job had every need met during his formative years. What he lacked was a sense of peace and security, thanks to the relentlessly bitter grudge held by his older brother, who always seemed to by lying in wait with an insult or rebuke. Their parents’ intervention was lukewarm at best, so Job lived with the habit of not only constantly looking over his shoulder, but also with the cemented ‘fact’ that his presence was unwanted and an irritation.

Not surprisingly, this foundation turned Job into an adept people-pleaser as an adult. He was the consummate rescuer, jumping into action to solve others’ problems, even before being asked. While an understandable defense mechanism, it also turned Job into a target for users and abusers.

Feeling rewarded, useful, and officially classified as a non-nuisance was always a temporary state. And Job eventually realized that his compulsive chivalry trained those around him to expect unmitigated giving and sweat equity – usually of the non-reciprocal variety.

This misery-compounding formula is all too familiar to me and anyone else who has experienced emotional mistreatment from a young age. We over-give to mitigate our deformed self-image.

Only in middle age was Job able to connect the dots. While grieving the sorrowful elements of his childhood, he is currently at work on the practice of discernment, which includes giving and doing for others when his heart – not the emotional panic button – prompts him.

“I have a lot more peace in my life,” he reports. “Even if I’ve lost a few false friends along the way – I’m OK with that.”

If only those susceptible to doing such damage – toxic older siblings and cousins, irate and overburdened parents, power-addicted bosses, and playground bullies - would A) practice a little restraint and B) think beyond their moment of gratification to the domino effect they’re putting in motion.

Consider these next few paragraphs an optimistic attempt at shaking awake current and would-be havoc-wreakers. Even though I’ve never known a recalcitrant bully to stop, drop, and ponder their bad behavior, here’s my audacious wish for the coming year, anyway: That there be a collective shift. That ‘soft’ targets would no longer be catnip for these with a bent for malice to toy with. That the Golden Rule would have and retain a magical grip on the masses.

When are we going to wake up to the truth that misplaced anger helps neither the aggressor nor their target? Left unchecked and untreated, perpetrators usually become more insatiable, dysfunctional, and unhappy over time...just ask any woman who worked as a secretary during the 70s.

The damages incurred from such toxic practices are long-lasting: Sometimes, there are reasons some of us aren’t ‘a little further along in life.’ Or have difficulty forming close relationships and putting trust in another human being. It’s time we realize these circumstances don’t occur in a vacuum; they occur because of unkind, often cruel behavior.

My hope for the new year is an overall elevation in kindness. Let’s normalize, practice, and propagate it. Let’s participate in making someone’s day instead of ruining it. Let’s transform life purposes from recovering from the past to thriving in the present.

I can’t think of a better way to begin 2026.

‘Blue Christmas’: it wasn’t so much a Christmas song as it was a trigger. In a sea of musical joy played on radio stations and TV music channels, this dirge didn’t fit in. Whenever I detected its first few melancholic notes, I’d leap into action and turn it off…until recently. Maybe it’s the wisdom of middle age, but it occurred to me that this downer set to music just may be the most authentic Christmas song ever written.

This time of year like no other is filled with celebrating, or aspirations thereof. Christmas may be just a single day, but the weeks leading up to it are filled with an array of strategies designed to get us in he mood: bright lights, sparkly decorations, decadent recipes, colorful libations, beloved Christmas movies, and probably most memorable…the music.

And while the avalanche of cheer isn’t necessarily a bad thing, too much of anything can translate to not only sensory overload, but also the dissonant clang of unmet expectations. Rarely has my holiday disposition (even with incessant suggestions from the world of advertising) approached anything resembling euphoria. Sometimes, it’s quite the opposite. The truth is, holidays are, for a variety of reasons, embedded with stress. It’s taboo but true: What’s mood-stoking about exhaustion from shopping marathons (and their ensuing debt) coupled with the dread of gatherings with people you might not be on especially great terms with. And then we feel like duds because we didn’t get close to feeling like we experienced the most wonderful time of the year.

It’s certainly not everyone’s Christmas reality, but for a significant chunk of the population, it is. And it’s a plausible reason that ‘Blue Christmas’ is one of the most widely played songs this time of year. Its melancholy is relatable, and not just from festivity-fatigue, but the fact that grief can go from 0 to 100 in December. Isn’t it time we legitimize ‘bouts of the holiday blues rather than shooing them away with an overload of jingling bells, compulsory gift-giving, and a roster of gatherings? Hey, if you’re feeling it, go to that party! But if you’re not, where is it written that you can’t opt out for the sake of mental health or self care?

This week, a friend lamented performance anxiety over her coming Christmas Eve gathering, vis-a-vis worrying if her efforts would be perceived as ‘enough.’ Another expressed dread at the likelihood of there being more tension than mirth at a family get-together. Who can’t relate to both dilemmas?

Note to readers: I’m not talking about the current trend of ‘no contact’ because of political differences. Abuse and mistreatment are valid reasons to suspend contact, not because of who someone did or didn’t vote for. Furthermore, it’s a hurtful and sanctimonious practice that completely flies in the face of the teachings of Jesus, whose birth is the genesis for the celebration of Christmas - little-known fact nowadays - but I digress.

I’m all for joy and happiness – we need it now more than ever. But they can’t, as the TV commercials suggest, be summoned forth, magician-style. In my experience, joy is a spontaneous gift, not something that’s arrived at by preconceived formulas. If you don’t believe me, just check out the forthcoming ticker-tape parade of holiday and party photos on social media and notice how many of the smiles look strained. Maybe that wouldn’t be so prevalent if we just allowed ourselves to delve authentically into holiday no-no’s such as sadness when we’re feeling it. A good cry or somber reflection time can be as refreshing as a mineral bath. Really, all the blues want is a little attention.

There’s also another type of mourning that can be an emotional dark cloud this time of year: the grieving of family dynamics we wish we had. When I admitted to that cloying ache, the simple act of coming clean provided a surprising relief. Nothing is as shackling as those Hollywood-induced expectations of how things ‘should’ look.

In addition to needing a little Christmas, maybe it’s honesty we also crave. It goes a long way in vaporizing the outmoded ritual of pretending. Our yearnings are deep during the holidays…and that doesn’t always mean fulfillment.

For some, there really is no place like home for the holidays. Others decide that new traditions and fresh starts are in order. However you observe, endeavor to make it a peaceful time. For yourself, those close to you, and for the World. The ripple effect is real.

Adversarial undertones of our mother-daughter relationship aside, there were the gifts my mother gave me. I can never remind myself enough how important it is to endeavor affording them equal or greater time over the grievances.

The more valuable gifts from my mother were bestowed by example. Through the daily discipline that is a housewife’s lot, I learned the practice of meeting the task, and the character-building value of doing things I didn’t want to do. Through my mother’s charitable work with the elderly, I learned empathy for others. And by her devotion to celebrating Christmas and honoring its true essence, I learned the value of disconnecting from the world and entering a place of peaceful elevation.

Perhaps unwittingly, my mother granted access to a desperately needed time out from the challenging and taxing unpleasantness of the world. It’s something we all need – in 2025 more than ever – regardless of theological and philosophical leanings.

During those tender formative years, I grew to love retreating to our sunken living room. The lamps were turned off and the colored tree lights glowed softly in the far corner. While the rest of the house was otherwise occupied, I’d slip into the silence and stare at the crèche with its congregation of awed figurines gazing at the newborn baby Jesus. Peace enveloped me. The world melted away. There was no school to dread, no next-door-bully to run from, no side-eyed judgement from my mother at the dinner table, no rageful outbursts from my father. None of it existed during my solo expeditions to Bethlehem.

My mother bought the Italian-made crèche at Doyle’s (a long-deceased family-owned department store in Glens Falls, N.Y.) circa 1963 to celebrate the move into her marital home. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the quiet interludes with her Nativity set bore the nascent signs of my bent toward meditation. To this day it remains my preferred form: eyes wide open and drinking in the mystery. The sight of Mary, lost in a loving trance as she gazes down at her son; Joseph, the ultimate embodiment of protection and faithfulness standing watch; the frozen awe of the shepherds and kings. It distilled in me a similar silent wonder, which I won’t further diminish by trying to ascribe human language to it.

It is said that some of life’s deepest joys come from unexpected beauty: a rainbow that pops up on the horizon while driving; the discovery of a bird’s nest filled with turquoise-colored eggs, and the spontaneous delight of finding The Wizard of Oz while channel-surfing.

But I believe that expected beauty can be every bit as powerful. Taking the time to carve out time without technology or intrusive noise - with music, a votive candle, Christmas tree, flickering Menorah, or a silent snowfall – are all simple but profound acts of planned care for the soul. And my mother wordlessly and gently set me on the path all those years ago.

Even if my mother’s crèche is 1,500 miles away in her senior community living room, the memories sustain me. And I’ve created my own traditions, which include a white ceramic recreation of the Nativity bought at Fay’s Drugs in 1993 to celebrate Christmas in my first apartment. It has followed me on all my moves, still a portal to time traveling. There are always legitimate lists of things to accomplish and care for on any given day, but making time for this ritual is every bit as important…oh, who am I kidding…it’s more important than any form of distraction, which my lists can sometimes cleverly be.

At least once a day during this Advent season, I take my place on the couch and slow my engine to a full halt. The lights of our ceramic Christmas trees on the end tables provide an ambient backdrop as I give myself the gift of silence, rest, and the indescribably healing tonic that is Peace.

This year, I’ll make a point of thanking my Mother for leading me there.

As the November sun rose in tandem with the full Super Moon’s 8:19 a.m. apex this morning, I sat in contemplation of the event, wondering what to do with such a potent portal.

My usual course of action when the full moon is nigh is to ask for things I’ve yet to realize. Mini, well-intended laundry lists of things I wish to acquire or achieve: immutable financial security, landing a nationally esteemed book publisher, and while I’m at it, why not an agent? You get the picture. But today, I decided to put the asking aside and be grateful instead.

Without premeditation, I changed course and found myself in a sudden state of thankfulness simply for the life I have been given to live. Even with all its surprising and illogical patterns…its uneven tapestry of trials and triumphs. Because without the trials and collisions with pain and humiliation and discouragement, I would have no evolution.

Maybe it’s possible to evolve while being predominantly in a state of happiness, with everything going one’s way…but I don’t think so.

Every misstep I’ve made, and every wound I’ve salved (from irritating disappointment to devastating betrayal) has brought to me guidance and perspective. Some of the more painful lessons have changed me irrevocably, perhaps closed or deadened my heart a little. There’s no way they couldn’t. Scars? Yes, enough to decorate a city-block mural. But they’ve proven survivable.

They remind me of the sash of badges I earned as a Girl Scout. It was an honor just to have that pale green accessory adorn my chest, for it meant I was a part of a team, and a very noble one at that. And then to add to it badge after badge when I accrued achievements and skills in cooking, camping, outdoor beautification. I don’t even clearly remember the categories, but I was mighty proud of all the Girl Scout badges I was awarded.

Back in those days, they were sewn on and embedded forever – unlike a flimsy iron-on which was inherently fragile and vulnerable to damage. Perhaps that’s another great gift of adversity: the muscle that it builds, the storehouse of inner strength it leaves in its tumultuous wake.

A conscious focus on gratitude and positive thinking has many a benefit. But avoiding heartache and emotional calamity aren’t among them. Still, I practice anyway. Not for some future transactional payoff, but because life is simply more enjoyable, easier to bear, even a little sparkly, when I remember to be grateful.

Seemingly out of nowhere I was seized with it: the idea to have a tea party. Never mind that I’d never given one. Summer was at its peak, and at my fingertips was my family’s sprawling patio that came with a panoramic view of Lake George. That plus the patio’s white wrought-iron furniture would more than deliver on atmosphere. Fueled by excitement, the menu formed effortlessly in my imagination that June day: a loaf of Wonder bread would be alchemized into crustless wedges of tuna, egg, and cucumber tea sandwiches. Tea would be served in proper China cups and saucers, followed by the presentation of a pink-frosted cake, brimming with summer strawberries.

The audacity of such an undertaking must have been fated in the stars, because my parents gave me no blowback about using my grandmother’s China or on baking and decorating a layer cake entirely on my own. I was 10 years old and determined to create something memorable - maybe even a little mind-blowing – no official special occasion necessary. I informed the guest-list of two (my sister and next-door neighbor) that formal attire was required - luckily, it was the 70s, and every girl had a long dress or floor-length skirt at her disposal.

The day of the tea party was a perfect, sunny one. As the strawberry cake rose in the oven, I carefully set the glass surface of the table with blue and white China and silver service, warning my German Shepherd, Duchess, not to trip me as I edged my way around the place settings. I had just enough time to change into dress clothing before serving my guests the sandwiches made the evening prior (an overnight sit in the refrigerator ensured the proper pillowy texture). Every soft bite turned out to be a symphony of more than just flavor. The time and care put into each one showed. My guests were astonished; I was unabashedly aglow with gratification.

But aside from nailing the presentation, there was something else that underpinned my joy: the unfamiliar euphoria that came from eating in a state of happiness. I smiling unceasingly that glorious afternoon, passing the towering platter of sandwiches and silver tongs. My tea party was a moment in time that was both random and meticulously planned. If only we had iPhones in 1974 – its beauty would have been recorded in perpetuity.

Decades later, I realize there was more to hosting a tea party than my intent to entertain. Two of the happiest hours of my lifetime were born of the deeply unmet need to combine the elements of food and bonding. In my young and bewildered world, they were usually at odds. Meals taken at my family’s dinner table were largely without merriment. Dinner was an intricate balancing act of riding the razor’s edge between angering my mother and getting my needs met.

It always began on a promising note as we recited grace in unison, eyes closed and heads bowed. I cherished those peaceful 11 seconds because they were followed by 30 minutes fraught with the tension of assessment. Every move and measure was scrutinized: not only how much we were eating, but how fast we chewed, how straight our spines were, and if our arms (or God forbid) elbows ever rested on the table, even for a second. My mother’s stealth peripheral vision never missed an infraction.

To the offspring with weight issues, she somberly doled out inadequate portions of the casserole du jour. The thin one, by contrast, was permitted to eat with abandon, and the second helpings denied us were lavished on him. The deprivation was as infuriating as the iniquity. We were growing children; our hunger was legitimate, but every night it was litigated. What stung even more than leaving the table unfulfilled was my mother’s unceasing disapproval and how it eroded my self-worth. My father, saddled with his own burgeoning waistline, could only nod in agreement with her rules. She was quick to scold him as well for any perceived gluttony, and he knew how to play the game to avoid a volley of hissing rebukes.

The revolving door of mandatory diets only further muddied the waters of my relationship with food. The inaugural 500-calorie-a-day diet, prescribed by a doctor in 5^th grade; Weight Watchers, Cabbage Soup, Atkins, the Carbohydrate Addict’s Diet - the list went on and on. Fifty years later, new variations continue to abound. How could they not? It’s a ruthless industry. And I, in turn, practiced ruthlessness on myself, upping the ante as time went on.

The night I almost fainted on the treadmill following a dinner of 3 ounces of broiled chicken and a bowl of watery stewed tomatoes remains etched in my cellular memory. I was in 10^th grade and determined to get the fat off me once and for all – preferably as quickly as possible. This time, it was a no-fat regimen, torn from the pages of a woman’s magazine. Begun predictably on Monday, by Friday, I was enveloped in the familiar fog of fatigue and irritability. This was followed by the conflict-stage of the tenuous lifespan that is a diet. The silent but raging debates swirled in my mind: all the foods I wanted so badly to taste again vs. all the reasons I should white-knuckle it and stay the course.

My dieting-buddy father was also feeling it, so he begged off by planning a date night with my mother at their favorite Continental restaurant. After they left, all I wanted to do was make a beeline for the refrigerator and give myself something creamy and salty. No, I told myself, you’ve GOT to lose this weight, or you’ll never be happy, and you’ll always be a loser.

Jaw clenched in defiance, I headed to the basement where the treadmill awaited my return. A good round of exercise would get my mind off food and accomplish the ever-revered goal of burning more calories. As I prodded on, determined not to think about food, I soon found myself wandering into what’s commonly known as the dieter’s daydream: Soon I’d be thin, happy, with lots of friends, plus a long-overdue boyfriend. My problems would be over, and life would be the sparkly, pink-hued fairytale that I knew it could be – if only I wouldn’t screw things up again. I forced myself through 20 minutes of huffing and puffing until I could take no more. Instead of feeling better, I was dazed and nauseous, gripping the guard rail while waiting for the dizziness to subside.

Violently, I lurched without warning into the dieter’s final gear: F*CK IT, I’M DONE. With fiery resolve, I defiantly climbed the basement stairs, knowing exactly where I was going - to the kitchen, for a mayonnaise-laden bologna super-sub. It was a far cry from a lovingly crafted tea sandwich – but this was no party - it was a primal survival response. I savored the first bite at the sink, as relief and animation coursed through me once again. Then, sandwich in tow, I plopped onto my parents’ king-sized bed in time to watch Dallas.

The pleasure of eating something delicious again was electric. That it was short-lived was never a deterrent. It was about the reclamation of dignity that the end of each cycle demanded. There are few practices as sadistic as shaming someone for simply attempting to meet their own needs, whether that need is biological hunger or to self-soothe from cruelty. Looking back, the truth is I wasn’t a failure, but rather, set up to fail. By a heartless industry and a perfection-obsessed, unforgiving culture that basically told females they’re worthless unless they fall in line and attempt to look like Cheryl Tiegs. But as an emotionally battered and psychologically throbbing teenager, I believed wholeheartedly in my defectiveness.

It didn’t even occur to me that there may be a path forward from the madness.

“Self-contempt never inspires lasting change”
- Jane R. Hirschmann and Carol H. Munter