Last week I sent the first draft of my second novel to my agent.

You may or may not know the echoey cricket sounds in the abyss that can follow. The strange falling-away of the thing that you’ve been holding and, more accurately, has been holding you.

Two years of living inside a novel — while my first book, Sisters of Belfast, was making her way into the world — and now this next featherless baby bird of a manuscript is out of my cupped palms and I am left with the spaces it used to hold. Many of them. Vast, quiet, unsettling.

While wandering these spaces, I have been watching the people around me, whom I love, experience a flourishing. Swift-moving, seemingly out-of-nowhere yet hard-earned manifestations, things landing with the wildest of grace and elbow grease. And I have been watching from somewhere that feels like stillness…with an edge.

Suspended animation is the phrase my inner critic whispers. Inert. As though something in me has been halted.

But lately I have been questioning that spiky whisper.

Suspension implies frozenness. And frozen does not quite fit.

As I walked in the river, the space between my toes filling with a silk of mud, a question rose from the water and the snap of dragonfly wings circling my head.

What if what I am experiencing is ripening?

There is so much happening when a piece of fruit is ripening. All the right conditions are needed. The warmth, the light, the quiet work beneath the skin that no one witnesses.

The fruit does not effort to ripen.

It ripens through being held by what it needs.

I have been devouring peaches this summer and I can tell you there is a distinct moment when the peach bouquet is at its absolute sublime. Before the bite, it is the scent. And then the skin peels away without resistance, and the juice runs down the chin, the fingers, the hands. The whole body is involved. There is nothing arbitrary about a peach’s readiness. It is either ripe. Or it is not.

This is what I am inside of right now. No longer falling into an abyss, but nestled into a ripening.

I am learning to honour something that does not come naturally to me: that I cannot grow ripe fruit on output alone.

Ripening requires input. Soft things. Rest. Gentle sunshine, unhurried sensory moments that soothe a nervous system that has been working very hard for a very long time. Ripening might even require the squish of river mud between the toes.

If this all sounds familiar to you, let’s pivot together. This is not suspension.

This is the quiet, necessary work of becoming a real peach.

It is carried and hidden in plain sight.

It is talked about and chained up in secrecy.

It is ignored, and explored, and exploited.

It is toxic for all and daily bread for some.

It is a cage of frosty metal bars and a doorway or, at times, a wee rusty keyhole to wriggle through on the way to freedom.

It is, of course, shame.

Here is the “what if” that I am sure some of you have already gloriously arrived at. Yay, you!

For those who have not, here is an offering.

What if…the anguish we wrestle down, the twisting of our viscera, the ache in our bones, the collapse of our hearts, the thinness of oxygen we all experience when shame rears its head is simply this:

We have moved so far away from how Love, Life, Universe, Great Mother , Creator, God (you name it, literally) sees us. Beholds us. Regards us. And the further we move away (aka hate on ourselves), the deeper the excruciation. On ALL levels.

I offer this short little love letter in the middle of the week to anyone and everyone. And specifically, to all those who may be struggling with their writing or their desire to write…but shame is showing up as the slippery, smarmy bouncer, legs akimbo, arms crossed, barring the door of your written voice.

Even now, in real time, that no-neck muscle head is warning me, “Step away from the page, little lady. You don’t want to post that.”

And for you, dear reader, I resurrect the serpentine stealth skills that got me into bars long before I was legal (zero shame about that!), to slip past that bouncer and hit send!

Keep going!

Yours

Mel

I recently reconnected with an old flame.

We first met in my early twenties. I was studying to become a Clinical Exercise Specialist, the first step on a life path as a helper. The spark of this meeting was undeniable. Intrigue, fascination, the desire to know more. It was a core connection, and its significance would follow me through a lifetime.

Despite this spark, I let it slip away.

We met again just after I completed my Master’s in Counselling and began studies as a Somatic Practitioner, coming to understand the intricacies and radical power of the sprawling Vagus nerve. It was a delight to be reunited. It was electric in my cells. In spite of this charge, once more, I allowed it to fade into the background, buried under things “more important”.

The most recent reunion happened when I was reading.

Nose deep in a book of murder, mystery, and intrigue. And noetic science. The study of consciousness. Dan Brown’s Secret of Secrets.

This old flame tapped me on the shoulder, whispered into the curve of my ear, sending gooseflesh across my neck.

“Remember me? I’m baaaack.”

Now, Dear Reader, it is time to pull your head out of the salacious gutter. This is not a tell-all of my dalliances. Yes, I’ve had a few. But this lady does not kiss and tell.

Unless… revisiting an old flame is guaranteed to bring pleasure, clarity, and loving support to my fellow writers.

What this old flame reignited in me was a passion for, and an awareness of, the chemistry that enhances our creativity and power on the page. More specifically, how to manage the rise and fall, ebb and flow, deluge and drought of said power.

My sexy old flame: GABA.

I remember reading its name for the first time in my twenties.

Gamma-aminobutyric acid.

I remember saying it out loud, loving the mouth feel of it. If you are a lover of words, you’ll not think me a weirdo for that.

Upon our first meeting, I dove deep and hard, mining for information in a time when there was no internet…gasp!...no AI…the horror!…only books…imagine! Seeking and devouring any scrap of knowledge about this chemical that essentially acts as the brakes for our brain, helping us to filter out and tune in. Learning that if not for this little chemical wonder, whose job is to tell our neurons to “calm the hell down, chill out, relax”, our brains would blow to smithereens with all of the sensory stimuli and thoughts that bombard us in a single minute.

In this latest dalliance with GABA, we caught up. Reunited in our middle-aged, menopausal estrogen-landslide season in which every chemical in our female bodies goes the way of our boobs…downward. And anxiety and homicidal level irritation skyrocket. Can I get an Amen?

However, it turns out that my love for GABA and the desire to tend to this relationship have persisted instinctually.

I came to find out that practices I hold dear, such as cold plunge—YES Cold Plunging!!!, yoga, meditation, breathwork, ALL increase the presence of GABA in the brain, bolstering the power and peace it provides.

And why does this matter to you, Dearest Writer?

Because we need to be AVAILABLE.

Not focused, (this word is far too asphyxiating for my liking).

AVAILABLE. As in, open to receive.

A quiet landing place for the story, the prose, the poetry that lives in us, waiting for us to “calm the hell down, chill out, relax” so it can arrive in a whisper or a hurricane.

SO here is the encouragement portion of this love letter.

Get thyself into a juicy relationship with GABA.

Do your research about it, understand how to nourish it, learn to sense the deluge and drought. Offer yourself grace in the fluctuations.

Find out which practices work for you to increase your levels and connection with GABA.

I support you in doing this for the love of your writing, your stunning prose and poetry, your enthralling novels, so as to create a space for it all to land and flourish.

And for those seekers of the magic bullet, there isn’t one.

Yes, we can nourish the environment in which GABA can grow with proper nutrition and basic supplementation, but this relationship requires more than the occasional date night. It calls for some good ol’ fashioned consistent spiritual, emotional and mental elbow grease.

And I’m here to remind you, now more than ever, the words you desire to share are worth a daily dose of grease on the elbows.

Keep going, Beloved Creative!

“Have you ever considered a writing residency?” asks my skilled partner. He could have made a statement: “You should do a writing residency.” But bless the man, he knows I become sea-urchin spiky around anything SHOULD.

I have never. It is more accurate to say, I may have, and then immediately deemed myself unworthy of a residency.

On this day, however, it landed.

A bright blue butterfly of possibility, and I allowed it to walk gingerly across the back of my hand, leaving tracks of potential, up my arm, tickling my skin with dainty dreams, only to settle on my heart.

All of which led me to The AI. Yes, I call it The AI. Like The Google.

This new novel that is unfolding for me, sometimes in a cascade of creativity and sometimes as a trickle that forebodes drought, is nestled in the Glens of Antrim, Northern Ireland. A world that is utterly singular, a heaving landscape that begs to be felt with one’s entire body. My beloved characters take to emotional warfare over the Big House, generations of animosity, privilege and poverty. All underlined with devastating secrets held in the name of Love.

In searching international residencies, I was delighted, tickled to feel the fluttering wings of possibility. I discovered an artists’ centre for residencies in the heart of this stunning landscape.

Hosted in… A. Big. House. (think Irish equivalent of a Southern Plantation House).

The butterfly sat in my palm, fanning her wings, a display of brilliant synchronicity.

For days, I was able to hold her and marvel at the artists’ rooms within the Big House, the grounds and the lake, imagining my wee self there. Even as I explored the world of grants for artists, I continued saying “yes” I would allow myself to be considered an artist. “Yes”, I would allow the possibility of being paid to write this book in this place.

I walked through the application for the artists’ centre with hope and lightness in my step.

“Hold it all lightly,” I heard her say. I agreed. “One step at a time,” she guided. I listened. “Take a rest now,” she offered. I walked in the woods.

It was stepping into the world of grants and financial support; The “Portal”, they call it, when I noticed a wee bit of disorientation, lightheadedness, the air was thinner here. One or two fingers beginning to curl.

“Don’t touch the wings,” she warned. “Hold it loosely,” she reminded. I did not listen. I ignored Trust and Faith.

Before I knew it, three days had passed. I was trapped, stumbling through the funhouse mirrored walls of “The Portal” and “the budget spreadsheet needing a net zero balance after expenses”. I was disoriented, nauseous, my eyes unfocused, nothing made sense. My low point: I got into an argument with my computer.

I rose from my stupor, looked down at my hand, once an open fleshy space for a fluttering dream, now a bloodless and determined iron fist.

What had I done to this ethereal creature of inspiration? Dare I look? Had I destroyed her, pulverized the dream out of her? Did it shatter her ability to walk, let alone fly?

This is a habit. This gripping. Grasping. Crushing the lightness.

My strong mind, stubborn willfulness and fierce independence. All of which have gotten me out of some “Rock/Me/Hard place” type situations.

This was not that. There was nothing about this that required grit, urgency, my penchant for tenacity and hardcore over-functioning. No. One. Was. Bleeding out.

One white-knuckled finger at a time, I unfurled my useless fist. I offered myself grace for, yet again, gripping a perfectly formed creature. I took a breath.

I exhaled.

There she sat, slightly rumpled, a bit befuddled and yet willing to remain a stunning possibility.

This is not a cautionary tale. It is not a foretelling of doom and loss when you or I go into grasping mode and lose our sense of alignment with a whisper of inspiration.

It is not even a story with a happy end that has me nestled in the Big House of the Glens. That has yet to be decided.

It is a reminder to you, dearest creator, to offer yourself grace when the grasping strikes. A reminder to know that even our daintiest, most gossamer dreams are more vivacious than we give them credit for.

So, take a look at your fist, lovely one, slowly unfurl and take a breath. That iridescent dream is there, fanning her wings, waiting for you to see that you are worthy and she is robust.

As you may or may not know, may or may not care, each morning following my cold plunge (AKA moment of necessary insanity for sanity’s sake), I sit, journal open, pen in hand and ask some questions.

Of who?

That matters less and less as the pages fill and my sense of Self grows truer.

These words I share come from a morning like any other, scrawled in my buttery leather journal, wrapped in a thick towel and snuggled next to the space heater. My hope is that they resonate with you, strengthen your self-love, and inspire you to extend yourself abundant Wild Grace. Here they are.

My sweet honey bee, our nimble little fox, you have so many concerns. None of them is necessary or founded. And we adore your humanness.

Can you turn those concerns into curiosities? “But how???” you often howl.

Bring them to your Soul’s fire! Yes, you have access to every answer and solution.

Soul-ution!

There is nothing you will ever experience, no concern, no problem, no conundrum—no head-scratcher (we like that one), that you don’t have a natural, organic, HOLY SOULY soul-ution to…eventually.

Eventually.

This is where you may stumble over your beloved impatience, your well-worn tales of scarcity, lack, and shortage. These soul-utions may not come immediately. Although they can and have. You know this.

No head-scratcher exists without its Soul-ution.

They come created as a pair. It is up to you to allow them to be reunited.

Notice we said “allow”. Not fix, or solve, or do.

Allow.

Bring curiosity. That is the invitation. And, if you can muster it, some delightful anticipation of the soul-ution. Enjoy the unfolding. Especially with your writing. The story is unfolding with Divine beauty.

Place any conundrums as kindling onto your Soul fire, sweet darling bumble bee, every day and watch the sparks fly!

No fretting, only allowing the Soul-utions.

Off you go, now. Gather that pollen, make that golden honey.

I was hesitant in asking for testimonials. The part of me AND YOU that would have us play small and quiet, stay safe, was heel digging.

When I set my inner critic, Estelle, in the corner with a cup of tea that I may have spiked with some Irish whiskey, and made the ask for testimonials, what I received were love letters—not in the traditional sense, but letters that serve as a testament to love in action.

Love that swirls and alchemizes within a space where two people are willing to step in: one to genuinely see, and the other brave enough to be truly, deeply seen. To then grow and evolve.

I have experienced this swirl of love both as the seer and the seen, and realized that being genuinely and deeply seen is a vital mineral that keeps the bones of a creative soul strong, vibrant. Upright in a world that can leave us osteoporotic and crumbling.

Let me be clear. This is not about me. This is not a call to increase my coaching practice. This is not a sales pitch. I am allergic, hostile even, to the notion of selling anything. My short stints in retail left me with rashes.

This is an invitation, an encouragement to allow your Self to glow, to be seen in a safe space saturated with love and respect. It might not always be in a formal coaching or therapy setting. It could be a dear friend, a magnificent tree, a cherished pet, or an open journal page that reflects your brilliance. Being accepted exactly as you are can be a powerful, transformative experience.

The women I coach are incandescent. Strikingly bright, luminous with a clear, intense heat. And they share an identical courage. The willingness to listen to the small, still voice of their soul that says;

Here is where this courage has taken some of these women.

Let these words of love remind you to embrace chances to really see yourself, so that through you, the world can share in the richness of your soul and your incandescence. We need YOU.

I sent out a heartfelt piece about writing and f’d up the spelling of the FIRST TWO WORDS of the title!😂😂😂😂😂 And so it goes.

I hope you enjoyed it, regardless.

Love to you all

Mel

The brilliant plan: rearrange my coaching and counselling practice and take the last week of each of the next four months off to be with and, hopefully, complete the first draft of my new novel. My writing was beginning to feel like crack filler within the rest of my life. That needed to change. And so began the hybrid sabbatical.

Let us start with this fact: I’ve never given birth. And we’ll go from there.

I’ve heard some women say, “Had I been able to recall the feelings of labour and delivery, child number two, three, four would not be running around my house, eating my food, costing me a fortune in therapy and bladder repair procedures.”

I fear it is a similar form of amnesia among people who write multiple books. Minus the bladder issues.

It is not so much the corporeal torture birthing and writing have in common, as it is the emotional straining, pain and tearing…the crying out for that f’n epidural. More importantly, what seems similar is that once that little beauty is out in the world, looking pretty on the shelves at Chapters, Barnes & Noble, and the cherished local book seller, we writers can block out all the bearing down and ice chips that were needed.

I planned this past week’s inaugural flight of my oh-so-clever sabbatical, like a woman with a rock-solid birth plan, complete with a song list and mantras.

Ya know, in case I got “a little stuck”.

I was going to light candles, do my oracle card spread, have nourishing snacks and fragrant tea at my fingertips. I had a writing time with my brilliant Firefly writing crew lined up. I intended to be in a nest of blankets and creative aloneness for hours, emerging rosy-cheeked, ripe and dripping with dewy inspiration, only to take fresh air walks and forest baths among the birds that would celebrate my dedication and progress.

Instead.

I experienced what my memory had so graciously erased from

The. First. Time. Around.

There is a very good, well-earned, gritty reason I shudder and bristle against the shiny Instagram and FB feeds that promise writing a book is easy-peasy, you too can write a book in 90 days.

If it smells like bullshit. And walks like bullshit. It’s likely bullshit.

Far be it from me to say anything is impossible. I’ve created many an impossibility.

But I am talking about writing a book with heart and soul, your heart and soul. Swimming there on the page in the words, in the space between the words, in the letters and the infinite cracks between the letters.

A reader can feel heart and soul in that sacred white space.

So too can they feel an utter lack thereof. And there are readers who will accept this…lack thereof. And that is hunky-dory. I am not one of those readers. And endeavour to never be one of those writers.

I write this, not to frighten or discourage, but rather to encourage. To beseech my fellow lovers of soul-riddled words and heart-drenched writing to have courage.

This past week, when my cushiony birth plan blew apart, so too did my unconscious resistance to showing up fully, in the emotional depths that are required to dance with writing, the sort of writing that will reach a reader in those vulnerable spaces.

I was called to spend time with a character who was, as I discovered, entirely uncared for, unseen, living with shame in the marrow, starting at her birth.

What did she help me see? What did she bring to the surface in me?

The narrative of being “in trouble” or being “a bad girl” or “being a fuck up”. And along with it, all the baggage of Uber consciousness. AKA tight-assery. And her cousin, PERFECTIONISM.

Yup. It is still there in my veins. Maybe not as arresting as it once was, but still there. Whisper-screaming in times of vulnerability. And needing to be seen, then laid to rest by compassion and grace.

A while back, my agent offered me generous feedback.

Love the story so far! Brilliant characters! Great dialogue and scene details! And… (pause for the heart to sink) I feel like you are skimming the surface with this character.

My agent is no slouch.

This week would prove she was correct.

I cannot tell you what really happened, other than that, at some point, with my birth plan in smithereens on the floor, my heart aching from very old wounds, I surrendered. I agreed to show up on that page. No perfection in sight.

I wrote for this character and myself. And WE wrote our way to a bit of light and a bit of freedom. This is the power of writing. Be it a novel, a memoir, a truthful journal entry, or a letter you might never send.

If you show up intending to meet your soul on that page and listen to what it knows needs to be laid to rest, it will take you places you never imagined. On the page and off the page.

Mid-week, mid-emotional contraction, I had the thought, “Maybe I’m not cut out to write. Sue Monk Kidd would not struggle this way. This sabbatical bullshit was a terrible, fanciful plan. Surely, I’m going to shit the bed on this one.”

And to my beloved Caragh, I say;

My darling, I see you. I have put aside the entire last week of February just for you and me. Let’s spend the entire week together.

To you, my fellow soulful pen pals, I say;

Please don’t stop going there. With or without a birth plan. When we write, we heal. When we heal, we offer a desperately needed beauty to this world. One word at a time.

I could not tell you why my written voice has been silent. Not exactly silent, just publicly unshared. I can assure you that I have been dancing with the rowdy crowd of characters in my latest novel. They keep me entertained, on my toes, and scratching my head.

There was no impetus to my silence over these last few months.

No tragedy. No bold decision followed by a declaration to disconnect from social media.

I simply followed a desire or lack thereof.

It was a step in the direction of trust, that going silent would not lead to the flaming train wreck of my writing life. And leaning into the possibility that a desire to use this voice again may or may not arise once again.

And here we are! Together again. I hope you’re pleased.

I will keep this brief, an offering for those out there experiencing the eddies in the stream.

In my morning written exchanges with Wild Grace, Source, Creator (she is not fussy about her handle) I ask and she answers. Often cheeky, never trite, forever soulful.

Here is this morning’s exchange. I hope you enjoy.

Dearest Wild G, I’m feeling some anxiousness, beginning to tell myself fear stories about the novel not flowing and ultimately trickling away to nothing but a dry parched river bed in which my soul will wither and be pecked at by vultures and vermin. What can you tell me about this?

My sweet little otter, such hyperbole!

Are you trying to bend the river again? Get in the water and enjoy the curves, twists and turns that already exist. You need only lie back and follow the current that flows in you from us. This “parchedness” you imagine is a perception. Not a possibility.

Right now, you are in an eddy along the lush ferny bank. Soon, so very soon, you will pop out into the rushing current. You may even get a nose full of water.

You’ve been here before. Well, not exactly here —you are never in the same place twice —but you have experienced these quiet eddies many times. In many lifetimes. They are part of the landscape of creating, remember? They are rest stops for your soul. A place you inevitably find soul-utions. Like that? Soul-utions!

Here’s our suggestion. Enjoy the view. Enjoy the rest. Plug your nose!

I think I was twenty? I think I truly believed I was in the prime of my life. (insert deep belly laugh here)

I remember the deep green of the book’s cover. It reminded me of a mossy river bed. Perhaps green, being my intuitive colour, is what drew me to reading Conversations With God.

Within the first few pages, the lid of my very tight myopic understanding of God turned to shrapnel. I learned that there was no need for an intermediary—a priest, a man—to speak on my behalf. I would come to learn that was a laughable concept.

I had access to an open, two-way, line of communication with Her. And it was ok for me to call Her something other than “God”.

I chose Wild Grace. Wild G. Intuitively.

And throughout the years, I’ve been having my very own conversations. Very candid. Sometimes littered with expletives and soaked in confusion, roaring with rage. At times, brimming with appreciation, thrill and delight at being thrilled and delighted.

A trust has built inside my heart, my tongue, my throat. It shows on the pages and pages of my journals, these conversations I have scribbled across the years, as I learn to shut up and listen when She speaks to me.

Never pontificating. Always holding. Evergreen.

Today, Wild G has encouraged me to share a wee peek at one of our exchanges.

“Be brave, Penguin,” She said to me. “You are bold enough and old enough to share.”

And so, here we are. My hope is that this little snippet of a conversation is helpful to your heart. Today. A reminder of how loved you are. As you are. Where you are.

Here goes nothing and everything:

My lil’ sweet and salty peanut! Sometimes you enter the day with such a serious and determined face, ruminating if you SHOULD turn this way or that, say yes or no, run or stand frozen and still. And I tell you—we tell you—it ALL leads to the same place.

You and me/us having a Life of Love experience.

If you keep your eagle eye on that, Life will be an adventure!

Look for us in everything. Everyone. That’s the fun treasure hunt! Know that we are with you in every decision. We have been WITH you, WITHIN you in every decision, action, feeling and thought.

We have a count on the number of heartbeats you’ve had, the breaths you’ve taken since that very first one, fresh out of the lovin’ oven. How’s that for being all up in your business??

The point of your Life is not to “get it all right”, my wee busy bee. It is to feel US with YOU in EVERYTHING. To feel Life loving you. NO. MATTER. WHAT.

Yes, even when you did THAT. Especially when you did THAT. Yes, even when you chose THAT. Especially when you chose THAT.

Look at you now, Muppet! Hasn’t it ALL worked out? Certainly, not the way your determined inner Hummingbird would have had it, but it always works out, doesn’t it?

We could NEVER not Love you. That’s like saying a breath could not be a breath. Or a heartbeat could not be a heartbeat.

They just are. We just are.

We cannot be anything else to you. We are Love, and that “we” includes YOU.

Yes, even when you did THAT! We were still in Love…inside of Love with you.

So waddle on, Penguin! Go make some strange noises, dive into the rugged sea, get water up your nose! We’ll be right on your stubby little tail!

Know you are loved, my friend.

That’s all for now.

Mel

“Mel, you can say No. And if it lubricates things, add thank you. NO, THANK YOU.”

These are the words I heard while hunched before the twisted wreckage of my life. Again.

The deliverer: A more substantial, older and wiser woman (fellow therapist) willing to push me, with love, from the thorny nest—one I’d constructed of people pleasing and a tightly clutched identity of being “the easygoing girl”. She was a sharp-eyed mother bird knowing I could fly, that I was built to soar if only I could trust the wings I had thus far, held tightly to my sides, unwilling to ruffle feathers. Mine or anyone else’s.

If you are fortunate enough to hear these words, I urge you to embrace them. You are receiving the permission you’ve been seeking to soar truly.

With two was-bands colouring the pages of my relationship history, you can place some trust in the fact that I’ve toasted many marshmallows over numerous smouldering heaps of my boundaries.

Like most other women I’ve shared soulful connections with, the first few decades of my life were spent fumbling in chaos and confusion, swallowing resentment like Skittles, then burning relationships to the ground due to a lack of graceful exit skills and gulping too many of those Skittles, tearing myself and others to ribbons, and wielding blame as a flaming sword to point at and slice open those perceived as villains in my saga.

That’s right: we therapists and coaches don’t shoot out of the birth canal with muscular, vivacious boundaries, let alone knowing how to strut through the world with them Beyonce-style.

Boundaries are a learned and earned skill--a language you won’t find on Duo Lingo or Rosetta Stone.

It is a life-long practice that requires heaps of self-compassion and wild levels of grace.

In learning boundaries there is an inevitable messy middle in refining, shaping, and moulding boundaries. They can be slippery little mother-effers!

We spend much time shaving down the sharp edges of generational guilt narratives and feminine acquiescence conditioning, sustaining cuts and nicks that can bleed doubt for days. There are moments of Boundary Setter’s Remorse. You know what I mean…when you come swaggering in with a boundary full of spicy self-love, you drive that stake of certainty in the ground…and a day, half a day, ten minutes later, you ache to claw it all back!

Yowling, “What have I done?”

Crying out, “How dare I make my needs equal to everyone else’s!” all the while dismantling your shiny boundary, hastily tucking it into that rucksack, and scurrying back to resentment town. Sound familiar?

I’m guessing it does. Here's the thing to consider:

Observe your relationship with boundaries deeply enough, and like me, you swiftly learn--a kick in the crotch type swift—that it is YOUR bewildered mug on YOUR Boundary Breakers Most Wanted poster. You are the repeat offender.

Read that again. And quickly offer yourself a gulp of Grace.

It takes courage to unload that rucksack of false narratives that you practiced and that lead you to continuously leap over your own boundaries under the illusion that your “No.” will cause someone else's ultimate demise. Whether draped in a super-shero cape, prepared to sacrifice yourself for this friend or that partner—for the fortieth or four-hundredth time—it takes bravery to face why you believe your needs, health, and sense of well-being are somehow less important than anyone else’s in your life—or on the planet, if you’re given to hyperbole.

That, my dear sweet and salty friend, is the ego being sly. Even if you see yourself as lesser, anything less than equal is still ego, sister.

Here’s another thought:

If you practice boundaries—with the understanding that practice is an ongoing journey—with love for yourself and others, you become a very trustworthy person.

In my later years, my dearest friends affectionately titled me The Pope of Nope. However, I’ve come to prefer being called The Countess of Yes. By no means have I perfected the art of navigating the slip-and-slide of boundaries, but I have gained a manageable level of agility and strength through this one crucial pivot.

When you’re feeling weak-kneed about saying “no” to someone, turn your focus in the opposite direction. There, you will come face-to-face with what you are saying “yes” to: the feeling, the person, the experience, or the integrity of your choice.

Holding the object, intention, and desired feeling of your “Yes!” will fortify your “No.”

In the long run, people learn to trust you because your word will hold integrity, be it a “No, thank you.” or a “Hell Yes!” They trust that you are not silently smouldering in resentment or trudging through martyrdom when you are in their presence. As an added bonus, this makes you way more fun to be around. No one enjoys a smoulderer.

Practice boundaries enough, and your circles of friendship and love may become smaller-–it’s true. However, those more tightly knit circles brim with mutual respect, love, integrity, and oodles of wild grace!

So, the next time—and you can bet your sweet patooty there will be a next time—you fear that your genuine “No.” will ruffle feathers or cause a scene like a cat chucked into a dog park, just remember this:

It’s your chance to fly! It’s an opportunity to embrace your inner Pope of Nope and Countess of Yes!

Enough for now…and you can expect A Tale of Boundaries, Part 2!

Do you remember the door jam experiment?

The one where, as a grimy little kid smelling of summer sweat, you stood in a doorway and pressed the back of your wrists against the frame. You pushed with all your might until your little childhood chicken wings began to quiver and your dirt-smeared cheeks turned scarlet, still believing that somewhere inside of you, there existed a yet-to-be-released Wonder Woman or Hulk or some combination thereof (Picture the Hulk sporting a pointy bra and high-waist underpants).

Do you remember what happened when your friend was done counting thirty Mississippis?

You stepped through the doorway—released yourself and your pushing energy—and your pudgy appendages floated away from your body, leaving you convinced that you had unleashed your superpowers once and for all.

It felt weird, right? To be free of gravity’s press. You didn’t know what to do with those floating arms and all that lightness.

But when you’re a kid, WEIRD is the name of the game—it is a thing to be relished. And for a few mystical moments, you were delighted, intrigued to be free of Newton’s law.

During a recent and profoundly opalescent conversation with a coaching client, we explored resistance and how their—our—resistance creates a sense of restriction, heaviness, and fear of being trapped.

That led me to the question:

Can you imagine what it might be like—what you might feel—if you were to step out of resistance around X, Y and Z for just a short time? Ya know, to rest a bit.

It wasn't easy. Even for this spark of brilliance in human form, it was frightening to imagine not pushing against what was “happening out there.”

It feels disorienting—too spacious. Like I should get back to work. Now is not the time to stop resisting. I don’t deserve to feel at ease while the world is going straight toward hell in a BIG RED handbasket!

Sound familiar?

It might be the flaming turd of a political atmosphere that has you in a door jam of resistance, or maybe it’s something different.

Either way, when our minds are planted in the rigid frame of resistance, we can resist stepping away from our resistance.

We can be adamant that standing in the doorway pressing 24-7 with all our adult might against what is will make all the difference.

Currently, you can throw a stone in the political arena, and you’re bound to hit something—SOMEONE—worth resisting. This resistance might even build our muscles, strength, and endurance—creating a healthier body of humanity.

We might even break this termite-infested, janky, outdated, misogynistic door frame whose only remedy is a match and some gasoline.

The questions for my client are the same for you and me.

Are you giving yourself the chance to step through the doorway occasionally? Have you forgotten the magic of letting your tired arms float?

Are you offering yourself, your mind, and your aching soul a chance to feel spaciousness now and again? To be with what is, rest, and restore before stepping into the next doorway.

Can you allow for the possibility that the spaciousness and rest that disorients you might be your natural state? That being spacious occasionally might add a more profound strength to the energy of love this world desperately needs.

I will end on that note. Leave you with those wonderings.

Because I know you are just itching to go and stand in the nearest doorframe, have your friend count to 30 Mississippis, and then step out into space.

Embrace your superpowers!

It was during a time when my marriage to “the perfect guy” was smashing itself against the rocks, looking for a way to dismantle and set me afloat in the ocean. An interaction with a gentle stranger reminded me to stay open-hearted, even when everything in us screams for separation and survival—You vs me. Us vs them.

In light of the current challenges our world is facing, I feel it's important to share this once more with compassion and understanding.

I assume he’s homeless. I assume he’s needy. I assume he’s broken.

I use all these blades of assumption to carve the man crouching in the sun, a cardboard litre of Minute Maid Orange juice on the sidewalk at his feet. He leans his thin back against the bricks that house the liquor store and the neighbouring bank. The Canucks ball cap he holds out and open in hopes of receiving shakes slightly in his pale fingers.

I watch him from my car. A voyeur to a pathetic soul.

He keeps his eyes low as people go about their lives, trying to ignore the squatting sidewalk blight on their otherwise shiny Saturday morning. I lift my travel mug out of the holder and rummage through the change I never think about.

I pull out a total of six bucks in loonies. Coins I pilfered from my husband’s stash weeks ago with the intention of washing my long-suffering car. In the few steps it takes me to get to this man, I ask myself: what is your intention? Alleviation of guilt or love for another human? We often dress one up as the other.

There is a fat hesitation in what to say when a man such as this acts like I am a demi-god. I feel ashamed. I have something, and he doesn’t. Can we navigate that tension without condescension?

I tell myself I know the roles could be reversed in an instant, but I don’t know that. I have no concept of that. That is the worst sort of lie—the kind we tell ourselves.

I smile as I approach and have the gall to put the money in his hat instead of his hand. The sting of separation and arrogance is an immediate burn. I want to fish the coins out, correct my ignorance. I say something useless like “Here you go,” or “Have a good day,” and the inevitable “Oh, you’re welcome” to his pleading thank you. There is always a pivoting in my legs even as I drop the change—an urge to get away as fast as possible—in case it’s not enough.

Not enough connection. Not enough cellular respect. Not enough love. It is a cramping mantra that feeds on all of us—not enough.

I do my balletic spin of shame and begin to walk away, already thinking about the 5,000-dollar cheque I need to deposit into an account to avoid penalties.

“Ma’am? Excuse me, miss?” I hear his quiet voice from behind me. The sound of it sends the awful message charging through my brain: you want more?

Turning back to him, I notice his eyes match the day’s bright blue sky. His mouth is collapsed with no teeth to hold it strong. I also see a simplicity all over his face. I know he has been taken advantage of in this life.

It’s amazing and heartrending what we see when we truly look.

“Miss,” he says holding out the loonies I bestowed up him, “I really appreciate this but…” He smiles, and I am met with enough openness to flood the universe. “What I could really use is a bag of dog food.” He extends his stick-thin arm and attempts to drop the coins back into my hand…he would never dream of dropping them into my hat.

His dilemma is a swift army boot to my gut.

“You have a dog?” I manage to ask.

His reply undoes me.

“Actually, I live in a group home just over there,” he points to a place I know is not well sought after, “and one of the guys I live with has two dogs and they could really use some food.”

I drop my gaze to the pavement, blinking and swallowing what threatens to erupt. The conversation I had with the Universe just that morning as I walked the woods comes flooding in. Show me something amazing today. Give me jaw-dropping!

I swipe my eyes and nose in front of the dog food selections of the grocery store. And when I return to the brick wall of the liquor store, he tries once again to give me back the paltry loonies.

On the two-minute car ride to his house, I find out he’s lost 40 pounds, then gained 20. He only drinks beer every once in a while. He has to take medication for arthritis. And his mum is dead but was a hairdresser before that.

I enter his yard through a gate held on a single hinge and I deposit onto his doorstep the biggest bag of dog food I could carry. He rushes over to several boxes of apples and lemons and potatoes squatting on the weedy lawn.

“I got them for free! Take as much as you want!”

He loads my arms with local produce and throw-aways from the grocer. I walk back to my car, juggling apples and potatoes, not wanting to see the dogs who now have food for the month. I fear seeing their all-knowing canine eyes would cause the rent in my heart to split completely and leave me a yowling mess on the busy street.

He chats along happily behind me and I think about how warm the sun is on my shoulders. Until I realized it is him. He is the sunshine in my day.

As I drive home, I thank and cry and thank again. I wonder how many jaw-droppers we miss in a day, how much sunny openness we block, how many truly selfless souls we ignore in favor of our assumptions.

My teacher: “What are you most scared of?”

Me: “That you’ll run off, find a sharp stick, and proceed to stab yourself in the eardrums.”

My teacher (smiling kindly): “I can assure you I won’t stab myself in the ears.”

Me: (in my most sarcastic tone) “Can you, Laura? Can you assure me?”

My teacher: “We’re going to put all of our focus on settling your nervous system, and helping you feel safe before we do anything else. Nothing will stifle your voice more than being in fight or flight.”

With those magic words, I know I’m in good hands—literally and figuratively.

I know what it is like. I know the fear.

To step into a creative act that’s been calling you AND terrifying you all at once.

Racing rabbit heart, sweat tricking in all the wrong places, scarlet face betraying your deep shame for even attempting this, swells of nausea in a tummy that is bound into a Gordian knot.

According to my inner critic, signing up for vocal lessons this year was no less than an act of treason, a signing of my own death warrant, a fashioning of my own noose. (She is a master of catastrophizing and hyperbole)

“This could lead to NOTHING good!” she screeched. “Irreversible shame and imminent death! You are not a midlife Lady Gaga, who are you kidding! You might be able to pull off the meat suit, but that’s it!”

When my vocal lessons began, I found myself on the massage table, performing gentle exercises to calm my nervous system.

At that moment, I knew I was in the right spot.

My vocal coach assured me, “This is not about what your voice sounds like in someone else’s ear; this is all about you discovering how unique and beautiful it FEELS in YOUR body and going from there.”

A tear slipped out the corner of my eye and landed on the squishy teal massage table that would be my island of safety, my landing spot at the beginning of each voice lesson. This woman knew a thing or three about holding creative expression in a safe space.

As a gateless coach for writers, I, too, learned and practiced the importance of safety and upliftment. I, too, had held numerous terror-stricken writers who had so many words bubbling up inside and yet feared a slow death from ridicule and criticism.

I knew the importance of this act of holding safe and encouraging creative spaces.

This led me to ask some brave and stellar writers I work with in one-on-one Gateless Salons to share their experiences of stepping into an intentionally safe creative space.

Jill had this to say; “My writing and truly my life, my relationship with Self and others, has been incredibly enriched by the individual Gateless writing salons I have done with Mel’s support. She creates a container with her words and presence, then holds me and my unique journey in that sacred chalice. In our time together, my soul is free to choose how long she feels safe to write, and then she opens to my personal guides. I love the unexpected nature of what shows up, and the sense of deep connection both to myself and my guides, and to that expansive great mystery that lies beyond and around us. These individual salons are an opening to that magical, mystical world that is here in the moment waiting to be received.”

Ritu also shared; “Writing is a very special, sacred journey, and sometimes bringing in a treasured person helps guide, nurture and expand the writing. Through the magical experience of one-to-one Gateless writing salons with Mel, I experienced the greatest breakthrough in moving forward with my book. While group Gateless writing salons are wonderful, there is an incomparable uniqueness in having this experience with Mel one-to-one. She compassionately and attentively listens; the writing feels heard, and I feel valued. She then intuitively feeds back strengths and beauty in the writing that I had not recognized. And these extraordinary experiences have always inspired post-salon writing that has ended up in my book.”

When deciding to take vocal lessons, my intention was not to become the next Aretha. Let’s be honest: That mould was fashioned by the angels and smashed immediately. My intention did not even include gracing a local stage with my mediocre sounds.

Rather, it was a deep desire to explore my own voice's unique qualities, experiment with it, and appreciate its nuances. And I understood that finding a supportive person who values safety and encouragement in creative expression is essential.

I was lucky enough to find that person on my first attempt.

Do you feel a whisper or a roar of desire within you to explore your voice through writing? To experience its uniqueness as it flows onto the page?

Have you tried in the past only to retreat back into your cave to avoid the slings and arrows of critique?

Are you a somewhat seasoned writer feeling lost in the messy middle of your first or fifth draft?

I invite you to envision a half-day, a full day, or perhaps even a weekend in an online writing nest designed just for you.

Where you will experience a space meticulously designed to unlock your full creative potential, guided by the expertise of a Gateless coach, a somatic trauma therapist, and a published novelist. Here, you will find a calm and expansive environment where creativity thrives and encouragement is inherent. Through rich and inspiring writing prompts, paired with transformative breath work and grounding exercises, you will open the doors to your creativity like never before. Plus, with the added wisdom from oracle cards, guidance will flow effortlessly, empowering you to explore your imagination without limits.

If the idea of an online, one-on-one Gateless writing salon has gently awakened your curiosity, I would love to tell you more.

You can visit melaniemaure.org to learn more about my Gateless Coaching and salons, connect with me, or leave a note here in Substack.

I would love to hear from you.

Until then, don’t be alarmed if you see my name on the music charts right up there with Pink and Kelly Clarkson.

Enough for now.

Cheers

Mel

Joining Substack is just one of the many new experiences I’m diving into lately, without overthinking things as I might have in the past.

As I embrace this midlife of my life, I am learning that perhaps this is what it means to truly live.

Please allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Mel, and I support others as a Life Coach and Therapist. I am also the author of a novel titled SISTERS OF BELFAST, which has given me the sweetest and most thrilling experiences of my life thus far.

I hope you’ll visit from time to time to see what I have to share through my writing as I navigate life with "Wild Grace" as my guide—essentially my CEO, CFO, CLO, CAO, and CCO: Chief Energy Officer, Chief Fun Officer, Chief Love Officer, Chief Abundance Officer, and Chief Creativity Officer.

Subscribe and stay tuned if you want the inside scoop on what it’s been like as I lean into the scariest thing I’ve EVER done! Like,

scarier and more exposing than walking down the main drag, butt-ass naked, with a juicy steak tied to my waist and a hungry pack of wolves hot on my heels.

Enough for now!

Much love

Mel

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