Category Archives: mental health

the word hope with different fonts and colors for each letter

Hope is like Weird Barbie

Cancer, mental health, On Life,

What does Barbie do in response to her feet changing? She climbs the hill to visit Weird Barbie in search of answers. After introductions, Weird Barbie begins questioning  the events preceding this seemingly catastrophic incident. 

Weird Barbie asks, “What proceeded this?” Stereotypical Barbie shares she played a “fun” game of volleyball, then lowers her voice to add, “…and thoughts of death”. 

“What?” Weird Barbie leans in closer, awkwardly putting her ear near S-Barbie’s mouth (for ease of typing and reading). 

“Maybe some thoughts of death,” S-Barbie repeats, barely audible still, eyes fixed ahead.

“Thoughts of death?!” Weird Barbie shouts.

Weird Barbie proceeds to explain S-Barbie has opened a portal. In a sort of blue-pill, red-pill, Matrix reference, S-Barbie can choose the high heal shoe, return to “normal”, and forget anything happened; or, she can choose the Birkenstock, discover the “truth about the universe”, go into the real world to visit her child, and fix the issue. 

S-Barbie choses the heal, closes her eyes and says, “I’m ready to forget”.  

Weird Barbie admonishes her, “You’re supposed to want to know…You’re doing this one (as she shoves the Birkenstock into S-Barbie’s face)… I just gave you a choice so you could feel some sense of control!”

Hope is like Weird Barbie

In a previous post, I shared how grief and cancer are like doors. They invite you into a room, rarely of your choosing, to confront the truth, in all its forms. In these rooms, we often rendezvous with thoughts of death, the meaning of life, will we have a chance to become the best versions of ourselves…you know, the easy questions. 

But if grief and cancer are doors, I think it’s quite likely those are the rooms where we find hope, masquerading as Weird Barbie. We would rather close our eyes and pretend we aren’t in the scary room, but Weird Barbie, aka Hope,  presents a beautiful, albeit random opportunity to confront our fears, acknowledge our firmly held yet limiting beliefs, and move forward. 

Hope is like Weird Barbie

I cannot claim this simile. It was birthed out of a therapy session I had with an amazing practitioner ( who you will get to meet in a minute). Through this journey of being diagnosed with cancer (I’m trying to avoid saying I “have” cancer. To insinuate I “have” cancer seems to create a type of reciprocal relationship in which cancer can also have me. That is a world I refuse to live in, hence the careful word choice – can’t get enough of word association!!) Anyway, this cancer journey has provided space, or better stated, forced me to explore what self-care looks like and to ask, what does it look like to really take care of myself – all of me, body, soul, and spirit? 

I have gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing those aspects, and care of body is at the bottom of the list. I try to be cognizant of what I eat, and then I push my body into submission. Seems like a fair trade. But one day, in the throes of chemo fatigue, I realized I was angry at my body and feeling betrayed. It didn’t feel like my body was being a team player. So I started looking for ways to figure out how to get my body to step up.

Through the recommendation of a close friend, I contacted Sonya, who is a “message therapist”. You’ll see why that’s in quotes because she is so much more. In my world, she’s a practitioner of healing.  But maybe it’s best to let her explain. She’s lovely and I can’t wait for you to meet her. (Anyone who can compare hope to Weird Barbie should be a celebrity in my book!) Below is a brief interview so you can get to know her and get a glimpse into her beautiful person and practice.

Please let me introduce an amazing woman and a faithful partner on this journey with me, Sonya Weiser Souza…(hold for applause). 

Me: Let’s jump right in. Can you give us a bit of your background?

Sonya: This is one of those long story short answers 🙂 so maybe we’ll get into the depths later… I was walking along just minding my own business as a successful science and sport focused massage therapist, full of injury and performance protocols, just whistling Aloha Oē, and along came another massage therapist friend who said “hey, I tried this modality called Barnes Myofascial Release wanna try?” And I was like sure! I love trying new things… and then my world was blown apart with the softest of touch, like a whisper that blows a house down… I was hit in the feels by a dancing dandelion and I’ve never seen bodywork the same since…

Me: You mentioned moving or adding onto message with a study in Barnes Myofascial Release. How would you explain the difference between Barnes Myofascial Release and typical massage?

Sonya: Traditional massage feels amazing and boosts circulation, muscle tone, and relief—though it’s temporary, like a dream vacation. Sports massage, however, aims for performance and injury prevention with intense techniques like deep tissue and cupping, causing “beneficial damage” to heal tissues, like a volunteer vacation, where you work for your room and board. Both effectively treat symptoms and make you feel and work better. Myofascial release (MFR), especially the John F. Barnes method, is next-level! From the MFR perspective the body is viewed as a whole, treating symptoms while looking elsewhere for the cause with gentle, sustained pressure on fascial adhesions for 5+ minutes. This nurtures and hydrates tissues at a cellular level, allowing your consciousness to address those issues underneath the tissues without causing harm. Unlike the temporary vacation feeling massage gives you, MFR is like taking a road trip with a good friend – where the adventures are guaranteed, instructions are not included, and you’ll have a whole new perspective on life when you get back… if you decide to even come back 😉

Barnes MFR feels more like an art form than a treatment protocol. In fact, every Barnes MFR practitioner has John’s voice in our head, repeating over and over, “Let go of the outcome… find the barrier and wait”, because we know that when we let ourselves let go of the labels and the outcome we, as the therapist, can hold space for our clients to heal from within… and sometimes the healing doesn’t feel better, but it feels like what the client didn’t get to feel during a time when they were scared, or hurt, or afraid, and those feelings have been tucked away for however long, still need tending. Emotions don’t kill people, but storing them in your tissues, and never tending to them will. 

[Side note: Sonya is not kidding! Because my lymph nodes have been affected and my body has been trying to cope with some pretty serious medical treatment protocols, we avoided massage and I got the “extra light” package. But even an extremely slow and safe approach created some intense moments where I had the space to discern where I’ve stored or stuffed emotion in my body. But also, recognizing my body hasn’t betrayed me. It has been doing the best it could. The appointments with Sonya have provided a space to acknowledge all that my corporal shell does for me and how much of the weight it carries, literally and figuratively.]

ME: You made the following statement in a recent appointment with me, “Hope is like weird Barbie?” Do you care to elaborate?

Sonya: Hope is what we need when we are actually in the fire… hope can’t be pretty… she’s too busy helping us get out of trouble… and get into it too. So, in my opinion Hope be lookin’ pretty wild about now.

See? Hope is totally like Weird Barbie! 

Sonya’s practice has helped me find a safe space to learn to address care of my whole being. This type of treatment might not appeal to you. That’s okay. My wish is for you to think about ways you may be neglecting yourself. I get it might sound selfish. But “you cannot give what you don’t have”. Profound insight from an argument with a three year old about gum, but nonetheless true. If you are curious, have any questions for Sonya, or are interested in learning more about Barnes Myofascial Release, I’ve linked her website here. Trust me, she would love to engage with you on this topic! But for now…

May you look for Hope and find her in all her wacky and unexpected presentations! 

P.S. Quick update – I’m officially done with treatment and have been declared, “in remission”! Woohoo! But spoiler alert, there are a couple more blog posts coming about the journey. The feeling of wanting to write is catching up with the stuff to write about. Now go out and find Hope! I promise she will greet you with a smile. 

I don’t think it means what you think it means…

Cancer, mental health, ,

On the advice of a family friend fresh out of her own treatment journey, I found a therapist who specializes in cancer patients. Very quickly an interesting pattern emerged. She would ask how I felt about certain words, and we would both anticipate my response. Sometimes it would be a visceral reaction (turns out I do not welcome the term “new normal”. I refuse to acknowledge this new-found fatigue and angst as any kind of normal, new or otherwise). The other common response was a blank stare. Words like grief, anxiety, fear, and achievement gave me pause. I had never stopped to ponder any sort of personal definitions, assuming there were basic universal interpretations. I was wrong.

Take the word “achievement”, for example. My therapist made a comment about the achievement of finishing chemo. I believe my response was something like, “finishing chemo doesn’t feel like an accomplishment,” and then she took a page out of my playbook and blankly stared at me. I’m rather familiar with this look and have since used it as an indication that more information is needed.

So, I continued. “All I’ve done is sit in a chemo chair then put up with the aftermath. It doesn’t feel like an accomplishment.” 

Her stare persisted.

“I guess I need to give that one some thought?” 

She nodded and suggested, “Maybe examine what ‘accomplishment’ means.” 

Message received. I had a week to figure this out before I saw her again. While that may sound anxiety producing, these little side quests into my psyche are not only brilliant distractions- something to focus on other than the current state; but also, opportunities to evaluate some long-held beliefs, and subsequently dump a lot of them because they are utter nonsense. (More to come on that.) 

Back to the side quest. What is an achievement? Obviously, it’s the attainment of some lofty goal – finish a second novel, run a half marathon, build a successful business. Essentially, I subscribe to the “go big or go home” way of measuring. “I’m giving up months of my life to lie here and not progress toward any sort of achievement”. But when you spend so many days lying in bed battling fatigue and illness, this definition obviously breeds anxiety and depression.

I shared my definition. Here’s her response (paraphrased). “If the goal is to make it to the other side of treatment, anything to help realize that goal qualifies as an achievement, right?!” 

Achievement. I don’t think it means what you think it means.

Apparently, lofty is irrelevant here, and more importantly, of my own making. Why would I choose to adhere to a definition that feeds anxiety? And it turns out, we can change those definitions (insert mind blown emoji here). Finishing an Audible book is an achievement (and I’m getting more comfortable saying “I read” instead of “I listened to” as if listening is less than). Being still and resting when needed is an achievement. Learning to give myself grace and love is an achievement. Learning to be patient with the seemingly slow progress of recovery is turning into an achievement. Learning to relax my shoulders multiple times throughout the day and stop wearing them as earrings – you guessed it – an achievement!

When only the grandiose wins the title of achievement, there are few finish lines to cross and even fewer celebrations. Having walked these past few months with Professor C, I am discovering I much prefer a life full of celebration and how that ultimately comes down to choices I make. The focus can be on the distant lofty achievement, or the beautiful experiences along the way.

I know, I know, some of you are thinking, “Duh, ‘It’s not the destination, it’s the journey’.”  Sure. But until now, I always said it backwards in my head. Seriously. Not on purpose. I just didn’t get it. That’s probably pretty telling on its own and honestly, I still don’t 100% prescribe to that idea. It is a bit about the destination. How do you know which way to turn at the first intersection if you have no idea where you hope to end up? But, even my definition of “destination” may be changing. Maybe the destination is getting to the end, having learned how to celebrate life and having said the important things to the important people. 

Anyway, maybe that’s another post. Professor C pushed me into a room I didn’t want to be in. However, this created opportunities to reflect and examine who I am and who I want to be. Those opportunities have been terrifying, beautiful, unexpected…I still have a lot to learn (which I’m hoping takes decades). Clearly, I have a robust subconscious dictionary of words to redefine – and a lot of moments to celebrate!

man standing in front of old door

Grief – A Study of Maybes

Cancer, Grief, mental health, On Life, ,
man standing in front of old door

I’ve been challenged over the past few months to confront fear and anxiety. I have had the pleasure of unexpected visits from hope, signing off my last blog with this apt description of my current state – finitely human and infinitely hopeful. But, the journey continues. In a recent appointment, my therapist brought up a new aspect. She asked, “What does grief look like to you?”

I responded with a helpful distant stare, while thinking, “It looks like something I don’t want to talk about.” Needless to say, I have more appointments scheduled.

Since then, I have been trying to mold a blog post for practically a month now, using this medium as a way of untangling what grief looks like to me (thank you for indulging my cathartic exploration). Usually, I sit down, vomit on the screen, then walk away for a day or two before returning to refine the words and then post. But grief…I’m painfully wrestling with this one. So, I turned to a familiar friend of mine in times of uncertainty – research. I asked Dr. Google. One of the first suggestions came from the esteemed Mayo Clinic. Their experts describe grief as “…a strong, sometimes overwhelming emotion.”

Again, a distant stare. Um, doesn’t that seem a bit vague?

More research quickly uncovered the revered “stages” of grief (post to follow on how certain words trigger – spoiler alert, “stages” is one of them). As a math person, I get the trend and desire toward the measurement and application of patterns to our existence. Civilization is replete with such utilizations from our literal measuring systems (plural because for some reason America prefers a system based on random numbers instead of a base 10 model, but whatever), to our calendar, and the way we proportion our presence on this planet in reference to celestial bodies. Humans need to measure things.

Grief feels similar, measured somehow. I have lost people I love, but I have never lost a child, or a spouse, or a best friend. My tangible existence has never been consumed by fire or whisked away in a tornado. I feel like I’ve been a mere spectator to those levels of loss. More measurement, accompanied by the realization, I don’t feel adequate to write about grief, coupled with the challenge of dealing with something I cannot name or define. (I may have mentioned this before).

Grief feels like the giant elephant in the room that appears when someone looks at you and declares you are now a cancer patient. Maybe dealing with the smaller pieces feels like a tangible way to address the elephant. After all, that’s the best way to eat it right? One bite at a time? And maybe I currently only have the capacity to deal with the “smaller” things? (More topics for upcoming therapy appointments).

While we seem to accept the idea that some things are just spectrumie (definition “somewhere on the spectrum”), like light for example, we struggle in that space between things that can be measured and things that have span – beginnings and endings beyond what we can see or define.

Maybe that’s grief? 

At the risk of sounding flippant, I think grief is like that horse in “The Wizard of Oz”. You know the one that changes color? Sometimes it’s green, then it changes to yellow and then blue, without measure or pattern. A spectrum of color that represents how quickly we move from one feeling to another. But like light, there are some pieces that feel invisible, outside the realm of the seen – felt deeply but challenging to define or describe.

Maybe grief isn’t even an emotion?

I realized recently cancer is not actually my teacher. Prof C simply opened a door in my being to a room full of mirrors that provide opportunity to look at myself in ways I would never have chosen. A sort of House of Mirrors, but in this case, the distortion is the reality. I get to see how short and squatty my love can be, or how twisted and grotesque my anxiety is.

Maybe grief is like more like a door?

A door that propels you into a room of emotion and sadness and loss that cannot be experienced any other way. But honestly, I don’t know. And based on the definition provided by the Mayo Clinic, maybe it’s beyond easy definition.

We measure our lives by counting the boxes on a calendar. Some are filled with appointments, errands, meetings, chemo chairs – moments that gauge the productivity of our days and our accomplishments. In that frame of measurement, it’s easy to lose sight of the experience – the small spectrum of visible life we can see in the greater vastness of existence that begins and ends in the unknown.

I’ve committed to stand in this room, opened by Prof C, eyes open, looking at the iterations of myself I’ve created or allowed. Maybe I can change some of them, but maybe that isn’t the point either. Maybe this is a chance for me to experience and embrace the finiteness of my specific flavor of humanity. To learn to practice measuring days in things not tangible – the more spectrumie bits like joy and love and presence in between the measured notches on my calendar.

And maybe grief is giving myself permission and space to feel the losses, to wrestle, and hopefully, at the end of it all, accept what I cannot define. Maybe.

Two Bitches – Fear and Panic

Cancer, mental health, On Life
Photo credit: darkbird77

“I expect great results.” The charming and jovial doctor sat across from us and smiled. “Everyone I have treated in your shoes has responded positively.”

“And how long have you been a doctor?” My husband smiled sheepishly but also, yes, let’s get a read on the extent of “everybody.” Good question, Babe.

The doctor looked at his watch pensively and replied, “I think like two weeks?”

He was kidding. I’m pretty sure he was kidding. We all laughed so I’m assuming…High fives all around ended the appointment and more appointments were scheduled. Just another path to walk. No big deal. Been there done that.

I walked into the prep room of the hospital a couple weeks later. The quick routine procedure spiraled unannounced into a panic attack and hit me square in the chest in a split second. The last time I was in a room like this, “a routine procedure” left me in the oncology ward for five days.

“This isn’t that!!” I internally shouted at myself trying to get a grip while I donned the “gown”, attempting to redirect my focus to the directions I had been given.

(Side note, can we please rename the “hospital gown”? The crepe like square of cloth reminiscent of an old flour sack, with random holes and too many occupants to count does not deserve to be called a “gown”. The word “gown” should be proceeded by adjectives like “inaugural” or “beaded”. Also, I may have had a bit of fun with “”. One must entertain oneself.)

Anyway, I surrendered my clothing and dignity and the nurse returned to take my blood pressure. It was high. No kidding! The world had turned to a swirling mass of chaos! Your lucky I’m not a giant pile of goo right now!

I kept trying to take a deep breath and fight back the torrent of emotion. She said she would come back in a few minutes to retake my blood pressure. I nodded and wiped my eyes.

“Get a grip, Rebecca!” I yelled internally again. David handed me a tissue, rubbed my back, and I climbed onto the gurney (not a bed – see above discourse on the word gown). I shut my eyes and kept trying to breathe. For an autonomous action, it’s amazing how difficult breathing can be at times.

Life leaves no one unscathed. At some point, we all find ourselves in the metaphorical forest, as the sun sets, and enveloping darkness and strange threatening sounds push in and isolate us.

I’m in the forest. I can’t run. And Fear, smelling my indecision like a shark smells chum, runs at me. A chill rises from the damp mossy ground, adding an eerie mist. I try to reason with her. “Hey Fear, listen, it’s going to be okay. This isn’t going to be a big deal. Of course I’m fearful. Who wouldn’t be? But, you can go now, and uh, thanks for stopping by.”

The vapor swells, dancing at my feet, and blocking any view of the ground where I’m standing. I spin around looking for any way out, a tiny vantage point into the trees, some faint hint at a direction to run. The expanding fog rises and swirls around me, pulling in the smells of pine and damp earth. The shock of the cool heady vapor hitting my nostrils stings and announces Fear’s twin sister Panic has heard the thudding of my heart like a drum calling soldiers to battle.

For the last few weeks, I have attempted to fight Fear and Panic, pulling out as many strategies as I can muster. The plan was to get all the facts then start fighting the disease, understanding fully the outcome looks positive. I may have underestimated my foes.

Fear and Panic are ruthless bitches. I’ve delude myself into thinking there’s an ounce of humanity within them – or that their reign of terror would somehow motivate me. When I was a teacher, I used to remind my students, “Fear is a powerful motivator.” But now I wonder. Remember the scene in the movie where the deeply frightened teenagers being chased through the woods run as fast as they can into the barn? Fear “motivated” them, and how does that turn out? Fear just made them run into the next chapter of doom.

I think fear pushes us and causes us to move, to attempt to run away, because she loves a good hunt. Her and her sister are like tigresses who isolate the weak and wounded, setting up a chase where the outcome is nearly guaranteed. But I’m not sure that’s the same thing as motivation. It’s just movement. It feels like motivation should have an association with something positive, maybe?

My forest is cancer. It’s back, and I start chemo soon. Fear is on me like an angry swarm of bees and I can hear Panic breathing heavy in anticipation of her quarry. Mantras like, “It’s fine”, and “No big deal” run through my head at frequent intervals. Turns out, Fear and Panic chew trite platitudes like bubble gum. They chew them up and spit them in my face, causing me to retch.

I started fumbling around in old files on my computer looking for something productive to do and keep Fear and Panic at bay. I found this gem in an old blog post I wrote and probably never posted, “But gratitude is always the fruit of correctly altered perspective.” Seriously? I wrote that?

Correctly altered perspective. Hmmm. Currently, my perspective is dictated by those two bitches, Fear and Panic. So, what would happen if I invite Perspective? “Come on over Perspective. Meet my nemesises…nemesi?” Give me a sec…nemeses. “Come on over Perspective and meet my nemeses. You can take a swing at these two and I’ll take a breather.”

Turns out, Perspective is a bit skittish and fragile. She wants to crawl into my lap. So, in the middle of the fray, I sit in the dirt, cross my legs, and close my eyes. Fear, sensing I’m changing the rules of the fight, begins to scream. I hear her and instead of the continued futile attempt to ignore her, I listen. All this time she’s been whispering nonsense, but I was too afraid to register the words. This entire time Fear was a complete idiot? Why did I listen?

Perspective brings me back. She times her breathing to mine and I being to calm down. She then rises above me in an orb of light like Glenda the Good Witch. A hint of illumination reveals she is not alone. She has brought her friends – Hope, Faith, Love, Joy, and Peace. They stand in the blurred edge between light and shadow, incandescent and translucent like a rainbow. Fear shrieks. She wants me to keep wrestling with her, engaging her, and focusing on her.

Perspective laughs and her glow brightens as I steady my gaze on her beautiful gown (see what I did there? That’s a proper use of the word). It reflects tender memories where Hope, and Faith, and Joy, and Love, and Peace have visited. My new born child placed on my heaving chest until our breathing falls into sync and we both drift into a blissful rest. A student’s eyes alight, find mine, and I see a whole new world of comprehension has opened up to them. And the time I stood on the parapet of a broken and ancient castle and heard history whisper to me in the wind. Memories play like an old home movie reel, one after the other.

Perspective rises with each memory, supported and heightened by the presence of her allies.

I can no longer hear Fear or Panic.

A warmth falls across me, as if the sun has just burst through the clouds – the humbling realization and recognition of all the amazing and glorious moments. And then faces fill the screen – my husband, my children, friends – a cloud of witnesses who surround me with love and support – the amazing people who share life with me.

Perspective has done her thing and made way for Gratitude.

Lesson learned…perhaps again. As I said before, apparently like 15 years ago, Gratitude is always the fruit of correctly altered Perspective.

I have a couple of questions for you:

  1. Any thoughts on a new name for a “hospital gown?” Seriously, maybe we can help make the world a better place.
  2. How do you invite Perspective? … Prayer? Meditation? Exercise?

Shoot me a response in the comments! I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Don’t be an Octopus

mental health, On Life, ,
wood carved of octopus
Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com

Disclaimer: It is my understanding octopi are sentient, highly intelligent, and rather remarkable beings. Therefore, the admonishment to avoid imitating this phenomenal creature is metaphorical, mostly.

If they just know me better, they will like me. If I give more time and energy, he will love me.

There are moments when a great deal of time and energy are spent chasing. This applies to friendly, romantic, or even a quest to find ourselves. In these moments, there is a strong pull to throw all we have into the pursuit. But…

Don’t be an octopus.

“She used to be my friend. I don’t know what happened. I’ve done all these things to put our friendship back the way it was…I don’t understand what changed…”

A recent conversation turned to tears of frustration as I listened to a story about the ineffectual results of the pursuit for the attention of another. A heart, feeling broken from neglect or indifference.

And then an image popped into my mind…

The Incredible octopus that can walk on dry land | The Hunt – BBC

Like something out of a sci-fi story! But, my point is octopi have the capacity to expend energy through eight different channels, simultaneously! Humans on the other hand, do not have eight appendages. Perhaps an obvious observation and yet, there are clearly moments when we forget this. We dispense energy as though we are not bound by our miserly four limbs and the implicit laws of the universe.

In the instances where we pretend to be octopi and flail our metaphorical appendages around hoping to garner attention, affection, validation, we are simply proving the First Law of Thermodynamics – energy can only be transferred; it cannot be created or destroyed. In other words, it is impossible to give limitless energy to others.

When my daughter was about three, she asked for gum. I didn’t have any gum. She kept asking, and asking, and asking. (I’m sure you can imagine). And then in a blaze of brilliant failure to communicate, I blurted out, “I can’t give you what I don’t have.” The asking stopped as suddenly a charge filled the air in the car. The profound had hit like a bolt of lightning.

Apologies if you have heard me tell this story, but seriously, it just applies to so many things! Gum, faith, love, energy…

I can’t give what I don’t have…

Please give to others. Give kindness, love, patience, peace…but don’t be an octopus. Give in appropriate quantities. Keep some energy for yourself to grow your own container. Then you can give more.

Don’t be an octopus.

Stop whipping limited appendages about in pursuit of attention, metaphorically or literally. Chose rather to give, arms outstretched, and palms open – like a human. And actually, that puts you in the perfect position to receive something in return.

New Year’s Restoration

mental health,

While the trend about now is to look to the future and decide to achieve things in the coming new year, I’m thinking about going a slightly different direction. Metaphorically of course. This post is not about a newly discovered worm hole or alternate universe. Sorry.

It started with a blog post “Lessons Learned in 2023” I was working on. See below…

It doesn’t matter what you look like, how much money you have, or what you have accomplished. Insecurity, self-doubt, sadness, and loneliness do not discriminate based on these criteria. 

It doesn’t matter who you are, where you have been, or where you are headed, chances are you have a friend who believes in you and encourages you to remember the best version of yourself. (If this isn’t true, email me…I’m happy to remind you!)

It doesn’t matter if you are good or right or socially conscious, someone will spread rumors to tear you down. Refer to paragraph one. 

It doesn’t matter where you are in your career, your relationships, or your stage of life, there will always be hurdles, both external and internal. These are merely opportunities to overcome. How do you know this? Because they are in front of you and the best direction is forward.

It doesn’t matter if you are weary, disheartened, betrayed, wounded, or destroyed. The choice to persist will always be in your hands. And moving forward will never negate the betrayal or condone the yuck hurled in your direction. It’s merely a chance to redirect your focus to something productive.

But, it’s the beginning of January so I started thinking how this relates to the common, albeit annoying, practice of resolution setting. “Ignore the ugly voices and try not to talk crap about others?” Perhaps a good start, but seriously? 

After further consideration, it turns out I don’t want a resolution – by definition, a seemingly benign practice that masquerades as a vehicle destined to deliver large doses of guilt or foster internal accusatory dialogues to deepen self-doubt. Pass. 

Don’t misunderstand, I have intentions for 2024. I want to improve as a human. For example, I intend to go on a word diet. If words have the power to create or destroy, maybe I should be careful how I brandish them. Also, I do not wish to be one of the “spreaders of rumors”. But still, it felt short sighted. It wasn’t enough. The question plagued me, beyond simply moving forward, can we affect the past at all? Do all the decayed and burned-out buildings of yesteryear get to stand as monuments to pain and error? Do we simply give a nod periodically at their existence and try to move on? Or…is it possible to deconstruct some of the crap and haul it out? I realize our scars define us in beautiful ways, but do I have to keep all the dilapidation that’s taking up valuable real estate? Can I tear it down, leave a plaque, and build back better? 

I don’t want a shallow resolution. I want some restoration. Maybe that’s a lot to ask but I’m learning if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Can this be a sort of both/and situation? I will purpose to choose my words more carefully, and also, walk into 2024 with hope toward a new stretch of internal skyline? Sounds idyllic, but honestly, I’m not sure where to start so I consulted some wise council.

“Carefully watch your thoughts, for they become your words. Manage and watch your words, for they will become your actions. Consider and judge your actions, for they have become your habits. Acknowledge and watch your habits, for they shall become your values. Understand and embrace your values, for they become your destiny.” – Gandhi

Easy enough (sarcasm), so I guess I start with my thoughts. Wish me luck. And before I forget, I have another idea for the next blog post already. “Don’t be an Octopus.” I promise it relates. It’s on my calendar to post the beginning of February. 

Cheers everyone and Happy New Year! May 2024 be full of joy, peace, and discoveries of better.

P.S. I’m still using my treadmill, but also thinking the above practice might affect my mental health in a positive way as well. Worth a shot.

snowy night in Nevada

If I’m being honest…

mental health, On Life
snowy night in Nevada
Snowy night in Nevada

Anyone else notice this phrase infiltrating most conversations? “If I’m being honest, I really prefer this restaurant.” Are we starved for this level of honest? But I’ve caught myself saying it, if I’m being honest.

Seriously though, it makes me wonder. What is it about our current psychological state that we feel the need to convince others, or ourselves, that the next words to escape our lips will be truth? I have a theory, but first a story.

Once upon a time, in a town buried in snow, there lived a woman. If her life were to be measured in Facebook posts (of which she never actually makes), they would likely garner lovely comments, and small hieroglyphic responses. She does not find herself struggling with hunger, or bombs exploding, leaving a haze of dust, debris, and chaos. She plans trips, enjoys her job because she works with amazing people, is happily married, has children who call and text her and friends who reach out…Webster might define her existence as nearly idyllic. 

But as in all good stories, there must be a villain—a force to test the mettle of our heroin and give rise to the triumphant. There have been villains that have crossed her path. She has woken from a routine surgery only to find herself in an oncology ward. She has started and failed a business, damaged her children and generally struggled with her identity and existence. She has crossed oceans and swam in grief. But if she were being honest, there is one particular villain, perhaps even a nemesis, who, like her shadow, cannot be truly vanquished. It has followed her for nearly half a century. 

Perhaps the power it wields lies in its shape shifting essence—frequently transforming and donning a clever disguise veiling its true nature and confounding at every turn in her story. But she finally recognized this menace, after months of turmoil, and to vanquish or at least send this threat back into the subtext of her life, she bought a treadmill. 

***

I think the whole “if I’m being honest” thing gets to be me because unless you are a sociopath, or just icky, your goal during engagements of conversation is to be honest. And in a world inundated by half-truths, media hype, and tortuous levels of advertising, we have to wonder if we ever hear a grain of truth in the course of a day. On top of that, I think honesty is like onions, and parfaits. It has layers. We want to be honest, but do we want to be totally, brutally honest about where we are and how we are feeling? Can the world handle our own brand of naked transparency and vulnerability? Can we handle our own truth(s)?

Here’s my onion (at least some of it regarding this topic). I bought a treadmill (spoiler alert, the woman in the story was me) because I don’t like being cold and apparently Nevada is having an identity crisis and it thinks its Alaska. And one should exercise. Layer one.

I bought a treadmill to attempt to shed the poundage delivered by the bitch menopause, and attempt to fit back into my clothes again. Layer two.

And if I’m being brutally honest, the kind of honesty that deflates justifications and sears through self-righteous nonsense to reveal the vulnerable, if I’m being that kind of honest, I bought a treadmill to hold at bay the familiar foe of mental illness. 

A perfect storm of normal changes and new life adjustments knocked me sideways recently, and experience has taught me the consequences of not recognizing the familiar signs indicating I’m headed down a dangerous path. If I don’t acknowledge the indicators and fight back at the onset of these signs, a thick presence of indifference will settle in around me like a soupy fog, blocking joy and love, and isolating me until I begin to believe there is no way out. Then a spiral of despair and depression begins…therefore I bought a treadmill. (I’ll get to the connection between spiraling and treadmills later but for now, you’ll just have to go with it).

In a conversation with a friend recently (we were making jewelry so of course the conversation went deep) she pointed out I had written a book that highlighted my husband’s struggle with PTSD and the reverberating repercussions, several posts about marriage as it relates to horses (shameless teaser), but seldom have I (if ever) gone deep into my own mental illness struggles. What the hell is that about? (She didn’t say those exact words. She’s not a monster).

But it got me thinking. Why am I avoiding? And, it seems the best chance of finding out would be to just stop avoiding and start writing. Hence, this prologue post to a series on mental health. (EEK! The word “series” makes my palms sweat a bit, which means I cannot promise a consistent release of posts. But I’ve started at least. And maybe you feel this is simply a self-indulgent, narcissism fueled attempt to garner sympathy and attention. You can tell me that as long as you start with, “If I’m being honest.” Because then at least there will be a bit of irony, which will make me chuckle and it will be easier to absorb your opinion).

On that note, I realize perhaps I’m only adding one more strained note into the cacophony of voices shouting into the ether. I have no ideas of grandeur that what I have to say will be anything new or revelatory. But, what the heck. Nothing ventured nothing gained. 

Perhaps I have painted this blog with enough self-doubt for now. Until next time, when I either discuss crippling abandonment issues or postpartum depression. Either of which sound equally riveting, I’m sure. 

P.S. I am not a trained professional. I’m just a woman, who appreciates sarcasm, sharing a story. This post is not a plug for treadmills nor is it a claim that treadmills are a cure for depression.