I’m getting ready to do my weekly clean of our home, when I feel a familiar pang of anxiety come over me. Then another. And another. And another, until the pangs become an aching. A drowning. Continue reading being a Woman (this Woman) in the time of trump
Been having trouble writing lately. I guess trouble isn’t fair to say. I haven’t even been trying. I do go so far as to write in my planner to “Start a writing practice…at least 30 min/day!!”
Pretty cute, I know.
Too bad I don’t do a damn thing with it.
And yet, here I am today. I’m choosing to be compassionate with myself, rather than hateful and critical. It’s hard. It’s much easier for me to keep talking shit to myself the way I have been for the last few months…
Continue reading self-compassion and punishment.
I have been scrolling through my newsfeed the last few days, reading, “liking,” and sharing certain articles addressing the devastating news of the killing of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile by police officers. Even just typing that sentence feels disgusting and cowardly. I’ve been silent beside those swipes of my fingers. I have felt sick, enraged, helpless, guilty, hopeless, devastated, and weak.
Although, quite frankly, I’m not sure it matters how I feel…and coming from a therapist, I know that is a pretty rich thing to say. I say that because it doesn’t matter what I feel in this situation, it matters what I do (or don’t do). It matters what I say (and don’t say). It’s like I tell my clients, young and old, feelings are there to tell you something, often to spring you into action, hopefully thoughtful action. But here I am. Actionless. White, privileged, and absolutely zero action.
Continue reading my silence and inaction as a white person.
So, kids. Being a parent. That whole thing.
I’ve been working with kids for a good portion of my life, been around them my whole life as an auntie to kids related and otherwise. Think they are great. In fact, you could bet good money that if there is a child in my general vicinity, I’m on the floor interacting with them (adjust my location if child is older and not necessarily on the floor; e.g., running around with a school aged mutt or deep in a conversation with a teenager about their social life) but when it comes to my sentiments about raising one of those things myself, you may want to hedge your bets (I looked that one up. I think I used it correctly).
Continue reading the uncertainty of being a parent.
When I was younger, and by younger I mean any time before this exact moment, I thought the 20s were “it.” It is obviously a bit vague and dodgy, hence the italics. They seemed glamorous and more importantly full of having your shit together. Does that sound like your 20s? If so, nice work. High five! Write a book, tell us your secrets. If not, you’ve got company.
Continue reading your 20s probably blew (or are still blowing) and why no one bothered to tell you.
Welcome to my first post on my blog (seriously hate that word) my something to say. I’ve always loved writing. It’s been kind of obnoxious my whole life. Even in school I loved writing. I had a professor in undergrad tell me once, “You’re a great writer, but I don’t need to hear every single thought you have.” As I type that it sounds harsher than how I took it…or how I thought I took it.
Continue reading the fear of failing before you even start.