Shift into Self Healing Thoughts

  Anyone who knows me knows I’m a little bit obsessed with Bank of America’s call center. I’m always struck by how calm and compassionate the folks there are whenever I lose my credit card (and yes, it’s happened more than   once ). I get connected to them, and what they say is simple yet profound. And—stay with me here—I think we could all use their incredible technique in our everyday lives with our loved ones. It goes something like this: I explain the situation, and they respond not with judgment—“ ABBY!?! You lost it again ?”—but with empathy:  “I’m sorry.”   Then comes containment and curiosity:  “Tell me what happened?”   And finally, the most important part exploring with action:  “How can we help? Do you want us to close down this card and order you a new one, or were you just calling to let us know?” It’s always the same rhythm: I’m so sorry that happened. Tell me everything. How can I help, or did you just want to let us know? Ther...

  I’ve got eggs all over my house. Not real ones, mind you—plastic, glass, wooden. It started nearly thirty years ago, back in undergrad. I needed a science credit and decided to take physics over the summer at our local community college. I was anxious—completely overwhelmed by the final exam. I thought physics would be fun, but I quickly felt discouraged. I’ve never had a brain for science. That morning, I came downstairs to find my brother had left me a small, decorated egg he’d discovered in our living room. He’d wrapped it up and placed it on the kitchen table with a note saying it was a symbol—that everything would be okay, that I’d do well, and that this hard moment would pass. It was just a Fabergé-style egg, something my mom used as decoration. But I carried it with me to the test. Holding it brought me a strange sense of peace. I passed the exam—and returned the egg to its place in the living room. And just like that, a tradition was born. Since then, whenever my brother ...

  Shame doesn’t always stem from wrongdoing. Sometimes, it’s born from doing something necessary—or brave. My dad grew up in poverty and abuse in New Jersey. He clawed his way to the top of his class, became valedictorian, and earned a full ride to the University of Delaware. It should’ve been a triumph. But accepting that opportunity meant making an impossible choice: placing his sisters in foster care and institutionalizing his mother, who was battling severe mental illness. He did it. And he was judged for it. But no more than he judged himself. That’s the thing about judgment—it’s not always external. Sometimes it’s internal, relentless, and unforgiving. He carried that decision like a scar, even though it led to healing. His sisters finally experienced stability and love. His mother, most likely for the first time, received the care she desperately needed. It was, in hindsight, the best-case scenario. But he couldn’t have known that then. And for years (maybe still), he tortur...

  My middle child is a gem. I’m absolutely crazy about him. He laughs hard, loves deeply, is kind, smart, and moves through the world with a fierce independence that’s inspiring. Years ago, when he was about four or five, we were at a swim meet. He was bored, restless, and not allowed in the water, so he wandered to the outer edges of the pool property in search of adventure. At the time, I had a family rule: “If you catch it, you can keep it.” Most critters darted away at the kids’ excited movements, but that night, he caught a tiny frog. And in that moment, he was lit up with pure, unadulterated joy—the kind that only children seem to access so effortlessly - (is that why it’s called  un- adult erated??). Anyway, he cradled that frog like a treasure, literally vibrating with excitement all the way to the car. From the driver’s seat I noticed his grip on the poor thing. I turned around and gently said, “Honey, be careful—you’re squeezing that little guy pretty hard. I know yo...

  I went to the dentist the other day to have a cavity filled. Among other things, the dentist and hygienist debated which Sade album reigns supreme, swapped stories about dragging themselves to the gym despite the downpour, and both pleaded with me—multiple times—to please, please stop moving my tongue over the tooth they were working on. I had no idea I was doing it. After a few rounds of gentle scolding, we ended up laughing about it. It was automatic. Unconscious. And you know me—of course it got me thinking. Our bodies are beautifully designed to protect us. We dissociate when things get too hard, repress traumatic memories that are too painful to recall, and even split, emotionally or psychologically, in order to feel safe. We are built to serve ourselves, to shield us from what might harm us. Like anything, these defenses can become maladaptive. But at their core, our coping mechanisms—these involuntary, instinctive gestures toward safety—are pretty divine. I’m in awe of the...

  A loved one recently gifted me a card with a simple yet profound message: “Let our relationship be a work of art rather than a map. Let us enjoy the creation, not the destination.” It struck me—every relationship, or exchange even, begins as a blank canvas, untouched and brimming with possibility. As we really get to know people, we add color, texture, depth. The people in our lives emerge—vibrant, complex, whole. Yet too often, we grow impatient, trying to predict the final image before the masterpiece has even taken shape. We grasp for a map, seeking certainty, structure. We want our relationship to end in marriage, we want our children in the best schools, a checklist of expectations rather than the wild beauty of discovery. We project our lived experiences, what we’ve been taught, what we think we “know” onto the person. I was raised Catholic and I remember the golden rule of “do unto others as you’ve had done to you” really resonating with me. I wonder if we’ve misinterprete...