Shift into Self Healing Thoughts

As a women’s studies minor in college and a feminist, I remember being genuinely excited last year when an all-female crew headed to space. Katy Perry, Gayle King, Lauren Sánchez, and others made up Blue Origin’s crew.   But when they returned, all anyone seemed to talk about was their hair, their outfits, their makeup.   This isn’t a new story. When a woman runs for office, we already know her pantsuit will be analyzed nine ways to Sunday. But there was a young woman on that flight who wasn’t famous - at least not in the same way as the others. Amanda Nguyen became the first Vietnamese woman to go to space, and she was far less discussed.   After the mission, she spoke publicly about how the intense sexism surrounding their return nearly broke her mental health. She said something I haven’t been able to shake:   The speed with which we’re inventing our world is outpacing our ability to understand the impact of our inventions.   Whoa.   Nguyen described “th...

  I watched my youngest walk into school this morning. Nothing extraordinary happened. No milestone, no performance, no tears. Just a small person with a backpack moving toward the doors. And still, I felt overwhelmed with love for her. For a split second, I slipped into what it might feel like to be her - the complicated ache of being adopted, even inside a family where she is fiercely, unquestionably loved. I felt the tenderness of both truths at once. Love and loss. Security and ache. Holding both. The just-world hypothesis tells us that people get what they deserve - that life distributes outcomes in neat moral symmetry. Good choices lead to good results. Bad choices lead to bad ones. It’s a comforting story. It reassures us that the world is orderly and fair. But lately, I’ve been thinking about how deeply untrue that is. I felt it again while watching  Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour  (which, to be clear, I did not binge, I gorged like Halloween candy). In a pre-show hu...

  I remember sitting in my therapist’s office in 2017, shoulders shaking, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. Words refused to form; every attempt at a sentence collapsed back into silence. It was, in truth, just a very expensive cry session. My therapist watched me for a moment before saying, gently but firmly: “It won’t always feel like this.” I was stunned.  What?  Of course it would, I thought. How could she possibly know? Did she even do this for a living? But she was right. That simple, steady phrase has stayed with me through every peak and valley since. To be honest, I never remember it during the highs. In those moments, I’m like Ken in the  Barbie  movie before he discovers patriarchy: sweet, naive, and blissfully unaware that the weather ever changes. But in the lows, I cling to those words like a life raft. When the water rises, they remind me that the storm is a seasoned traveler—it's just passing through. Feelings are temporary. Life is change....

  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...