Shift into Self Healing Thoughts

Every metaphor in writing right now seems to circle back to the spring garden: new life, planting seeds, what it takes to bloom. My favorite is the familiar question - when a flower doesn’t grow, are you upset with the seed or the soil in which you planted it? But there’s another truth about gardens that gets less attention. When you plant a garden, it takes  so. much. time.  for anything to really fill in. Hostas don’t arrive lush and overflowing; they spend years quietly expanding underground. For a long while, your garden can look sparse, even a little disappointing, marked by open space and visible effort. And yet, if you plant too much too quickly, everything becomes crowded, tangled, overgrown - plants competing for light instead of thriving. This feels like the truest metaphor for curating a space of deep healing. You can look at a garden and say,  man, in a few years this is going to be incredible.  We understand that growth as something unfolding over time. ...

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...

  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...

  A few years ago, some girlfriends and I took a pottery class. When we arrived, the instructor guided us through the equipment, got us oriented, and then handed us a massive mound of clay. We would slice off a pound or so and place it on the wheel, wetting our hands before wrapping them around the clay—just like that iconic scene in Ghost. From there, we whittled, molded, shaped, and decorated our creations. Maybe it became a beautiful mug. Maybe a misshapen, lopsided bowl. Whatever. Our job was to transform something raw into something new. I’m currently taking a course on Attachment and Internal Family Systems (IFS), and it’s fascinating to explore how they intersect. Richard C. Schwartz PhD, the founder of IFS, describes the "Self" as the unchanged, perfect essence we are born with—like that untouched mound of clay sitting on the wheel. But as we grow, the forces around us—culture, environment, social media, friends, parents, coaches—become the potter’s wheel, constantly ...

  I’ve been chewing on the word   sovereignty   like biting into a stalk of celery—fibrous, gritty, resistant. It’s the kind of word that lingers, stuck between your teeth. But what does it   really   mean to be free? What is agency, self-governance? What is emotional liberation? For too long,   sovereignty   has been tangled in political discourse. It’s time to reclaim it for ourselves. The hardest prison to escape is the one we build to feel safe. I know this because I designed mine—constructed the walls, employed the guards. But if you are beholden to someone or something, are you  ever  truly free? What holds you captive? For my sister, it was alcohol. For me, it was something more insidious: the craving for approval, the need to be needed. I hid pieces of myself to be accepted, shrinking into a mold for validation. Recently, as I dismantle the prison I built, I’ve been excavating the remnants of someone desperate for others’ acceptance. ...

  This past summer, my boys and I went tubing. As we climbed onto the inflatable, the boat’s owner, Matt, gave us one crucial piece of advice: " I’m going to go really fast, and when it gets to be too much, your instinct will be to hold on. But that’s when I need you to let go. Don’t fight it—just let go. " My nephew, Grant, turned to me, eyes wide. " This is not going to work for me," he said. "I am not going to be able to let go ." Matt, suddenly serious, looked at him and said, " Grant, if you don’t let go, you could get really hurt. I’ve seen guys dislocate their shoulders. Just let go ." The boys did great. They whipped around, held on tight—and didn’t let go. Not me. I lasted only a few minutes. There’s video evidence. It shows me being tossed from side to side before finally surrendering. The moment I let go, I’m airborne—terrified, flailing. And then, as I hit the water, you can see it on my face: relief. I swam back to the tube and climb...

I carried extra weight as a kid. This was the early ’80s—long before body positivity was a thing. I wasn’t obese but I wasn’t thin. At 10 years old, my parents got me a personal trainer. His name was Bob. Nice guy. I don’t remember much from that age, but I remember Bob’s face. I remember being told I needed to be healthier.   Maybe I had a slow metabolism. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the story I told myself around that. What does it really mean to be healthy? And what would have better served 10-year-old me? My parents were doing the best they could, and at 49, I’m grateful for a lifetime of movement. But the shame around my weight lingered for years. Ok, fine—it still sneaks up on me sometimes and lord knows I’ve held onto that metabolism story. It sort of fits. Healthy. Heal-thy. I wonder how things might have been different if, instead of a personal trainer, I’d had someone who was curious—someone who asked  why  I was eating my weight in cheese and sneaking cook...

I was listening to a podcast recently, and the host shared a metaphor about weathering life’s storms. They described it as being a rock in a tumultuous river—letting the twigs hit you, letting the water swirl around you, but staying steady. It captured me at first, you know I love a good metaphor. But then my next thought was… how boring. A rock? Being the victim in our life’s story, now that’s dramatic. There’s an allure to the chaos it brings—a sense of justification, even. Who doesn’t love a compelling arc in their narrative? It pulls you in, but ultimately, it spits you out. Living as the victim will never serve you. Sure, it feels right and just sometimes, but eventually, we all come to realize that even those who’ve hurt us were just doing the best they could—just as we are. This doesn’t diminish the reality of pain, trauma, or suffering. These are true, valid, and inevitable parts of life. The absolute power lies in what we do with them—how we transmute and transform our sufferi...

  We are not on a path to “becoming” but rather removing all the masks, layers, and roles that keep us from our truest essence - love. When we strip these away, thin veil by thin veil, what is revealed is often found in the whispers of our intuition. In those naked, quiet moments, we hear the call for something wise, something deeper. This longing isn’t for the external but for an awakening within—a return to wholeness. We chase success and security, only to realize it’s the intangible we truly crave: a sense of belonging and connection to ourselves and the natural world. The answers emerge in the seeking itself. Each step reveals the essence of who we are. As Dr. Tom Pinkson beautifully reminds us, “You are a sacred, worthy, luminous being. You are love, and your love is for giving.” It's not about acquiring skills or knowledge; it has nothing to do with doing and everything to do with being, it’s about reconnecting with our true selves. Intuition comes from a deep understanding o...

I was listening to a podcast recently, and the host shared a metaphor about weathering life’s storms. They described it as being a rock in a tumultuous river—letting the twigs hit you, letting the water swirl around you, but staying steady. It captured me at first,  you know I love a good metaphor. But then my next thought was… how boring. A rock? Being the victim in our life’s story, now that’s dramatic. There’s an allure to the chaos it brings—a sense of justification, even. Who doesn’t love a compelling arc in their narrative? It pulls you in, but ultimately, it spits you out. Living as the victim will never serve you. Sure, it feels right and just sometimes, but eventually, we all come to realize that even those who’ve hurt us were just doing the best they could—just as we are. This doesn’t diminish the reality of pain, trauma, or suffering. These are true, valid, and inevitable parts of life. But the absolute power lies in what we do with them—how we transmute and transform ou...

  My dad, having experienced profound trauma in his own childhood, unfortunately, directed some of that pain toward us. The apology he shared made me reflect on the concept of relationships as a cycle of reciprocity, rupture, and repair. Even Dr. Becky Kennedy's recent Ted Talk on repairing relationships with children resonated, highlighting that this crucial step applies to all our relationships. "The holidays, a beautiful time for togetherness, can also present both opportunities and challenges to put our hard healing work to the test." Recently, my dad sent an email to my siblings and me, offering a sincere apology for the times he took out his anger on us during our childhood. It opened up a flood of memories, reminding me of the challenging times we faced at home. My dad's journey through trauma has given him invaluable wisdom, emphasizing the significance of repair. His acknowledgment of the past, which we were previously discouraged from discussing, brought a o...

Recently, I had an incredible conversation with a dear friend who was struggling with the difficult decision of medicating her child for a mental health diagnosis.  I've had this conversation before with a lot of friends; I've been there myself. This is a woman who has bucked some serious conventional norms. I'd describe her as a cultural disruptor. We talked about this being an *opportunity* to challenge the conventional cultural programming around mental health and our kids. We wouldn't hesitate to give our kids insulin for a diabetes diagnosis but medicating our kids for mental health conditions feels really scary.   Stigma around mental health is still a very real thing. A disruptor will confront that belief every time.  Sometimes we must challenge our programming in order to maximize greater good, push into new territory, and chart new paths. A disruptor is   a  powerful  force for positive change that challenges conventional wisdom, breaks down barrie...

These thoughts two really distinct but related thoughts keep bouncing around my mind and I wanted to share them with you: “Our reality is based on a perception of a perception” (we create a reality based on what we * think * others think of us). AND “Most folks don’t feel great about themselves” Jay Shetty suggests that our reality is constructed upon layers of perceived perceptions , which might initially sound perplexing. Essentially, it means we view ourselves through the lens of how we believe others perceive us. For instance, if we think Susie sees us as good, we tend to believe we are good, and vice versa. This phenomenon is common in my therapeutic practice, where many individuals struggle with negative self-perceptions, feeling unworthy or unlovable – believing that others see them that way.  Most folks don't feel great about themselves. This preoccupation with others' opinions often leads to unnecessary suffering, manifesting as anxiety, insomnia, people-pleasing, and ...