Shift into Self Healing Thoughts

  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...