Today I discovered a new part of me. Well, actually, it’s a very old part, but I saw it in a new way.

This often happens when I’m journaling. I’m writing, then a thought pops into my head that I suddenly, DESPERATELY want to act on. Today, I have to pay rent. This part REALLY wanted me to get up and check if I had enough cash in my wallet, so we would know if I had to go to an ATM first. 

I am going to have to do this at some point. But, I remind this part, it doesn’t matter whether we check now or later, and actually, it would disrupt the journaling, which I’d already decided was the most important thing right now. 

I have been practicing for a while now, not getting up and immediately responding to whatever thought pops up during something I committed to focus on. 

How’s that going? …I use the verb “practice” for a reason. 

Anyway. Today, I stayed with this voice. I didn’t get up to check my wallet. I listened. I talked to it. I felt what was happening in my body. Here’s what I wrote:

As I sit with you, I feel you getting processed and my stomach starts to digest and I have to poop. There is a feeling of sadness or disappointment, like we’re giving up or failing somehow. I sit with that. Now it is more in my neck. Pulsing. A lump of tension in my throat. “What do you want?” I ask. I don’t get an answer. I place my hands gently on my neck and keep listening. 

It is very distant, and it is a young child, crying unconsolably.

I let go of trying to get an answer. Crying unconsolably doesn’t usually yield that. So I just keep my hands on it and breathe. My mind races for a solution. But when I’m crying, I just want to know someone is there. So I start repeating, “I’m right here.” 

I’m right here. I’m right here. 

I start to stroke my neck and chest, and notice how soft the skin is. I continue to remind it of my presence, while soothing myself from the outside. 

I’m right here. I’m right here. 

Eventually, we relax. My shoulders drop and my stomach settles. It starts to be able to talk to me. It is scared. It wants to do everything right. It wants to make sure we get everything done. It is panicked. 

“I understand. There is a lot to do. But there is time. And it’s not as important as being with you right now.” It shies away and doesn’t believe me. I assure it. “Being with you right now is the most important thing I can be doing.” 

I am firm about this. I know there’s s a lot to do, but I’ve lived too many days racing through my to-do list thinking that relief was around the corner to fall for this trap and let this part of me down. This part of me thinks it needs to take extreme responsibility for getting everything done and being perfect. 

I am absolutely positive that the best thing I can do is spend a few minutes soothing this tender, tired child. 

Once it knew that I really was there, and wasn’t going to leave to do something “more important,” I heard a tiny, clear voice: “I need you.” I start to cry at this vulnerable confession from a part of me that never felt entitled to say this before. It needed me. It would try to get my attention with anxious reminders, probably hoping to be rewarded for taking care of us, soothing the fear of missing something important. But the list is endless, because that’s not really what we need to be cared for or soothed.

We just need each other. A moment to breathe together. A moment to be the most important thing.

“I need you,” it said. Gently crying, I tell it, “I’m right here.” 

As I settle into my new life, the challenges of getting here feel further away. Of course, there are new challenges, but my rabbit Gnocchi and I are stabilizing. From that budding stability, creativity is starting to flow again. Well, drip. Then trickle. THEN flow. 

I’ve always been a creative person. Making art, singing, dancing, painting, writing, whatever I could get my hands on. 

But even though artistic expression is my native language, I still go through periods where my tongue is tied. My pipes are clogged. I’m wrapped up in fear and doubt and other things are higher on the priority list.

Each time I come back and start flowing again, it feels like coming home. I’m sitting on the floor like I did as a kid, with my smelly markers, humming and doodling and wiggling my toes. 

Sometimes, I lose sight of this girl. But when I remember, she reminds me that she isn’t just a child I have to appease from time to time. 

Play is a way of being. It’s what makes life…alive. Like surfing a wave of inspiration, I’m moving  and grooving and things and people are just coming to me. I’m laughing. I’m having fun. And I’m at peace.

You can’t surf the wave forever, all waves crash. But you can develop your ability to access it, especially if you’ve forgotten your inner artist for a long time and life is feeling like a drag. This is for you if you’re overwhelmed, heavy and depleted. 

This is when it’s time to remember. It is essential to reconnect. Now. Not once you get to the bottom of your to-do list. Because the list never ends. 

So right now, wherever you’re reading this, imagine yourself putting on your FUN GOGGLES. Make them as outrageously silly and vibrantly colorful as you wish. And let yourself see the world through them. 

Ask them to help you see the fun, the absurd, the silly. Don’t make it another task for you to manage. Ask them for help, ask to RECEIVE inspiration. 

All you have to do is be willing to see it. Don’t let your naggy, critical mind talk you out of nurturing the little seeds. Maybe you notice a flower petal on the ground. Pick it up. Maybe you catch yourself in the mirror. Stick your tongue out. Do something dumb like it’s the most important thing in the world. 

Give every seed room to grow. Because every plant, every tree, every human being, starts as a seed. It just needs protection, care, and time.

Today, I got my shit ROCKED by the ocean. It was rough; I could hear the waves crashing mercilessly as I walked up to the beach, but I went in anyway. I thought, “I’m a strong swimmer, I know what to do.” I am. And I did.

I swam to the bottom, then once I felt it pass, I swam up for air. This worked on the way in to get past the break, but on my way back out of the water, I couldn’t escape a series of huge waves breaking on top of me.

One tumbled me around so bad, I used up all of my breath-holding ability waiting for it to finish tumbling me around before I could find “up.” There wasn’t enough time to catch my breath before the next one came and I had to go under and do it again. 

That was scary. Seeing a giant wave heading my way, knowing I didn’t have my breath under me enough to comfortably weather it. That set my panic script into motion. Suddenly, I was fighting for my life in a big, scary ocean. Strong swimmer or not, I was at the mercy of my best efforts and whatever the water was going to do.

After a minute or so, (I have no idea how long it was) desperately swimming toward the shore, breathing while I could, and weathering the waves, it was finally shallow enough to stand up and walk. I trudged through the current trying to pull me back. My nose burned and my chest heaved.

I sat on my towel, spitting and blowing salt water out of my nose.

My panic gradually wound down. My breathing returned to normal. The breakfast I thought might reemerge settled back down in my stomach.

My mind turned back on, trying to catch up to the body that just had this suddenly life-threatening experience.

I asked myself, “What was this teaching me?”

That I shouldn’t have gone in in the first place? Yes.

That I could trust myself to survive? Yes.

That sometimes, life sends you waves that are simply too big and all the thinking and intellectualizing and trying to wrap your mind around it doesn’t change anything?

Yes. 

An experience like that brings you right to the most basic level of life. My brain has a big ego, but all the meaning-making and mental puzzling in the world won’t save me from the too-big waves. You just have to get through it, catch your breath, and keep going.

Driving through Mexico, I’ve crossed a lot of small bridges. Each bridge or “puente” has a sign with its name. Puente Santa Maria. Puente de Oro. Puente Lo Que Sea. 

And then there was: “Puente Sin Nombre.” Bridge Without a Name. 

First of all, hilarious. Why? What was it about this bridge that made them decide, no, we’re not even going to try. But also…calling it “no name” is a name.

Aaanyway. It also hit something deeper.

My whole life right now feels like a bridge without a name. I am on the road, moving my entire life from LA to Mexico. Building a bridge between two distinct chapters. A bridge between who I was and who I will be. A bridge between the past and the future. A bridge between what I know and what I don’t. 

We are ALL, ALWAYS in transition. We’re ALL, ALWAYS between where we’ve been and where we’re going. 

We are all always moving into the unknown.

This particular transition has tested me down to the rawest nub of bone and taken everything I have.

But on faith, I am crossing this bridge with no name. I am driving 5 hours a day at 130 kilometers per hour toward whatever is on the other side. And trusting the destination. 

We don’t know what’s on the other side of the bridges we cross, the thresholds we pass through, and the decisions we make. We never really know what the bridge should be called until we fully understand where it brought us.

Puente sin nombre,

bridge with no name,

I am trusting you with all my weight,

to carry me somewhere 

I’ve never been.

Puente sin nombre,

bridge with no name,

I got on on one side

but can’t be sure what’s around the bend.

I know what’s already been under my feet.

I know the person I’ve been.

I thought I was taking her with me,

but every mile strips another layer.

Underneath,

is someone I’ve never met.

Puente sin nombre,

bridge with no name,

take me.

Take me where I cannot know,

I cannot plan, 

I cannot predict.

You’re the only one that knows the truth.

I won’t know until I get where I’m going.

I won’t know until I look back

and you’re nowhere to be seen.

On Monday, I started the drive from Los Angeles to Oaxaca, moving my whole existence 40 hours south.

Unlike when I drove through Mexico the first time, this time, I know exactly how hard it is. This time, I have one less rabbit. This time, my partner and I are breaking up, not starting our relationship.

I haven’t felt “at home” for a year and a half, since I left for that first trip in search of a new life.

But this time, I know exactly where home is. It’s waiting for me. I just have to get there. 

I’m 2 days into 2 weeks of this solo drive. And this time, I am really feeling the solo-ness.

As an only child and recovering independence addict, I used to do everything by myself and not think twice about it. 3 months driving alone through Mexico? No problem. 

But something changed. Since opening myself up to deeper connection, finding my people, and letting myself receive love and care, it’s not so easy being alone anymore. 

I was so used to it for so long, I didn’t realize what I was missing. I didn’t realize how much it hurt. But now those scabs are fresh, pink skin. And I FEEL it.

I feel everything so much - the heartbreak, the incremental progress, the sweetness of companionship - life is at full volume. And I am trying to meet it with gratitude, in addition to crushing heartbreak, fear and exhaustion. 

My companion on this long drive is a seven-year-old rabbit, Gnocchi.

This time last week, I thought she was dying. She’s recovering from health issues that left her unable to breathe and unable to move. I had to wake up every few hours to clear out her nose. I had to hold up her head so she could drink.

Oh my god, how precious life is when you think it’s over. When you think you might not have another day, every moment has so much gravity. Every flop, every cuddle, every shared glance, almost wasn’t and may not be tomorrow.

But she’s getting better. A couple days ago, she started hopping again. I’m crying right now looking at her sitting contentedly under the desk in this hotel room.

I cry when I think about how grateful I am to have her with me on this long journey.

I cry when she drinks water. I cry when she’s stable enough to groom herself. I cry when she gets comfortable and rests.

I am so affected by her every movement, because I am ACUTELY aware of her fragility. And I have lost some of the beings I’ve loved most this last few months. So every little development, every little blessing, every little connection, hits my heart so hard. 

On this drive with this precious little creature, I can’t plan more than a few hours ahead. I have to live in this exact moment, slow down and take it easy enough to actually enjoy it. I have to surrender to the absolute enormity of existing in a body on Planet Earth.

I can’t take anything for granted. I can’t take anything too seriously.

The point is to feel it and enjoy it. Not necessarily to sob for all 40 hours looking at her weepy eye and bald chin and wobbly legs and stress about if she’s living or dying. 

Because she’s living AND dying. We all are. 

So I cry.

And I kiss her soft forehead.

And I laugh when she can’t get back up after a sharp turn.

This has been one of the hardest weeks. My other rabbit, Gnocchi, (Cosmo’s widow) is really sick. We’ve stayed up with her, making sure she doesn’t asphyxiate on the thick, white discharge coming out of her nose. (This is how Cosmo died.) We took her to a second vet, 3 hours away, where she stayed overnight and got fluids and antibiotics pumped into her tiny, critically dehydrated body. We brought her home yesterday, my partner’s tiny house that we’ve been sharing. But I’m moving out, we are breaking up, and I am about to make the long drive back to Oaxaca. 

Gnocchi is so weak that she can’t move around and gets stuck lying down, unable to get her legs underneath her.

I am overwhelmed, exhausted and heartbroken.

The other night, I pried myself out of the house for a walk. I went to the park across the street and stood under a tall tree. I was comforted by how big it was. How long it had been growing. How thick its trunk was. How I could lean against it with my whole body and it wouldn’t budge. Feeling so acutely how thin the border between life and death are with this frail rabbit, the sturdiness of the tree gave me peace. So I did what I always do to try and process something immense and unprocessable. I wrote a poem.

how is it

that life can be as fragile as a leaf 

that browns and shatters to dust

and as solid as the tree,

towering over my soft body

how can it be as final as our last breath

and as dependable as spring

how can it move mountains, erupt and quake  

then whisper, mist and evaporate 

why is death its inseparable shadow

the dark, silent rest 

that creation needs in order to dream

tangled in one inseparable knot

love, heartbreak, fire, stone

some days I am desperate to understand

hovering over the pieces

scanning for relief

I don’t know if it matters 

but it feels better to try

my brain wants to pin it down, like a specimen on the wall, 

accurately labeled, meticulously preserved 

lifeless

to solve it is an illusion

of safety, of completion, 

with no room for growth

that’s not how life becomes the tree

layers of wood, patiently circling outward

reaching higher and higher

rooting deeper and deeper

with so many ideas

each branch, a prayer

touch me - i want to feel the sun

shine on my tenderest leaves

bake them green

give them life

for a little while

Being stuck, waiting on something out of my control, has always driven me crazy. 

Two weeks ago, I wrote about the challenge of being human - so infinitely capable, but ultimately, still human. 

I’m getting ready to move to Mexico, which has been true for a year and a half (its own trial of patience). Last week, I traded in my car for the trip, which invited an avalanche of bureaucracy into my timeline. 

It’s tempting to be frustrated, scramble to force things to happen and curse my circumstances (all of which, I did).

But I learned something important. 

When something isn’t going “my way,” something else is happening. There is another, greater force at work - a blessing I can’t see.

Here’s an example, hidden in the ultimate mundane bureaucratic process.

Because I traded in my car, I had to update my car insurance. Proof of insurance is required to import my car into Mexico.

I impatiently emailed my insurance lady over the weekend letting her know I needed to make the switch (and ASAP because in a panicked freakout, I made an appointment with the Mexican consulate for Monday to see if I could even import my car without the new title and registration, which would take the DMV 4-6 weeks to process.) 

She didn’t respond. All day Monday.

I tried calling and leaving a message. Nothing.

Then, Tuesday morning, I get a call back, which I miss because I’m taking my bunny to the vet, another totally stressful blackhole of a task. 

Someone else from their office, James, aka not my lady, sends me a text, asking for the info to process the changeover. I text back everything. I hear nothing for several hours.

I decide, I’m just going to call. James answers, sounding stressed and apologizing for the delay. He just got back from lunch.

“No worries, you gotta eat. It’s not urgent.” I surprise myself with how chill I suddenly am.

He asks me if I still only want liability insurance. “Yes, whatever’s the bare minimum because I won’t even be using it. I’m moving to Mexico and just need proof of US coverage as a formality.” 

“Oh, you’re moving to Mexico?” 

“Yeah!” I’m always excited to talk about it. “The whole reason I’m updating the insurance is because I traded in my car for something that will work better there. I’m driving down there to start my new life.”

“Oh, wow,” he says, “my wife has been back and forth to Mexico and we’re considering living there. But, I don’t know…” He explains how they like it and how life in the US feels backwards, but he doesn’t quite know what to do.

“I just put everything in,” he interrupts himself, “but the computer is being slow, it’s not working for some reason. Sorry.”

I assure him, I’m in no rush. We keep talking. I validate his feelings about the US and how much better things feel to me in Mexico. He asks me some questions about how I’m making the move work, how I got my residency, etc. and I share my experience and enthusiasm for making it happen.

“Okay, it just went through. I’ll send you the proof of insurance right now via email.”

“Awesome. Thanks.”

He asks if I have any other questions and I realize I never asked what the new insurance would cost.

“Actually,” he says, surprised, “the premium is the same. Normally there’s some difference, but it seems like it’s exactly what you were paying. Maybe the computer is malfunctioning, but that’s what it’s saying. Weird.”

“It’s funny, the car I traded in was also exactly the same price as the new one.”

“Wow,” he says, acknowledging the double coincidence.

“I’m telling you, you move to Mexico, you start experiencing all kinds of magic, baby.” It just came out of me. I don’t know why I called him baby. We both erupt into laughter.

“Thank you,” he says. “You’ve given me a lot of hope. I really appreciate it.”

“Thank you, and you’re welcome. You have my number, in case you need any more hope.”

What seemed like an annoying delay yesterday, revealed itself as a miniature miracle on the other side.

We don’t always get to see it. But we have the option to trust that the things we think are happening to us, blocking us, frustrating us, are happening for us or for someone else.

Sometimes, magic just takes a little longer than we want it to.

This has been a season of tremendous loss for me. Death, death, death death death. It kicked off in October when Cosmo, my longtime rabbit companion, died at 9 years old. 

Two weeks ago, my maternal grandmother “Gaga” died. She was 102.

We had a special relationship. She was my only grandparent. I was her first grandchild and her only daughter’s only child. That gave me a head-start in the specialness department. 

I think we understood each other on a deeper level than other members of our family understood us. 

I’m not close with the rest of my family. Her death marks a whole life I’m leaving behind.

We played cards, watched game shows and went to brunch at Sizzler. We sat on the couch and just held hands. We fantasized about taking a road trip down to Florida to find out how her secret lover passed away. When I was in college, she told me I was her best friend.

I don’t know if I’d be alive without her. (Obviously, she had to have my mom for me to exist.) But she was a source of unconditional love that I didn’t feel anywhere else. 

I remember one very low night in high school when I considered running away, hoping to walk out into the road and get hit by a car. I thought of her, and I stayed. 

My mom denied my request for therapy, but Gaga stood up for me and made sure it happened.

When I was a baby, I had a big, nasty black scab over my belly button (cough, mother wound, cough). She nursed it until it healed.

I love her so much.

I am also breaking up with my partner, moving everything I own out of the home we built together in Los Angeles, and taking it to Mexico. Leaving another life behind. 

He was my family and my home for the last year and a half, while I figured out how to make the jump. When we visited our families on the east coast, he helped me make peace with my past. When Cosmo died, he helped me bury him. He played the piano in our backyard while I sobbed over his body, circled with crystals. I watched the incense burn, carrying his soul off in billowing smoke. 

It’s been a lot of death. But death makes room for new life.

There is a bright, warm love on the other side of this tunnel. And the creatures that got me here mean everything.

It’s strange to love them so much and have to let them go. There’s a lot to grieve. So I wrote a poem.

Their graves mark the places 

I no longer go.

The people and spaces 

that are no longer home.

Now I’m a traveler, 

my shell on my back.

Finding love along the way, 

no more love-plated traps.

Walking alone, 

I really, really miss them.

But I trust my heart, 

and the steps it has taken.

I didn’t think this was how it would be. 

It looked so different at the start.

But I’ve come a long way. 

Now I can’t see back that far.

Sometimes it’s too hard

to carry this load.

So I put it all down,

and just lie in the road.

That’s why I need them,

I can’t do it alone.

But that’s when they’re with me,

when I just let go.

I have really high expectations for myself. Bordering on impossible.

It’s sort of an unavoidable byproduct of believing I can do anything. 

That’s my platform. I believe it for myself and I believe it for you. (We are all magic. That is a fact.)

I believe it because I’ve done things I never could have imagined. I’ve seen myself do supernatural shit beyond my wildest dreams. (Literally sitting in my own brain, watching my body do something and thinking, how am I doing this?)

Any prior concept I had of what my life could look like has been completely blown apart. And I expect it to be blown apart again and again. Because that’s been the pattern. (And patterns are science.)

I am unlimited. 

BUT, I am also limited.  

I am unlimited and limited. (I DON’T GET IT. Me either.)

I have superpowers that transcend time and space. 

AND, I am a human being.

It makes no sense. It’s infuriating. It’s weird. And it’s…humbling.

I think we all feel the struggle of toggling between different levels of functioning.

Some weeks, this very blog pours out of me like Niagara Falls. Other weeks, I’m wringing out a dry towel.

I can use insane wizardry locked in my body from a past life to locate and clear a past life wound in someone else’s body…but I can’t cook rice?

Sometimes I’m on fire, and other times, life is burning me to a crisp.

How can I be so good at some things, and so embarrassingly bad at others? Why do I regress to an angsty teen sometimes? Why can’t I just be at my best all the time?

Because our capacity for greatness doesn’t rescue us from our human-ness. And being a human means progressing, then falling back. It means certain people and situations bring out parts of us we don’t like. It means…sometimes, there is no answer. 

We can’t transcend being human. We can have transcendent experiences, but at the end of the day, we all still poop out of our butts, ya know? 

If I expect myself to be 24/7 god-level, I’m going to be disappointed in myself for just existing. And I’m going to miss the jewels hidden in the weird, gross, normal stuff. 

Having a body means we get to do amazing things. Having a body also means we have to do mundane things to take care of it and get through life.

If we don’t accept our humanness and our limitations, we overburden ourselves with perfectionism, frustration and disappointment.

But if we don’t believe more is possible, we miss our unimaginable potential. We don’t express our divinity. We feel isolated, lonely and depressed because we don’t realize we are all a part of this crazy, contradictory magic.

“How do I know who I am?”

“How do I know what I want?”

“How do I trust myself?”

People ask me these questions all the time. I ask me these questions all the time. And answers always come from getting to the bottom of how you feel. Sorting through the mess of voices to get to the truth.

Knowing doesn’t come from the anxious mind that’s asking. You have to feel it. So I wrote a poem because I genuinely think that’s the best way to arrive there. Poetry is the language of feeling. It uses words to knock on the door of the Soul. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t want to meet their Soul.

Look for the room where the candle is lit, 

where you see the flame

and there’s no mistaking the heat. 

Wander until your feet feel the Earth,

where there’s life underneath you

and there’s no mistaking your own.

Don’t get lost in thoughts and words,

growing taller and more out of reach.

Stay close to the spirit and learn how it likes to speak.

Listen for the voice that doesn’t talk down,

need proof or want someone to blame.

Listen for the voice that isn’t wearing anyone else’s skin.

Listen for the voice that’s naked, 

and always speaks up for your heart.

Don’t worry about seeing miles ahead.

Fire only illuminates the next step.

If you plan the rest now, 

you miss where inspiration wants to guide you,

where there’s no doubt your Soul is home. 

Last week, I wrote about my discovery from sex coaching that I’ve been putting off pleasure. All kinds of pleasure. I resist life’s sensory delights and don’t stay present for the good feeling parts. That was a big revelation.

This week, my coach said, “it sounds like you don’t trust it.”

(Imagine me dumbfounded…and a little sad.) She’s right.

The story under the hood was that I didn’t deserve it. I already have so many blessings, it would be UNFAIR for me to also ENJOY them. 

UMMMMYEAH, it’s absurd. It’s obvious when I write it down. Of course this is not my philosophy. I don’t believe this for myself. I don’t believe this for anyone.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s been living in my body. And I’ve made all kinds of excuses to keep it there.

Right now as I’m typing, I’m thinking, REALLY? I’m going to put these words on a page for people to read? 

Yes. Because if I don’t, I’m letting it stay in the shadows and in power. If I don’t, I’m putting a story about myself above my actual self. 

I’m done protecting an idea about who I’m supposed to be, over my living, breathing human body.

Where did this idea even come from? I’m sure working hard to uphold it. Is it mine? Or is it a parasite I let in to make myself small enough for someone else’s ego? (Guys, it’s the second one.)

It’s been there for a long time. It’s taken a long time to get myself to the point of declaring it openly. It’s taken a long time to start getting help about it. It’s scary to take the CHANCE I could trust pleasure.

And while I can’t dig out overnight, what I CAN do overnight (overday, overblog) is make this declaration to myself, loud and clear: 

I am no longer feeding the story that I don’t deserve my blessings.

I trust pleasure.

WHEW. It’s scary to say because it makes it real.

Writing is powerful. It helps me crystallize my thoughts and make them real.

I like writing as a poem or a prayer. Things I hope. Things I feel. Things I want to make real.

I hope this gets you closer to whatever you want to make real.

I deserve to be closer to Me.

Closer to the Heart that never stops beating in this chest. 

Closer to the Blood that never stops pumping, never stops feeding, never stops cleaning, never stops trying. 

Let me see the abundance of invisible thread holding us together, 

so I can remember, I am never alone. 

Someone touched everything around me.

Someone sewed, someone washed, someone dreamed, someone sweat. 

Someone cared, to create my world. 

It is here. And I belong.

Help me be humbled by all that is meant for me.

Help me receive with grace so I may share with generosity.

May I shine my light fearlessly, so others may see through the dark.

May I be fearless in asking others to show me through the dark.

May I clear the wounds that block reciprocation and connection.

May I be righteous in my pursuit of pleasure.

May I know my true gifts.

May I feel them so my cup may be full. 

May all of our cups be full. 

Full, 

full, 

full.

This week has been all about my inner child.

Because last week, I hired a sex coach. (“Wait, what is a sex coach and what does that have to do with her inner child?” I didn’t know either, stay with me.)

For years, I’ve known that I have blocks around sex. I’m nervous just talking about it here. What will they think of me? Well, I hope by the end of this post, you will think, “wow, I hadn’t thought of it that way. I didn’t realize I was cutting myself off from life.”

Growing up, I got the message loud and clear that sex was dirty and gross. Even as adults, sex is something we keep “in the bedroom” and struggle to talk about. But if we keep it locked away, try to pretend it doesn’t exist, and try to pretend the parts of our lives and our bodies it’s connected to aren’t important, we’re not whole. 

Maybe you’re not like me. Maybe there’s no hint of stigma or dirtiness about sex for you. Maybe you can comfortably talk about dicks and pussies all day long and you live in a world of infinite sensual pleasure. I know people like that. They trigger and challenge me and I am so grateful for them. I am not one of them.

What I discovered on the consultation call with my sex coach, is that my issue, at its core, is that I cut myself off from pleasure. Sexual and non-sexual pleasure. Whether it’s telling myself I don’t need to eat something sweet, ignoring masturbation as an option entirely, or immediately upon feeling delight or satisfaction in the session with my coach, my brain intruding with the thought that I should stop and make sure she’s okay.

After telling her what I was experiencing, she observed, “it seems like you can easily access the negative, uncomfortable feelings in your body, but you’re less practiced at experiencing the pleasurable ones.”

This hit me right in the heart. Right in the soul. I had never thought of it that way. I’m a sadness ninja. Give me all the sadness, I know exactly how to feel that. So much of what I do is helping others feel their emotions, especially the hard ones, so they can get to the bottom of what their souls are really telling them.

Well, my soul is like, ENOUGH ALREADY! We know you can feel the hard stuff. WHEN DO WE GET TO HAVE FUN!? 

This is where my inner child comes in. At some point, prettttty early in life, she learned that it’s more important to take care of the people around us and manage their emotions than notice our own.

This shows up in just about every relationship in my life, including my relationship with myself. There’s a very small, very young part of me that is holding so tight to what she thinks is her job. To be vigilant and responsive to others and aggressively suppress her own emotions. To perform happiness and gratitude on top of disappointment, rage and hopelessness. My desires, my pleasure, my SELF, did not matter. I did not exist. 

So now, my work is to unearth that precious, stunted being. To lift her up and make it safe for her to express desires. To recognize them. To say no to the parts that want to keep them unmet, and to be present with her while she enjoys them.

Lucky for me, this does require my hard emotion ninja-ry. There’s a lot of anger to express and there are a lot of tears to cry to get to the wanting underneath. But we’re already starting to look at life differently. Little Muunie is sitting next to me, getting excited about things and feeling confident that Big Muunie won’t shut her down. Big Muunie is here, to cry AND play with. Her anger is important. Her sadness is felt. Her joy is celebrated. Her pleasure is essential.

I woke up with a lot of anxiety this morning. It’s normal for me to feel weird first thing in the morning. I’ve written about it before. Our bodies are waking up, our minds are coming back online. It’s a pretty big transition between states of consciousness. It’s more than usual, but I also know from years of waking up with sickening, all-consuming dread, this is okay.

I remind myself of these things and breathe deeply as the thoughts and plans and worries start to come. I tell myself that it is okay to take a few minutes to just be. I can feel that my mind is not convinced, but I’m going to stick it out anyway.

I ask to be filled with all of the Love that exists out there and wants to be with me. I imagine that it is pouring into my body from above. That I’m breathing it into my lungs, filling my chest and my belly. I relax and surrender to this new energy I’ve asked to help me. 

I observe a slight shift in the balance of power. The anxiety feels like only part of what is going on rather than the whole story. I tell myself shakily that it is okay to focus on something other than the anxiety. Everything it wants to worry about will be okay. I will get all the things done. The answers will come. The anxiety is not part of the solution. All it is doing right now is making me feel bad. What I need now is patience and compassion.

Feeling more confident and connected to that compassion, I ask my body to show me the places it is holding the anxiety for it to surface and be cleared. I feel a tightness in my sternum and diaphragm, like it’s hard to breathe. It’s been there all along, but it seemed normal. I didn’t recognize it as holding anxiety that could be lessened. The path of tension reaches up my back, into the back of my neck, my throat and my tongue.

I continue breathing with compassion and let these parts soften into the Love. It’s uncomfortable. It feels a little like I’m suffocating and a little like I might throw up. I place one hand over my sternum and one under my neck, offering soothing energy and comfort. Breathing, I let them come. I feel the strength of the Love supporting me. I feel the gentle exchange between my hands and the places the anxiety is sitting. I feel movement and heat as that sick feeling starts to work its way to the surface. I allow my hands to hold it, then let it go. 

Lastly, I came to my computer and started writing. I just described exactly what was going on and what I was doing. At first, I didn’t intend it to be anything but a blank space for me to observe and then release the discomfort I was feeling. But maybe someone else could benefit from reading my process. So here it is. 

It isn’t perfect. It didn’t delete my anxiety forever. But little by little, I am getting comfortable with the discomfort, learning I can trust myself to be with anything that comes up, and ultimately, feeling better. 

May your discovery process bring you closer to peace, Love and comfort in the discomfort.

I am a recovering independence addict and know-it-all. 

I want to have all the answers, do everything on my own and never have to ask for help.

I grew up as an only child, and my parents were pretty controlling. 

So I either struggled until I figured things out myself, or someone swooped in with their agenda and took over.

There was no differentiation between being helped and being controlled. I couldn’t ask for help, and keep my selfhood.

So if I couldn’t get help and maintain my dignity and agency…I’ll keep my dignity and agency, thank you. 

And I thought I had to know everything. Love and approval from the adults in my life depended on me proving my intellect. I still feel the scars of this every day. 

So here I was, thinking I have to do it all on my own, know everything, and not let on that I can’t and I don’t, because it was too threatening. 

I was fighting upstream and burning out, carrying this heavy burden alone. 

We have an individualistic culture that reinforces this conditioning and keeps us lonely and depressed. In 2022, after a powerfully healing group retreat, my blinders came off. I could suddenly see how lonely my life was. I lived alone and I worked alone. And I live in a country that rewards those things as status symbols.

Feeling interconnected is THE NUMBER ONE THING that’s healed my depression and anxiety.

If deep down, you don’t want to receive (it’s too disempowering or scary or you feel undeserving) it blocks the flow of energy. I’m guessing you know how good it feels to give. What if you couldn’t because no one ever received?

It makes me cry to think about how much goodness and love I was blocking.

This was also the way I approached helping others. 

I was still carrying the conditioning that it was too shameful to be helped or to learn. That it somehow invalidated my ability to be a helper. I wasn’t strong or smart enough if I needed support. 

But, I also believed in the help I was giving, it felt incredible to be trusted to offer it and I was seeing the results.

This was the deep, invisible paradox of how I was living. And why I kept burning out. And why I was exhausted. And why I was unhappy.

And if I think my job as a coach is to give so hard I deplete myself, run my clients’ lives or give them all the answers, what am I really doing? Disempowering them. Trying to prove something to myself. Replicating the harm that was done to me.

It’s my job to show them their dignity. Empower them to ask for help. Uncover the wisdom their own bodies hold.

Life is so much more beautiful and easier and funner when we surrender, put down whatever baggage we think we have to hold, and receive the mysteries of life that we are a part of.

Thank you for choosing to receive this.

The more open we are to receive, the more we receive.

It’s pretty simple. So leave some room and ask for help. You deserve it.

When you’re done chucking at that Seinfeld reference, here’s a prayer:

May I be an easy vehicle for laughter

May I be smooth passage for tears

May my heart beat with all that is

I have a lot on my plate this week.

Looking at my calendar, my shoulders start climbing toward my ears and my chest tightens.

I’m tensing up because I assume it’s going to be hard. 

What I see is that it’s going to be full. 

Hard is not actually a requirement. (Unless I’m trying to PROVE I’m good enough because someone modeled an idea of “hard work” that I’m trying to live up to [cough] Dad…)

I’m done prioritizing some dumb Dad story over enjoying my life.

I want ease.

I feel the power of just speaking this into existence. But, how do I actually live it?

Create ease in my body and mind right now.

Create ease in my body and mind while I work.

Since I’m writing this blog now, I’m going to start with ‘while I work.’

I decided that what will best support my ease is to dive into this blog, so I dove into this blog. I started by telling myself, “let it be easy.” It does not have to be grueling or self-punishing. Let me repeat that. It DOES NOT have to be grueling or self-punishing.

As I sit here and type, I’m going slow, breathing, and staying with my body. I’m noticing when tension creeps in, and relaxing BEFORE I continue. 

I also notice my desire to be perfect and sit here until every word is right. My perfectionism won’t rest (ever) and wants me ground down into a pulverized piece of dust, water-deprived and head aching. Thing is, I don’t want that. And I’m the big boss. I wear the leopard print shorts around here.

So I’m just going to witness that part of me and let it sit next to me while I do things differently. 

I write down what’s coming, let it flow “good” or “bad,” and trust that time will be my friend and collaborator and when I come back to edit. (I’m here in the future, editing, and I was right.) It will be clear what is important and what is not.

When I feel complete, I soothe that perfectionistic part of me and tell it, “You can trust me. We’re done for now. We’re going for a walk and we’ll come back later.”

So that’s bringing ease into doing the work. Now for the right now. This one’s for you, version of me looking ahead at the calendar.

I’m often tempted to cover all my bases and prepare and think of every possible thing that might happen or what I might need or what that person might say, or, or, or….

But when the moment actually comes, it never feels like I predicted. Something I was excited about disappoints me. Something I was anxious about actually felt okay. Some random thing I could never have anticipated changes how I see and do everything anyway.

It’s not useful to spend the currency of the present trying to predict the future. 

Part of making things harder than they need to be is drawing the “hard” toward us, into the present moment.

Why do we try to predict the future anyway? Because WE WANT TO FEEL EASE NOW. The irony! (Go ahead, let yourself laugh at how silly our minds are sometimes.)

The more I focus on the future and try to pin my security to that, the more I’m actually pushing my security away. The emotion I want to feel, can only ever be felt NOW! When I’m feeling it! 

So, instead of trying to feel ease by fixating on the future, I have to relax and allow ease. Right, the fuck, now.

Here’s one way. I name something in my life that I trust. (I am a creative person. I have things to say. I have done hard things. There are people who love me. I am safe to sit here and just breathe.) These things aren’t going away. I let myself relax into them.

How does trust feel? 

I can exhale. My focus comes back to my body, in the present. My shoulders start to drop. I feel solid. I’m breathing more easily.

So when I notice my body start to get tense or anxious, I practice feeling trust. I bring that into right now. That way, when life comes, I can meet it with ease.

The future will come in its own time.

It’s okay to feel good now. 

Last weekend, I just felt…blah.

As a professional representative of “living your best life,” I get stuck thinking I should be able to engineer mine well enough to avoid dull moments. Like I’m just not working hard enough at it.

Nice try, but no. Empty space can be like a slip’n’slide for our fears and insecurities. We have one unsettling thought and then here comes a parade of eager, wet children tumbling down after it. “You don’t know what you’re doing!” “You can’t call yourself a healer!” And, “Are you even helping anyone?”

It seems absurd looking back. But from inside, it feels like an itchy sweater that’s sewn into my skin. No amount of scratching brings relief. 

These “moments” can last any amount of time. Minutes, hours, days, even years. 

I did spend years being hopelessly depressed. Maybe that’s why they can feel so intense. Or maybe that’s just how emotions work; they’re designed to seem like multidimensional portals we’re doomed to swirl around in forever. 

Anyway, I started writing a poem in the midst of this blah day. And on this blah day, the poem seemed pretty blah, too. Maybe it had one or two good lines, but it needed too much work. Actually, all of my poetry is bad. Why do I bother writing anyway? (WHERE ARE ALL THESE WET CHILDREN’S PARENTS?!)

The next day seemed to be going the way of the blah day before it. Then, suddenly, (well, after an hour of meditating, because I remembered for the 957th time to be patient with myself) the poem didn’t seem so bad and actually, the lines that needed work were coming together. And the things I liked about it were actually worth saying. The storm was passing. I watched myself weather it. It wasn’t earth-shattering, but it was pretty cool. So here’s the poem. It’s called, “The Space Between the Sparkle.”

Today 

never had to be the best day.

Not all days can be, after all.

Some are just the glue,

a mix of simple ingredients 

holding us together.

A day to lay the bricks.

A day to tend the fields.

A day to water.

A day to rest.

The minutes crawl.

The hours drift.

There are no breakthroughs,

no explosions

and no photographs taken.

The kind of day we crave when we’re too busy.

The kind of day we hate when we feel alone.

We seem to be moving backward

toward things we left behind.

We can’t see the bigger plan 

so we start to question everything.

Don’t be fooled by your perception.

The unremarkable is just as holy

as the fireworks display.

It’s the foundation,

the boring, solid backdrop

for surprise to be seen again.

The ocean reflects every inch of sky,

the blue, the clouds, the Sun.

Don’t lose hope in the space between the sparkle.

Every drop makes up the one.

Yesterday, my partner left Mexico and went back to our home in LA. It triggered a big wave of grief.

I couldn’t get around it; I was just sad. 

All I wanted was someone to be there while I cried and just listen, without expectations. I’m a literal professional at doing this for other people. But…for myself? A much harder ask.

To be there at the most basic level. With gentle, loving presence, for as long as it took. To hold myself, to tell myself it was okay, to let myself cry, then know when it was time to pick myself up and get a glass of water.

I wanted mothering.

A lot of us don’t have great models of this. So how do we give it to ourselves, let alone even know we need it?

We don’t always know when we’re sad, or mad, or hungry, or need a break. We go into our brains and try to think our way into meeting a physical need. 

We may know we’re feeling off, out of sync, rushing, busying ourselves, resisting things we know are good for us, or judging others. These are all good signs that we’re missing something. We just don’t necessarily know what.

But Mom does. And she swoops in and takes over. “You’re hungry.” “It’s time for a bath.” “Let’s go for a walk.”

The first thing I needed yesterday was just a place that it was okay to cry, or not cry, or do whatever. 

A big part of mothering ourselves is BEING that safe, open environment. 

Maybe we learned that we weren’t supposed to have certain feelings. They weren’t appropriate or necessary; they didn’t belong or were too much. Maybe we were punished or rejected or distracted when we cried.

Whatever it is, we tend to repeat this with ourselves. We can only love ourselves the best we know how. But there’s a workaround hidden in our imagination. We can ask ourselves, “what would the most loving person do?” (the agnostic’s What Would Jesus Do)

Would the most loving person criticize me for being sad or critique the way I’m showing it? Would they rush me or roll their eyes? No. They’d be patient. They’d be understanding. They’d be protective.

Each time I was able to find that energy and apply it toward myself, I would soften, let out a few more tears, and breathe a little easier. 

After each wave, I’d say, “okay, what do we need now?” and then wait, or make gentle suggestions and listen for the tiniest signal of what might feel good. 

Learning to mother ourselves isn’t easy. It’s extremely humbling. And we’re not going to be perfect at it. But the tender little being inside that needs our love really appreciates when we try.

What is home?

This past year, I traveled in search of it, moved everything I own into someone else’s, and buried the only creature on this planet that felt like it for sure. 

I’ve had to scrap all my old definitions and start over. 

I recently asked a client to create an image of the “home” she wanted to come back to within herself. And with one of my teachers, I am embarking on a yearlong program called “homecoming.” 

I want to answer this question for myself. I don’t think I’m done. But here’s a poem where I tried.

Home to me

I open the window

to a wave of warm, wood-baked air,

a smell that invites me to breathe. 

That

feels like home

to me.

Sunlit leaves

that special color green.

Salted air

where the Ocean scrubs me clean.

Her Majesty Herself,

wet and wild queen,

sometimes reflects the sky,

sometimes reflects the trees,

sometimes reveals the mud,

hidden underneath.

Fresh, raw dirt

like buried treasure

my hands both love to squeeze.

I’ll always be collecting rocks, 

the way I still hug trees.

The delight of seeing bunny hops,

will never, ever leave.

The seams are raw,

the cloth unfinished,

but this blanket 

holds my dreams.

And so I can rest,

remembering Earth’s palette

is painted all over me.

It’s December 27th. Which means a lot of conversations about the NEW year. What do I want? Who do I want to be? What are my goals?

I like self-reflecting and setting intentions. It’s clarifying, organizing and empowering.

AND, it can be a lot of pressure. To wrap up the past, leave old ways behind and write the future.

A fresh start is REALLY appealing. Like peace and satisfaction are on the other side of a comprehensive list, or a perfectly worded intention. And hey, sometimes, they is.

Personally, I visualize myself meditating on a mountainside like a little Buddha. Nothing bothers me because I’ve found the solution to all my problems. “This year, I’m going to be completely present and stop setting impossible expectations I can’t meet.”

. . . mmkay

How do I observe the new year as a marker of change, without the pressure to magically be perfect?

After asking a big, honking question I don’t have the answer to yet, I’ll start with, “What’s true?”

It’s winter. It’s cold and dark out. It’s ‘the holidays.’ We might be on break, traveling or outside our normal routine. Some of us are with people that stress us out. I’m going to take a big swing and say, some of us are tired. There’s a lot going on.

I’m struggling to generalize about who you are, what you’re experiencing, what I’m experiencing and offer answers.

I want to be able to tell you one thing. I want to give you whatever you’re here hoping to get. And yet, I’m just another human person on the other side of a screen riding the waves of whatever the hell this all is.

There is no ‘one way.’ No new year’s resolution to save us all. No permanent arrival. There are moments of clarity. There are moments of connection. There are moments when we recognize the absurd truth and just laugh.

That feels good.

To open up and let all the messiness, imperfection and incompleteness breathe.

There’s no one way. But there is a little freedom at the bottom of the truth.

More of that, please. More laughter. More truth. More closeness. Okay?

If you don’t know this about me, I love rabbits. Bunnies. Bunny rabbits. Whatever you want to call them. If they’re small and soft and hop around, it’s a yes for me. 

I have a rabbit named Gnocchi (pictured above). She’s white with a little brown mustache. It’s hilarious. 

She is third in a lineage of Italian-named rabbits: Gepetto, Cosmo, Gnocchi.

This delights me. 

A friend asked me recently, what is it about them that captivates you?

I got so excited to answer this question I melted into a pool of goo. I had never really put it into words. 

You know how most people react when they see a dog? Their faces light up, they want to be near it, they want to talk to it in a goofy, animated voice. They want to touch it and know its name and be its friend. 

Dogs don’t do it for me. BUT RABBITS…

Talking about them, I feel myself lifted into childlike excitement. My defenses dissolve and my heart softens. Some of my earliest, fondest memories are of the kids’ book, “Pat the Bunny,” which is basically a tuft of hair in a piece of cardboard that you can pet. And boy did I. 

THEY ARE SO SOFT. I’m in awe of the “awwww!” They ignite curiosity and sweetness. They hop around with their little paws and their little tails and their little personalities. They’re funny and wise little tricksters. 

Think Bugs Bunny, the Trix Rabbit, the White Rabbit, rabbit holes. They are the literal magic magicians pull out of a hat.

Across cultures, people have observed the Moon as having an image of a rabbit, over a mortar and pestle, cooking up some magic.

BUNNY MAGIC.

Sub-consciously, we just know they are magical. Like the keepers of some secret formula of silliness.

Some sweet little part of you must be amused if you’re still reading this. Cuz it’s cute. It’s fun. It’s absurd. 

It’s magic. 

Our souls crave it, whether we let ourselves seek it or not. A mystery in the Moon. Something beyond comprehension and reason. Something to keep us fascinated. Amused. Creative. Childlike. Open-hearted. Wild.

That’s divine. That’s spiritual as fuck.

Magic, mystery, delight, LOVE. These things fuel us. They fill our tank when we’re depleted by the daily grind. They transcend time and space and cultural differences. That feels pretty important. And for me, that’s all contained in the captivation I feel when I see a rabbit.

Where’s the bunny magic in your life?