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 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.

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.

The other day at ecstatic dance (a sober dance event with a DJ that’s about moving how you feel) I overheard someone telling his friend that he loves it, but stopped coming for a while. He said, “sometimes I deny myself the things that bring me the most joy.”

YES! WHY DO WE DO THAT?! Why do we resist things that feel good?

There’s the classic, “I always feel better after a workout, but I struggle to get to the gym.” This makes sense. Exercise is hard. But what about things with a lower barrier to entry that JUST FEEL GOOD?

Newton’s Law of Inertia says that an object at rest tends to stay at rest. (And an object in motion tends to stay in motion.) I think this explains why in the gym scenario, it helps to get up and put your shoes on. Now we’re in motion. 

The exact wording on Wikipedia is: “Every body continues in its state of rest…unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed upon it.” 

There has to be a significant enough force to change states. 

Okay. We want joy. Why isn’t that enough? Psychological inertia? If we’re sad, or bored, or numb, or angry, it takes a significant force to shift into something else. An object that’s sad tends to…stay sad?

Maybe there’s also fear - “what if it doesn’t work?” From inside an emotion, it seems like whatever’s happening will continue. 

Okay. Let’s introduce a force.

Maybe we go for something quick and dirty. Low barrier to entry, a guaranteed fix. Like the raw cookie dough my partner keeps buying even though I tell him not to because I don’t have the force to resist eating it. It doesn’t make me feel good long-term (or even medium-term), but it’s definitely going to taste good right now.

Sometimes cheap joy get us in motion and reminds us that the other kind of joy is possible. But usually, I just eat the cookie dough and feel gross.

I know that. You know that. So let’s address an opposing force at play here: self-sabotage. We all have an inner “fuck you.” A shadow. A little devil on our shoulder that wants to fuck shit up.

We want to feel good; our brain knows that cookie dough (or your cheap joy of choice) requires minimum force.

Then in comes the little devil saying, “you already feel like trash, eat the cookie dough.” An object that feels like trash tends to stay feeling like trash. 

Underneath the desire to feel good, we also have a trash feeling. The part of us holding onto guilt and shame. The part of us harboring a secret feeling that we don’t deserve happiness. That we’re the one person joy won’t work on. That we’re insignificant and bad and it doesn’t matter anyway. 

Mr. “fuck you” can use this internal inertia to strengthen his case. Then it takes even more force to overcome.

But the good news is, if we stay and dig deeper, underneath the trash feeling, there is an even deeper desire for everyone, including us, to be happy and at peace. Like an emotion sandwich: desire to be happy, desire to be sad, desire to be happy.

If we can tap into that, knowing we’re up against inertia, we have a better chance of mustering the required force to get back in motion.

An object dancing tends to stay dancing.

Right now, everything smells like smoke after a much needed smudging of the apartment. 

(If you’ve never burned sage to clear the vibes and don’t know what I’m talking about, hit me up and I will share this magic with you.)

Traveling for 44 days, I was without my toolkit for so long, I’d forgotten what a difference it makes. 

A room that felt heavy and sad five minutes ago (and a me that matched) now feels light and bright.

When I go back to Mexico in a couple days, I will not forget my essentials. Tarot cards, something to burn, a crystal or two, and my new Laughing Buddha.

I bought this little statue in Philadelphia Chinatown. He is shiny, warm gold, with the trim on his robe and his lips painted red. He has a big smile, a big round belly, and is carrying an overflowing basket of treasures.

When I saw him, I knew this was an energy I was missing.

I consider myself a minimalist (and a recovering control freak). I truly believe less is more, and that a simpler, less cluttered life, is a freer, more alive one. The more you have, the more you have to spend time, money and energy caring for. For example, I just cut all my hair off. I am no longer pouring my energy into it, worrying about how it looks, maintaining it and feeling the weight of it on my head.

I love living this way. There’s room for the people and things I really care about.

But this energy, too, can be out of balance. I’ve leaned a little too far in this direction. Pouring too much energy into stripping away and letting go.

Minimalism alone doesn’t force you to focus on what matters. You also have to let yourself enjoy the fruits. That’s what MAGNETIZES you to juicy, abundant deliciousness.

Being depressed for most of my life, growing up with money I didn’t earn, I didn’t feel like I deserved joy or richness. I was desperate to evict myself from entitlement, and ended up with deep unworthiness.

I was so afraid to be the excessiveness around me, I made myself excessively small.

But my Laughing Buddha isn’t worried about being too much, or having too much, or…anything. He’s just full. He radiates joy and abundance, and shares it generously.

That’s what I want. To be so full as to be effortlessly generous. Not to be empty because I’m afraid.

Thank you, little Buddha, for reminding me to be GOLD. Now, get in my backpack, we’re going to Mexico.

This time last week, I was struggling. 

Writing to you now, I am on the other side of the breakthrough I couldn’t see, but trusted was coming.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been traveling around the East coast, where I lived before I was ALIVE. For most of my life, I had no faith, no self-trust and no will to live. I thought I was broken with no chance of repair. I hadn’t tasted true intimacy or unconditional love. I didn’t know my soul. I hadn’t discovered how powerful, how deep, how sensitive, and how worthy of love she was. 

I’m currently visiting New York City, where I lived from 2012-2018. I was miserable when I left. Suicidal, working in a field I had just gotten a masters in, but no longer had the mental or emotional capacity for. I had already been on antidepressants and in therapy for years, self-medicating with drugs and alcohol, keeping myself alive on obligation to others and the imagined peace of being dead. 

In 2018, I moved to Los Angeles as a last-ditch effort to see if happiness was possible. I didn’t have faith, but there was nothing to lose. 

Fast forward to 2023. 

My five years in LA gave me exactly what I needed. Happiness, healing, spiritual connectedness and purpose in a deep, unshakable way.

But this trip to the East coast resurfaced the depression I worked so hard to heal.

On Monday, I went on a walk through one of my old neighborhoods and stopped in a spiritual store. I love them. I can’t get enough of them. Let me touch all of the crystals. Anyway. I decided to get a tarot reading.

It was a much needed affirmation of what I already knew. I was doing the right thing. I was on my path. And the emotions I’m feeling are guiding me. They’re telling me what supports my aliveness and what does not.

My soul knows that my next chapter is in Mexico, but I’ve been trying to hold onto the partnership I built in LA.

Unlike leaving New York in 2018, there’s a lot to lose this time. So I’ve been keeping one foot in as I poke the other out, doing everything I can to see if it’s possible to have both.

I still don’t have the answer to that question. But I needed to be clear about one thing.

My soul knows what it needs to be alive, and I’m not willing to sacrifice that.

I had a difficult conversation with myself. And I had a difficult conversation with my partner. Setting that boundary freed me to lean into the uncertainty of the present moment. To weather the emotions. Trust myself to listen. And enjoy the ride.

Two days into renting a camper van, it’s pretty clear van life isn’t for me. I spent the weekend confidently telling everyone at my sister’s 50th birthday party that my partner and I were planning to build one so I can live between LA and Mexico. 

Probably not.

Major respect to people that make van life work. Personally, I can’t stop hitting my head on the ceiling, finding Internet to do our jobs is its own job and although we can cook because it has a fridge, a stove top, a microwave, a sink and a pantry, they just take up space because all we want to do is escape to the sweet, sweet sanctuary of a restaurant. 

I thought having everything in one small, well-designed space would make life easier. But in trying to do everything, it’s doing nothing.

On the heels of the Super Bowl of family time, two weeks into traveling and cohabitating, and now squeezed into a van while on my period, I watched myself contract into someone unrecognizable. Except, I recognize her as who I used to be. Someone living for others at my own expense, while trying to be invisible.

It didn’t work.

Hearing old thoughts bouncing around my brain again is scary. I forget that it’s only temporary, that we can weather these emotions, and that we know exactly why we’re here. This whole trip is about revisiting the past to clear the wounds those thoughts were born from. 

But it’s hard to keep the flame alive in these suffocating environments.

In a much needed session with my coach, I got a message:

Wide. Open. Magic.

She needs breathing room and connection. To herself, to others and to the bigger universe. To remember herself as a carrier of joy, spontaneity, inspiration. To feel her part of nature, emotions flowing, undammed and free.

Thank God I can lie down, diagonally across the mattress, stretch and feel the sun on my face through the tiny window above my head, and remember what I am. 

Last week, I pushed through the discomfort of telling people I had a blog. It’s the worst part of having a blog, aside from writing it. 

I got some really exciting and heartfelt responses. It reminded me why I bother. And it activated the part of me that is afraid to let you down. I think that’s called…caring? So, with my heart beating just a little harder, here I am, writing and caring.

In one of the responses, a friend asked for “words of wisdom for upending your life.” The life coach in me is tickled. 

As it turned out, there was something very specific that I needed to hear. I was grateful to her for drawing it out.

Sometimes, I get stuck in ‘efficiency mode’: let’s only do what is necessary and avoid wasting time or money.

En route to the East coast, my partner Ike and I are currently in a little Colorado mountain town between two halves of a train ride he insisted we take. The train is twice as slow as driving. TWICE. This excursion and this whole mode of transportation were entirely inefficient, which I reminded him often. 

But, it was essential.

It’s essential to take the long, windy road and leave room for life to surprise you. Those are the days where you get to the end, because you spent the afternoon relaxing in a huge, geothermally-heated public mineral pool and then stumbled into an unbelievably corny vaudeville dinner show, and you go, wow. That was weird. I am satiated. 

You feel it in your body. You sleep well at night. You wake up, shrug your shoulders because it’s all a question mark, and get ready to do it again.

But all this mirth and togetherness and spending money has the part of me that thinks I’m being frivolous and neglecting my responsibilities very nervous. 

This morning, I opened my emails and started to respond to things that had piled up, including my friend’s email. 

I told her, “document how you are feeling along the way and reflect on where you were.”

Until deciding to move to LA in 2018, I was lonely, depressed, and made pretty much every decision based on my future and career. I’m still unwinding that program.

Soon after making a change, you focus on the next set of problems. You forget the ones you solved because they're not there anymore. Traveling with Ike, having fun and being together all of the time has solved my longest standing problem: loneliness. But if I don't take time to recognize and appreciate that, a week in, I’m back in efficiency mode, worrying I'm doing something wrong.

This is what it feels like to change, to stretch my capacity to enjoy myself. There’s tension between the old way and the new way, arguing in my brain as I walk my new walk.

It doesn’t feel perfect all the time. It isn’t supposed to. But it feels right.

I woke up today with a plan for what I was going to write. I made myself breakfast and sat down at the table. Looking at the computer, my stomach dropped. My plan didn’t match what I felt.

When I came up with it, I was excited. But now, it feels like a chore. And forcing myself into a cage is not why I write poetry. I write poetry to find magic in the truth.

I write poetry to guide me toward flow, even when it isn’t what I expected when I turned on the tap.

This morning, turning on the tap, I am in an apartment I’m moving out of, surrounded by objects I have to get rid of in the next ten days. I am overwhelmed by the life my past self created. I’m ready for what’s next. Pero bueno…

I had a whole plan

for what I would write.

But now I feel, “fuck it.”

I’m less than alright.

I don’t want to make something

that misses my pain.

I don’t want to ignore

my stress and my strain.

My stomach feels icky,

my head is a mess.

I’m doubting myself.

I’m afraid and depressed.

I want to write freely,

from the nowest of nows.

And in this very moment,

it just feels like “ow.”

I could push it aside.

I could press on instead.

But that’s what I used to do.

I ended up dead.

I wonder what today will be.

~ a total blank slate ~

anticipatory, unknowing

Who am I today?

Who am I here?

I hope, I feel

I am excited.

~ an adventure ~

I wonder what I will decide.

being as present as possible so I can absorb as much as possible

I can’t take it all in.

~ bubbling ~

Something has opened.

~ explore ~

What’s possible in this body?

I had a major creative block when it came time to write this week. I post on Wednesdays. It is Friday. Wednesday evening, at the end of a long day, I sat down to churn something out. It did not churn. I felt completely disconnected from my creativity. I forced myself to sit at the computer, typing up choppy strands that didn’t add up, frustration and angst mounting. While I ground my gears fruitlessly, I was boiling beets I had just bought for a much needed healthy meal. Before I knew it, something smelled weird. I kept grinding. Eventually, the smell worsened and I forced myself up. All the water had evaporated and the pot sat on the stove heating four scorched beets in a cloud of black foam.

I wasn’t in the headspace. I wasn’t in the bodyspace. I had waited until the last minute and then the last minute came and I couldn’t. I was really sad. I was really angry. I had nothing left in the tank. Not only had I not made enough space to write something, I hadn’t made enough space for myself in general. I felt myself running on empty as I dragged myself through my commitments and hoped for the best. But it came back to bite me, as it always does. And my apartment smelled like burnt beets for 48 hours to remind me.

Thankfully, I had yesterday off. I got a massage. It changed my life. I felt completely reborn and committed to preserving the S P A C I O U S N E S S I had just recovered. Today, a new moon, I effortlessly found myself creating a blackout poem from old morning pages. This is how I want it to feel. But in order for it to feel effortless, the work I have to put in is holding space. Noticing when I need it, and making it happen. Saying a clear, firm and loving “No.” when the grinder wants to keep grinding. “I know you don’t want to, but it’s time to stop. Your beets are burning.”

I’ve bounced from low lows to high highs

so many times. 

So many trips up and down inside. 

Right now?

I’m dancing on air. 

The lightest I’ve ever been,

Always comes after the darkness.

I emerge,

I remember I can breathe again.

And actually, I’m better at it than I was before.

What felt like drowning, was learning to swim.

Retreating in, to find deeper wisdom, and resilience to weather the feelings. 

When I’m in it, everything hurts so bad I forget who I am.

It feels like I’ll be lost forever.

But,

I never am.

Something clicks and I’m climbing out somehow.

Just yesterday, I was upside down, convinced, 

“I’ll never get unstuck.” 

Then something struck.

A block dislodged, and suddenly

I’m in the eye of the storm 

and I can see the clear, blue sky above me. 

Hope. 

Fragile, but delicious.

A tiny sip of fresh air.

My heart opens and I start over.

Doubts come, and I’m easily knocked down by tall towers of who I think I should be. 

The smallness of feeling thousands of miles from my dreams. 

What is right in front of me never seems like enough. 

But that’s a lie.

Faith is hard to hold onto, in the face of so much fear,

so much conviction that it won’t matter.

That I don’t matter.

That my house of cards will fall

(and it will). 

But never building feels like death. 

So I use every, single, brick. 

A smile from a stranger. A moment of self-honesty. A salad because leaves taste like life.

One small “yes” to trusting myself. 

One small step.

Then another. 

Then another.

So if you look up and see a crack,

build toward the light.