I was sixteen when I revealed to the school psychologist that for years, I’d been molested by my uncle. I was concerned he might be abusing my brother as well. Bob asked if I understood that he needed to report this to the authorities. Of course I did – why else would I have told him?

A few days later we met with detectives, social workers from Social & Rehabilitative Services (SRS), and school officials to dig deeper into what happened and learn how the case would move forward. An SRS worker told my parents that my brother and I both needed to see counselors. My parents insisted we would deal with this ourselves, within the family. The worker leaned across the table and explained that it wasn’t a request – that if my parents refused to get us help we obviously needed, the state would be forced to remove us from their custody. She handed a list to my mother.

“These are local counselors that work with abused kids. Set up the appointments.”

Which is how I started seeing a therapist.

I didn’t talk much at first. I wasn’t sure what to say, and after years of hearing, “What happens at home, stays at home,” it was hard to open up about all that I’d been through. But I did eventually start to talk.

Six months or so after I started seeing this therapist, she said, “I’m concerned that you might try to kill yourself.”

I laughed. She was a little late. I told her I’d already tried twice that year. She called my parents.

Suicide has always been on the table for me – I can’t remember a time where I didn’t think about ending my life. I had my first attempt when I was six, but didn’t try again until a month after I reported my uncle. Several more attempts followed.

I’ve been in treatment for depression, PTSD and borderline personality disorder for nearly 35 years. I still struggle with suicidal thoughts and urges, although I haven’t acted on them in a long time. Therapy has helped me learn how to keep the thoughts from building upon themselves – from becoming the proverbial snowball. Medication is also in my toolbox. When the thoughts become too insistent, I’ve learned to ask for help. I’ve sometimes needed hospitalization and I’ve even had electro-convulsive therapy (ECT).

I no longer hide these thoughts and urges from my providers or my closest loved ones. When things are tough I say so.

And lately, things have been tough. As my emotional walls come down, intense grief and shame surface. The feelings terrify me. I want to escape.

But I don’t.

Instead, I talk about how I feel. I cry a little bit, here and there. I find people who understand. I ask for help – from my loved ones, and from God. My husband and I have a plan to help me stay safe.

Somewhere along the line I learned that I don’t have to act on my thoughts, nor do I have to do it alone.

Neither do you.

If you’re having thoughts of suicide or believe someone else is in danger, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline can help. Call 1-800-273-8255. The service is 24/7, free and confidential. https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Martin Luther King, Jr. of course had a dream – a beautiful dream – but as I was browsing some of his speeches over the weekend, a certain line drilled right down into my heart:

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

I spent my childhood hating the uncle who sexually abused me. When I learned that he abused my younger brother too, it was like someone had thrown gasoline into that already burning fire in my heart. The hatred – while perhaps warranted – left me contemplating truly evil acts, as though torturing him would somehow heal my devastated heart.

I reported him to the police, as at some level I understood that I could not protect my brother from behind bars. Counselors, social workers and judges tried to help me find outlets for my anger, but I was deeply immersed in a darkness that served to feed itself. It started coming out sideways. I did things I regretted and hurt people I didn’t mean to hurt.

The darkness expanded, and swallowed me whole. I hated myself. I knew for sure that God hated me too. How could He not hate someone capable of such evil thoughts, who even started acting on those thoughts? Just weeks after meeting with the police I attempted suicide. I survived, but I tried again. And again – six times in fifteen months. My hatred had no boundaries.

I have spent the last 33 years trying to climb out of that darkness. After the last suicide attempt I stopped drinking, then began taking therapy more seriously. I sought a different Higher Power – finally realizing that, for me, there was a power of Love in the universe that I could access. I meditated. I prayed. I sought light and connection. I started to heal.

My healing journey continues. I no longer feel hatred in my heart, although I have not been able to actually forgive – and that’s ok. I don’t seek vengeance. I can’t completely shake the darkness, but I can seek to expand the light. I trudge toward love.

Last summer my husband and I took a scenic train ride for our anniversary. The train chugged slowly around the edge of Lake Winnipesaukee – perhaps at times doing as much as 5 miles per hour – while we gazed out the open windows. At one point we passed an apparently homeless man in weathered clothes, cleaning up in the shallows. He looked up and smiled as we passed, and I smiled too with genuine warmth. His eyes sparkled in reply. He had been seen, and while that cured none of his situation, he seemed to find joy in that moment. We had shared an bit of love in that moment.

Making room for love means there is less room for hate.  

One late autumn day Skeet handed my 13-year-old brother the keys to his old work truck, with the intent that he drive around the farm and get a feel for driving a stick shift. Skeet was an old friend of the family – the man who, with his wife, and taken in my mother years before when she left her own parents’ home at sixteen years of age.  

Skeet gave Rich one limitation – he could go anywhere on the property, except near the river.

Twenty minutes later, while I was tinkling on the piano in the back room of the farmhouse, I was surprised when my brother snuck up on me. I was more surprised by his tears.

“You gotta help me,” he quietly cried. “The truck’s stuck.” So we headed out the back door and through the fields.

Yup, it was stuck all right – the rear wheels had slid down the steep but short riverbank, until they hit a small stone which kept them from the water.

I scratched my head. I knew how to push a vehicle – we’d had clunkers of our own that sometimes needed to be moved with real manpower. Or kidpower, as the case may be. I told him to get in the truck and pull it forward, but the wheels just spun in the mud.

Being the older – and stronger – of the two of us, I waded in the shallow water and started pushing the truck, while my brother tried to step on the gas. If only I was strong enough, and we could move the it just a few inches forward, the wheels might catch some drier land and grip enough to lift that baby right up the bank.

I failed.

I thought it might help to rock the truck. My pushing tactics changed. I pushed, relaxed, and pushed some more. Then with all my might I pushed one more time.

I failed again.

I pushed on that truck until I had no push left. I stood, defeated, staring at my muddied clothes and soaked sneakers.

I had failed completely.

We slowly trudged through the fields back to the house, heads hung low, dreading what was to come. Skeet and his wife sat with my parents at the kitchen table, playing pinochle. Skeet asked Rich why he was crying.

Between tears, he sputtered, “The truck is stuck.”

“Where?”

“By the river.”

Dad slammed his cards down. “The one place you were told not to …”

Skeet stopped him, with a laugh. “Is it in the water?” Rich shook his head. “No big deal then. That’s what the tractor’s for.”

He was right – the tractor pulled that truck right up the riverbank.

With my brute strength I could not make that truck move. I could push, and pull, but without help I wasn’t strong enough. I only made more of a mess. But it wasn’t that I was failure. It was that moving the truck with my own strength was impossible.

Sometimes I forget that it’s ok to ask for help, or even that it’s ok to use the right tool to make something easier. I instead think I’m a failure because I can’t push the truck up the riverbank. I forget that I’m not all alone, and that the Universe has gifted me many resources to help me through my day.

My wish for you today is that you either ask for help, or remember to use your tractor. It will make all the difference.

I was introduced to formal meditation in rehab way back in 1989 and took to it like a duck takes to water. For the last years of my drinking, I had no longer been able to drown the constant, bitter chatter in my head – in fact, my alcoholic bottom was not the events that happened, but rather the complete failure of booze to quiet my mind.

When the counselor instructed all of us to lay down on the floor, I was instantly suspect. He hit the button on the cassette player and we were told to shut our eyes and inhale deeply. The woman’s soothing voice helped calm me a bit, and while I didn’t shut my eyes I did breathe as she suggested – slowly, in through my nose, and out through my mouth. She led us through a guided visualization, and I was able to imagine myself in the forest, surrounded by trees, and walking along a brook.

This was not my first time with mindfulness, although earlier experiences were not called such. I had learned to shoot a gun when I was just six years old, and shooting had been a favorite activity as a kid. First I learned about gun safety, but then I learned about calming my breath and heart in order to steady my aim. Deep breath in, full exhale – then take my shot in the quiet little moment before I need another breath. Target shooting was my first meditation experience. But given the nature of my substance use, it likely a good thing that I had stopped playing with guns.

As I lay on the rehab floor, giving in to the voice that guided us, I discovered the same kind of quiet I had known years before. The chatter in my mind slowed. A calmness settled into my soul. It was magic.

After rehab, I explored other mindfulness practices. I tried yoga. I bought meditation tapes. I learned prayers from different beliefs. I found myself chanting – even writing my own chants set to music. I was not rocketed to the fourth dimension, but it was still a useful tool to quiet my mind. It became part of my daily routine.

And so it was, in one form or another for about three decades. But a few years ago my practice began to slip. I still believed in the power, but something new started to happen – those emotions I’d tucked away would bubble up as I sat quietly, and the sadness in particular felt overwhelming. I didn’t want to feel these things, so I slowly gave up meditation.

I don’t do New Year’s resolutions – I’ve always thought January 1^st was just another day, and that it takes more integrity to make changes as we realize we need them, rather than saving them for a perfect day. In early December I realized it was time to start meditating again, so I committed to doing so. Then I did nothing to move toward my goal.

Last week my therapist – not knowing of my decision – challenged me to bring a guided meditation with me to our next appointment. I spent New Year’s Day sitting through different meditations on YouTube, before settling on the “right” one, which I brought to our session today. She just challenged me to find another for next week.

I think I may have been tricked into a New Year’s resolution after all.

I wrote last week about how Christmas was a magical holiday growing up in our house, but I can assure you, the joy of the season usually ended abruptly. Birthdays weren’t so magical.

I have pictures of both Rich and I crying in front of our respective birthday cakes, at various ages. I don’t need the photographs to remember those times – it happened a lot. And crying was dangerous in my family – we were then given something to cry about.

Today my brother, sister-in-law, niece and I met at a restaurant to spend some much-needed time together – with our busy schedules, we don’t actually see each other that often. He’s still one of my most loving cheerleaders. So we gathered, ate really good burgers and tasty sweet potato fries, and laughed enthusiastically.

We also talked about memories – he has few, but remembers being afraid, and how we were left alone a lot. I remember more, but my memories fit his descriptions. I was terrified, and only found any sense of safety when we were alone. Still, a lot of that time was spent planning how to escape or protect myself from the inevitable next time. There was always a next time.

I’m still haunted, in some ways. I don’t spend my time worrying about the next explosion, but I do have a hard time settling down the old fears. Even though I have a husband who will protect me from anything, and a dog who sounds like she would (in reality, Gracie would hide behind me if anyone ever broke into my home); even though I live in a reasonably safe neighborhood where we look out for one another; even though no one is after me – I rarely am able to relax into a sense of safety.

Like too many trauma survivors, I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder – PTSD. I am chronically scared. My antennae are always up, looking for the earliest sign of danger. I have nightmares almost every night. I have a dramatic startle reflex. Yet most my emotions are numbed. It is hard to feel joy. I am also really tired, and struggle with depression.

Today, I refuse to give in to fear. My home is my nest, even if I don’t always have the perfect safe and secure feeling. I surround myself with people who love me and have my best interest at heart. I ground myself with deep breathing exercises, with my feet planted on the floor. I use EFT – tapping – to help calm my limbic system. I choose to do things that encourage my own sense of safety.

The opposite of victimhood is not safety, however. It is empowerment.

I refuse to be a helpless victim to the ghosts of my past. My little one lived through a lot. I honor that. But rather than join her in the past, I’m trying to invite her into my present. Today, my child, we are empowered to create the world we want to have.

I was one of those weird, rational kids that just wouldn’t believe in Santa. We had no fireplace, and when Mom explained that she’d given him the key to our front door I countered that she wouldn’t give the key to a stranger. Once old enough, I also pointed out that Santa’s handwriting looked an awful lot like hers. When I was seven my father even put sleigh tracks on the porch roof and shook sleigh bells. That might have worked, had he not left our ladder perched against the roof.

But I loved Christmas. I loved the lights, the candy, the gifts, and especially the spirit. In some ways, my brother and I were spoiled on the holiday – the gifts from Santa, Mom and Dad, my aunt and uncle, and other family members were not just under the tree on Christmas morning, but spilt over from the living room into the dining room. Our stockings (Dad’s old hunting socks) were filled with goodies and we could have candy for breakfast.

Mind you, we barely squeaked by on Dad’s wages as a third shift pressman at a print shop. We weren’t poor, but there were times when Mom raided my piggy bank to pay for heating oil or groceries, and our toys and clothes were often hand-me-downs or yard sale purchases. We did eat out at a restaurant occasionally, but literally with saved pennies – all our pennies were deposited in Herman, an iron chimpanzee bank. When Herman was full, we had about $100 in pennies, enough to treat the family to dinner at the Dog Team Tavern or Gigi’s Restaurant, where we’d order “fancy” things like veal parmesan or petite tenderloin.

However, money being tight was the least of my childhood trials. The explosive violence at home – physical, emotional and sexual – was a regular occurrence. I believed that my father hated me, and was absolutely sure that God did. I lived in near-constant fear, trying to predict and avoid the next transgression.

Except at Christmastime. The holiday spirit of love and giving would fill our house. This transformation was such a relief. My father – who usually believed in taking care of only himself – would give my brother and I money to donate to the WSYB Christmas Fund, and when we were lucky we’d get to say hello live on the air. Dad also would scope out the best Christmas lights in town, then take us on a tour on Christmas Eve. Christmas Day itself was filled with love, giving and kindness. I felt safe for a few days.

Santa is real. He didn’t slide down my chimney or bring me prettily wrapped boxes, but he brought us the spirit of Christmas, every year. My holiday wish for you is that you find the same love and peace this week, and for all the weeks that follow. Merry Christmas!

“The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.”

I don’t know about you, but visions of sugar plums haven’t always danced in my head at Christmas time. 

Oftentimes there was fear, loss, regret, sadness, and grief. 

Nonetheless, I held on to hope. Hope that one day Christmas would be magical once again. 

I think that what’s beautiful about Christmas, when you strip away all the expectations of how it “should be” and how it “should look” you are really just left with the beauty of the season. 

The lights, the decorations, and the traditions that remind you of years gone by. 

In the last few years I have simplified Christmas not only for myself but my children as well. 

We watch movies, we decorate cookies, and we have our favourite breakfast of croissants, clementines, and quiche. We lounge by the tree, open presents on Christmas morning, and then enjoy the morning together. If we are really lucky there is fresh fallen snow out the window. 

When they were younger and I was married we’d spend countless hours visiting friends and extended family.  As a mom who often had little  support this was exhausting for not only me but for them as well.  I didn’t know then I could ask for what I needed. I didn’t know that I could say no. I didn’t know I could advocate for my needs too. Afraid of not being festive enough, or fun enough I’d drag myself from place to place and by the time the holidays were over I was burnt out, exhausted and resentful. Not exactly “the most wonderful time of the year”.

Navigating Christmas as a single parent presented its own challenges. Trying to figure out where we now fit in as our family of three. Three years ago at my daughter’s request we bought a new Christmas tree. She picked it out with all the decorations, at the time it was a bit out of my budget but I decided to go for it. It was more than I had ever spent on a tree and I found it hard to justify spending that much on something that comes out for only one month out of the year, but the joy and pride on their faces that first time we decorated that tree was worth every penny  spent.  Each year they eagerly await tree decorating time, it’s ours and it’s our tree of love.  

Despite the ups and downs and trauma of divorace and addiction our lives are full of love, health and happiness.  We have created many of our own traditions and we are grateful that we have a warm place to live, food in our bellies and gifts under the tree. We have been blessed with the beauty of the little things and that is what Christmas means to me.

Gracie and I just got back from a long walk. She’s our black lab, and for her, it was more of a sniff-fest than true exercise. For me, it was a workout and a half. A half-mile, actually. Not much for an average Joe (or Joanna), but with my with chronic pain and mobility challenges, this is the outer limit of my ability. I’m willing to give myself a pat on the back for my efforts.

But that’s not the point I want to make. I googled “grace”, and the first definition I found was “simple elegance or refinement of movement,” which made me think we misnamed our dog. In fairness, she’s not even two years old, so it’s appropriate that she acts with puppyish bullheadedness rather than elegance – maybe she’ll grow into her name. Let’s just say, she hasn’t earned it yet. Today, upon sighting one of our neighbors, Gracie yanked on her leash and we staggered down the road in a display of very poor training, until I regained my footing and spent the next few minutes trying to control my dog.

But before we met my neighbor I was thinking about my emotional wellbeing – particularly around my past. You might think that with over thirty years of therapy I would be “healed” but it just doesn’t work that way. It’s a journey, and on my journey I’ve raged, I’ve trembled, and I’ve made peace with some things. I’ve even forgiven a few people.

What I haven’t really done is cry.

I didn’t cry when I was a kid either. Mostly I just thought things were my fault, and those tears turned to self-loathing. That self-blame took many creative forms – thinking that somehow I had the power to control the universe, but I couldn’t figure out the magic formula. Maybe I was supposed to actually like lima beans – maybe that would fix everything. Maybe I was supposed to be nicer to my baby brother. Maybe I needed to be perfect.

Or, as I’m thinking about today, maybe I just needed to cry.

Eek.

Lately, I have been feeling the pressure of decades’ worth of dammed-up tears. My head hurts. My chest is heavy. My eyes literally are red – not from crying, but from refusing to do so. Crying terrifies me. Growing up tears felt like a life-or-death proposition – you did not cry in my home. So I swallowed it back and, in some ways, poisoned my soul.

“Simple elegance or refinement of movement.”

I don’t suppose my tears are going to fall gracefully. I’m rather sure they’re going to explode with the gusto that happened when Gracie saw our fellow traveler today. I’m not scared that if I start crying I’ll never stop – I’m scared the tears will bust out of me like a geyser. If I’m out of control I’ll be vulnerable. The more I let them build up, the less graceful their release will be.

But there’s another definition of grace that I like – courteous goodwill. While I don’t expect to be elegant or refined in my tear-shedding, I am wondering if I can still extend this other grace to myself – a kindness of sorts.

A gift.

A grace.

My therapist Lisa asked me to write a letter to my six-year-old self. What the heck am I supposed to say?

“Dear little one, I’m sorry life sucked. But hey, you survived kiddo, so yay for you!”

I’m not sure that’s what Lisa had in mind.

I was six years old the first time I attempted suicide. My parents had told me never to jump in the river, because the current would sweep me away and I’d drown. Well, the current swept me back onshore and I walked home, wet and cold, and then crawled into bed, with my little mind feeling even more hopeless.

I wasn’t diagnosed with mental illness at that age – I didn’t even get any medical attention. I didn’t tell anyone what I’d done. I was pretty good at not telling. Yet when I was a teenager I did tell – not about the suicide attempt, but about the sexual abuse I suffered at the hands of my uncle, since I was really little.

If I were to write to my six-year-old self, I could tell her what he did was not her fault, in any way. But I think she knows that. After all, I was one angry little kid. I did things that angry kids do – I got in fights and set fires. I even jumped in the river to make it all end – the sexual abuse, the violence at home – all of it.

The abuse continued until I realized I wasn’t the only one. At sixteen I stepped forward to protect my brother, and anyone else that might be involved. Reporting was a miserable experience which alienated me from much of my family. What happens at home stays at home. I broke the rule.

The state worker insisted that I see a counselor, a proposal that only appealed to me when my parents fought against it. For me, starting therapy was an act of rebellion. It didn’t take long for that first counselor to determine I had PTSD, depression and alcoholism. By the time she realized I was suicidal, I’d already tried to kill myself again. Surviving hardly seems like something to take credit for.

It’s not just my six-year-old self that needs to hear from me – my teenaged self does too. What happened to me was not my fault. The feelings I had were normal reactions to tragic circumstances that no kid should endure. The worst feeling I had was not the anger – it was sense that it was that I was all alone. I was a kid with the weight of the world on her shoulders. I didn’t dare share my burden with anyone – not even that counselor the state had me see. I hadn’t learned to trust anyone with my story.

I have learned that lesson now.

That’s what I need that little one to know. She may have been alone back then, but never again. First, I am here, and as an adult I vow to protect myself, and others. Second, I have learned it’s ok to ask for help, and for the last few years I’ve been much better about following through on that idea. And third, while that kiddo thought God hated her guts, I’ve come to believe in a loving energy in the Universe that cares about me. About us. About all of us.

Maybe I’ll go write that letter.

In my very early sobriety, I was told to make a list of three things for which I was grateful. I accepted the challenge, but my extreme negativity made the exercise super-hard. After all, I didn’t stop drinking because things were going well in my life. And I hadn’t started drinking because of good experiences either.

Bitter about the life I’d been given, I found it hard to be grateful for much of anything. I had been badly bullied and abused, and felt all alone in the world. My uncle served very little time in jail for his felonies, and I felt disposable. Drinking had helped me deal with it, but then alcohol had turned on me too.

Grateful? Hardly. But there must be something. After tapping my pencil eraser on the page for several minutes, I came up with my three – I was grateful for my brother, having a roof over my head, and for having arms and legs.

I was then told the gratitude list should be a daily exercise, and that I would not be allowed to repeat things on my list. The challenge was much more difficult on the second night. Three more things?!? After more time, I wrote down some really lame items – my toothbrush, pencils and books. On night three, it became even more difficult.

Something happened after that. It occurred to me to search throughout my day for things I could list in my evening gratitude list. Sure enough, my fourth day list was easier, and so were the following days. I actively looked for things I could include.

Thanksgiving Day may be about just that for some – a day to give thanks – but because of the guidance I received as I entered recovery, each of my days includes gratitude. Even when my depression deepens and the world seems so very dark, I know how to muster up the gratitude for good things that surround me. Gratitude is a practice and a way of life, as opposed to a holiday.

Of course, I do celebrate Thanksgiving. It is my favorite holiday – a time to prepare food for loved ones and celebrate their presence in my life. I’m just grateful that I know how to carry a little bit of Thanksgiving into my daily practice, too.

Thirty-four years ago I reported an uncle for abusing my brother and I, an act that understandably resulted in chaos and upheaval within the family. Upon hearing what had happened, my father ragefully confronted his brother-in-law. The next day Aunt Sene appeared at our door, alone, red-eyed and weathered. My father told her to go away, but she forced her way in and said she wasn’t there to see him. She headed straight for me.

I was terrified. We were meeting with a team of investigators and state workers the next day, and I knew the truth was going to wreak even more havoc on our family. My aunt and uncle visited our house a few times a week and we theirs almost as often. I expected her rage at what she must see as a betrayal. Instead, with tears running down her face, she told she was sorry and loved me and that she would always love me.

I didn’t react – mainly because I was confused. As I’d contemplated reporting my uncle, I had understood my family would be destroyed. I’d steeled myself for rage and hatred I was sure people would feel towards me, sure no one would believe and knowing that I wasn’t worth any better. I only stepped forward to protect my brother.

Except I was believed. People expressed concern and tried to get me help. Now my aunt was hugging me, apologizing for not knowing. She didn’t hate me for what I’d done. But because I’d built that wall around my heart to protect me from the expected wrath, I couldn’t feel her love nor her concern. I felt nothing.

I’ve spent the last 34 years dismantling that wall, brick my brick. Not because I need to feel my aunt’s love – she is gone, as is her husband and my parents. I need to feel love, period. I need to feel the love of my brother, and for my brother. I need to feel the love between my husband and I, and the love I have for my kids and grandkids. I need to feel the love of the Universe.

That said, if I shut myself off from the fear, anger and grief, I cannot feel love or joy either.

The brick wall has been partially torn down, but my emotions are still muted. Today, though, my heart hurts, as I remember the feel of Aunt Sene’s embrace. I feel the love, but my heart breaks for the teenager I was, emotionally lost while still doing the right thing.

I think I know a bit about how Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent felt. There’s a reason why superhero aliases aren’t average, well-adjusted folks. They’re usually loners, with a painful story behind their mask. I am no superhero, but I stood up and did the right thing, to protect my brother, in spite of the personal consequences.

My heart may break for my younger self, but today I’m cheering her on too. I’m proud of her for being a fierce protector of her younger brother (and of others). And I’m proud of myself for continuing the work to tear down the wall around my heart. Maybe I am a little bit of a superhero after all!

My website crashed a few weeks ago. Rebuilding the site has been difficult – I’ve worked hard, engaged with tech support, relaunched, taken it back down to fix improperly displayed features, engaged more tech support, and repeated. Honestly, it is still a work in progress, and tech support is working behind the scenes to help me get it back to where I’d like it to be.

I too am a work in progress.

For a couple of months I’ve been struggling with deep depression. I often feel dead inside, and when I do have emotions I’m invariably angry and irritable. My brain is slow and my thoughts fight through mud to find their way to my mouth (or my fingertips). I’ve had thoughts of suicide. I am not displaying properly.

I saw my doctor, and as it turns out, I’m having some medical problems that are contributing to my depression. Over the last few months I’ve lost forty pounds (yay!) and some of my medications needed to be adjusted accordingly.

I have dealt with this much like I’ve dealt with my website. I’ve done some of the work, and I’ve asked for lots of help. I’ve taken breaks, too.

While I’m frustrated about pausing my blog and newsletter, I haven’t been criticizing myself about the website crash. Technical issues happen. I have, however, been very judgmental over my emotional crash.

As I tweaked my website today, parallels emerged through the mud, washed themselves off and became apparent. If I can work on these technical issues in small bursts, ask for help, and sometimes turn it over with hope, maybe I can do the same gentle work with myself.

So I proclaim, today I will ask for help, take breaks, and turn my life over to the Universe’s hands – and have hope. I will treat myself at least as well as I treat my website.