“Expectations are premeditated resentments.” ~Unknown

Yesterday, I found myself sitting across from my boss, fighting back tears as I voiced something that had been eating away at me for three years: “I don’t feel valued enough.”

The words felt heavy in my throat. As a law professor, I’d always prided myself on being composed and professional. But in that moment, all my carefully constructed walls came crumbling down.

“I put in extra hours. I mentor people. I’m always available when someone needs help,” I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. “But it feels like nobody really appreciates it. Like all this effort goes unnoticed.”

Anyone who’s ever poured their heart into their work might recognize this feeling.

Maybe you’re the colleague who always stays late to help others meet deadlines. Perhaps you’re the team member who takes on extra projects without being asked. Or the person who remembers everyone’s birthdays and organizes office celebrations.

You give and give, hoping that somehow, this dedication will translate into the recognition and respect you crave.

My boss listened quietly, his expression thoughtful. Then he shared two insights that shook my understanding of professional relationships.

“First,” he said, leaning forward, “mastery in any field takes time. But here’s what most people miss—it’s not just about mastering your technical skills. It’s about mastering your relationship with the work itself.”

I sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in. How much of my frustration came from actually doing my job versus my expectations of how others should respond to my efforts?

“Second,” he continued, “when we tie our confidence to others’ reactions, we’re building our professional house on shifting sand.”

That hit home hard. I realized I had created an elaborate scorecard in my head: Each extra hour should equal a certain amount of appreciation; each additional task should translate to a specific level of respect. When reality didn’t match these expectations, my confidence crumbled.

It’s a trap many of us fall into. We believe that if we just work hard enough, stay late enough, and help enough people, recognition will naturally follow. When it doesn’t, we feel betrayed and undervalued and begin to question our worth.

Ultimately, we need to learn to validate ourselves, but here’s where things get nuanced—and important. This doesn’t mean we should accept environments that consistently undervalue or exploit our dedication. There’s a delicate balance between developing intrinsic motivation and recognizing when a situation is genuinely unhealthy.

Let me share what this balance looks like in practice. A few months ago, I noticed I was staying three hours late every day, answering work messages at midnight, and constantly taking on others’ responsibilities. At first, I told myself I was just being dedicated. But then I asked myself three crucial questions:

1. Is this a pattern of working hard without any recognition, or am I overextending myself because I’m seeking validation?

2. Are my extra efforts occasionally acknowledged, even if not always?

3. Do I feel safe expressing concerns about workload and boundaries?

The answers helped me distinguish between my desire for constant validation and my legitimate need for basic professional respect. I realized that while I needed to work on my own relationship with external validation, I also needed to set clearer boundaries about my time and energy.

That evening, I opened my laptop and started a different kind of work journal. Instead of tracking others’ reactions, I wrote down what I felt proud of that day: explaining a complex concept clearly, helping someone understand a difficult topic, and making progress on a challenging project. But I also noted when my boundaries were crossed and when additional effort went beyond reasonable expectations.

This dual awareness—of both internal validation and external respect—changed everything.

I learned to appreciate my own efforts while also advocating for myself when necessary. I started leaving work at a reasonable hour most days, saving those extra hours for truly important projects. I began setting boundaries around my availability, and surprisingly, this earned me more respect, not less.

Here’s what I’ve learned about finding this balance:

1. Question your expectations. Distinguish between needing constant praise and deserving basic respect.

2. Look for impact, not appreciation. When I did this, I noticed small moments I’d previously overlooked: a quiet nod of understanding during a presentation and a subtle shift in someone’s confidence after our interaction.

3. Build internal metrics. Define success on your own terms, but don’t ignore red flags in your environment.

4. Set healthy boundaries. Your dedication shouldn’t come at the cost of your well-being.

5. Recognize the difference. Know when you’re seeking validation versus when you’re being undervalued.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that true professional satisfaction comes from a combination of internal confidence and external respect. It’s about knowing your worth while ensuring you’re in an environment that, at least fundamentally, recognizes it too.

Now, when I catch myself slipping into old patterns—checking for signs of appreciation or feeling resentful about unacknowledged efforts—I pause and ask two questions: “Am I doing this because it matters to me, or am I doing it for recognition?” And equally important: “Is this a reasonable expectation of my time and energy?”

Some days are still challenging. There are still moments when I wish for more recognition. But I’ve found peace in knowing that while I don’t need constant validation, it’s okay to expect basic respect and appreciation in my professional life. The key is building enough self-worth to know when you’re seeking excess validation and when you’re simply asking to be valued appropriately.

This morning, I walked into my workplace with a different energy. I felt confident in my worth, clear about my boundaries, and secure in knowing that while I don’t need endless praise, I deserve to be in an environment that recognizes my contributions. Because true professional growth isn’t about learning to accept less than you deserve—it’s about finding that sweet spot between internal validation and healthy external recognition.

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“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” ~Alan Watts

I used to think that stability was the key to happiness. Stay in one place, build a career, nurture long-term relationships—these were the pillars of a successful life, or so I believed.

My life was a carefully constructed fortress of routine and familiarity. Wake up at 6 a.m., commute to the same office I’d worked at for a decade, come home to the same apartment I’d lived in since college, rinse and repeat. It was safe. It was predictable. It was slowly suffocating me.

As I approached my fortieth birthday, I found myself increasingly restless. The walls of my comfortable life felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. I’d scroll through social media, seeing friends and acquaintances embarking on new adventures, changing careers, and moving to new cities, and I’d feel a pang of envy mixed with fear.

“I wish I could do that,” I’d think, quickly followed by, “But what if it all goes wrong?”

It was during one of these late-night scrolling sessions that I came across a quote from Alan Watts that would change everything: “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.”

I stared at those words, feeling as if they were speaking directly to my soul. What if, instead of fearing change, I embraced it?

The next morning, I woke up with a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in years. I decided to make a change—not a small one, but a seismic shift that would challenge everything I thought I knew about myself and my life. I was going to quit my job, sell most of my possessions, and travel the world for a year.

The moment I made this decision, I felt a mix of exhilaration and sheer terror. What about my career? My apartment? My relationships? The questions swirled in my mind, threatening to overwhelm me. But beneath the fear, there was a spark of excitement that I couldn’t ignore.

I gave myself six months to prepare. Those months were a whirlwind of planning, saving, and facing the reactions of friends and family. Some were supportive; others thought I was having a midlife crisis.

My parents were particularly worried. “But what about your future?” they asked, echoing the same concerns they’d had when I switched majors in college.

As the departure date drew closer, my anxiety grew. There were moments when I seriously considered calling the whole thing off. What if I was making a horrible mistake? What if I couldn’t handle the uncertainty?

It was during one of these moments of doubt that I realized something important: The fear I was feeling wasn’t just about this trip. It was the same fear that had kept me trapped in a life that no longer fulfilled me. If I gave in to it now, I might never break free.

So, I pushed forward. I boarded that plane with a backpack, a one-way ticket, and a heart full of both terror and hope. The first few weeks were challenging. I felt lost, not just geographically but existentially. Who was I without my job title, my routine, my familiar surroundings?

But slowly, something magical began to happen. As I navigated new cities, tried new foods, and met people from all walks of life, I felt layers of my old self peeling away. I discovered a resilience I never knew I had. Problems that would have sent me into a tailspin back home became adventures and challenges to solve. I learned to trust my instincts, to find joy in the unexpected, and to embrace the unknown.

One particularly transformative moment came three months into my journey. I was hiking in the mountains of Peru, struggling with altitude sickness and questioning my decision to attempt this trek.

As I sat on a rock, catching my breath and fighting back tears, an elderly local woman passed by. She smiled at me and said something in Quechua that I didn’t understand. But her smile and the gentle pat she gave my shoulder spoke volumes.

In that moment, I realized that kindness and human connection transcend language and culture. I also realized that I was stronger than I ever gave myself credit for.

As the months passed, I found myself changing in ways I never expected. I became more open, more curious, more willing to try new things. I learned to live with less and appreciate more. The constant movement and change became not just tolerable but exhilarating. I was, as Alan Watts had said, joining the dance of change.

But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. There were days of loneliness, moments of doubt, and times when I missed the comfort of my old life. I learned that embracing change doesn’t mean you never feel fear or uncertainty. It means you feel those things and move forward anyway.

As my year of travel neared its end, I faced a new challenge: what next? The thought of returning to my old life felt impossible. I was no longer the person who had left a year ago. But the idea of continuing to travel indefinitely didn’t feel right either. I realized I was craving a new kind of stability—one built on the foundation of flexibility and growth I’d cultivated during my travels.

I decided to move to a new city, one I’d fallen in love with during my travels. I found a job that allowed me to use my old skills in new ways, with the flexibility to continue exploring the world. I made new friends who shared my love of adventure and personal growth. I created a life that embraced change rather than feared it.

Looking back on this journey, I’m amazed at how far I’ve come. The person who was once paralyzed by the idea of change now seeks it out as a source of growth and excitement. Here are some of the most important lessons I’ve learned.

1. Fear is not a stop sign.

Fear is a natural part of change, but it doesn’t have to control you. Acknowledge it, understand it, but don’t let it make your decisions for you.

2. Discomfort is where growth happen.

The moments that challenged me the most were also the ones that taught me the most about myself and the world.

3. Flexibility is strength.

Being able to adapt to new situations is far more valuable than trying to control everything around you because often, the only thing you can control is how well you adapt.

4. Less is often more.

Living out of a backpack for a year taught me how little I actually need to be happy.

5. Change is constant.

Instead of resisting change, learning to flow with it brings a sense of peace and excitement to life.

6. It’s never too late.

At forty, I thought I was too old to radically change my life. I was wrong. It’s never too late to start a new chapter.

If you find yourself feeling stuck, yearning for something more but afraid to make a change, I encourage you to take that first step.

It doesn’t have to be as dramatic as selling everything and traveling the world (though I highly recommend it if you can!). Start small. Take a different route to work. Try a new hobby. Have a conversation with someone you wouldn’t normally talk to. Each small change builds your resilience and opens you up to new possibilities.

Embracing change doesn’t mean your life will always be easy or that you’ll never face challenges. But it does mean that you’ll be living fully, growing constantly, and experiencing the rich tapestry of what life has to offer.

Your life is not a fixed path but a journey of constant evolution. Embrace the changes, learn from the challenges, and celebrate the growth. The world is vast, life is short, and the greatest adventures often begin with a single step into the unknown. So take that step. Join the dance of change. You might be amazed at where it leads you.

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“We rescue people from their responsibilities. We take care of people’s responsibilities for them. Later we get mad at them for what we’ve done. Then we feel used and sorry for ourselves. That is the pattern, the triangle.” ~ Melody Beattie

I first uncovered codependency and how it was ruining my relationships back in 2019 after ending my relationship of four years.

At the time, I didn’t know the first thing about myself—except that I didn’t know myself at all. I had no idea what I needed or desired. All I knew was that I hated being alone and longed for someone to come in and save me from myself. Little did I know, I was deep in the grip of my codependency patterns.

Without anyone to validate or console me, I was forced to confront the uncomfortable truth about my role in the relationship’s dysfunction.

For so long, I had blamed my partner for everything that was “wrong”—the lack of connection, the emotional exhaustion, and the resentment that weighed me down. I felt drained, unappreciated, and frustrated, but in my mind, they were the problem. I believed that if they just changed, everything would be better.

It wasn’t until I started looking inward that the truth began to unfold. I saw how my codependent behaviors were fueling the very issues I was complaining about. I had been pouring so much of myself into trying to fix them and the relationship that I had neglected my own needs, boundaries, and well-being.

Once I became aware of these patterns, everything started to shift. I began showing up differently—not just for them, but for myself. That awareness was the key to turning the relationship around.

When we got back together, everything was like night and day. The dynamics had completely shifted. Instead of feeling drained and frustrated, we were both able to show up more fully and authentically in the relationship. I created a unique framework that bridges shadow work and inner child healing, and I now use it in my relationship whenever I’m triggered or blaming my partner.

After recently celebrating ten-plus years together, our relationship is now based on mutual respect, healthy boundaries, and emotional safety—creating something stronger and more fulfilling than we ever had before.

But here’s the thing—before I could create that shift, I first had to become aware of the hidden ways codependency was sabotaging my relationship. These behaviors are sneaky and often disguised as care or concern, but they can have a destructive impact on how we show up in our relationships.

If you’re wondering how codependency might be negatively impacting your relationship, here are some of the ways it can show up.

1. You need to be needed.

I learned that my sense of worthiness was dependent on how much other people needed me.

When we’re codependent, our purpose, self-worth, and good feelings about ourselves become dependent on how much another person needs us. This makes sense, since many of us watched mothers who were self-sacrificing, as though the sacrifice equated to love.

This pattern satisfies the person with codependency because it can soothe their fear of abandonment and rejection. If the other person in the relationship becomes dependent on me to take care of their needs, they think, then they won’t leave me. (Spoiler alert: This often leads to resentment in the long run.)

2. You struggle with identifying your own needs and feelings.

I realized that I had a difficult time recognizing and identifying my own needs and feelings because I was constantly perceiving the needs and feelings of others and making choices based on my desire to be liked.

This behavior can show up as people-pleasing and doing what you think other people want you to do. It stems from a lack of safety, likely originating in childhood, that tells you that perceiving the needs and feelings of others will protect you from pain. Unfortunately, this can leave you with a lost sense of self, leading to an inability to name your own needs and feelings, which contributes to them feeling unmet in your adult relationships.

3. You have constant anxiety.

For months, I was waking up in the middle of the night with extreme pain in my chest. My anxiety had gotten so bad that I was waking with painful panic attacks that felt like heart attacks, so much so that I ended up in the ER.

I had constant anxiety because I was always trying to make other people happy, but I didn’t realize that it was at the expense of my own well-being.

The fear of betrayal or abandonment can be so debilitating, and the anxiety from that can leave you self-sacrificing in hopes of making others happy so that they don’t leave. Consequently, those of us who experience codependency will stay in relationships even if we are aware that our partners are doing harmful things because we have attached our safety and security to this person rather than sourcing that safety for ourselves.

4. You feel disrespected or not valued. 

After years of being everything to my partner, I reached a point of deep resentment. I realized that I overextended myself because I had this unconscious agenda, or desire, that they would do the same for me. And every time they didn’t, I felt unappreciated, invisible, and not cared for.

For people in codependent relationships, resentment often bubbles up later on, when the patterns of constantly over-giving and self-sacrificing build up. This tendency to over-give and become resentful can stem from low self-worth and self-esteem and our fears of abandonment.

I learned that I was really just afraid to set healthy boundaries and ask for what I needed because I believed that they would think I was too much or selfish and then leave me. So, instead of speaking up, I continually hoped they would guess my needs and continued to be disappointed and let down.

5. You feel selfish when you take time to be with yourself (or you avoid self-care).

Many people, especially mothers, feel guilty and selfish when taking time for themselves. But why should other people be more important than you? I know I struggled with this deep fear of being negatively perceived until I realized that I have no control over what people think about me, and quite frankly, what other people think about me is none of my business!

Those of us who struggle with codependency may feel like we are asking for too much, or that we are too much, so we make ourselves small and avoid taking up space due to fear of how we will be perceived.

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Healing from codependency starts with awareness. Once you recognize the subtle patterns and behaviors that are sabotaging your relationships, you can begin to shift the dynamic.

It’s not about fixing the other person; it’s about healing yourself—understanding your needs, setting healthy boundaries, and showing up authentically. By taking responsibility for your role in the relationship and committing to your own healing, you create space for deep, meaningful connection and more joy.

Remember, healing is not about never experiencing these patterns or triggers again; it’s about how you hold yourself when they come up.

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“Some people are empowered by travel and some are inspired by the warmth of home. Some thrive in the spotlight and some feel called to support those who are on stage. Some people are comfortable half-dressed and cussing like sailors and others prefer modesty and gentleness. The thing is: we are all empowered and inspired in different ways, and it’s not our job to decide what that looks like for anyone else.” ~Brooke Hampton

In 1992, the Olympic Games were on, and my dad was glued to the screen. He called me over to watch with him, and though I didn’t know it at the time, that moment would change my life.

I remember seeing a woman in the pool, dancing in sync with music, her movements flowing effortlessly in and out of the water. It was called synchronized swimming, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I couldn’t look away. Something about her presence, the grace and joy in her movements, stirred something deep inside of me. At that moment, I knew I had to try it for myself.

Swimming became my world. It brought me a joy I hadn’t known before—a feeling of connection to something outside of myself that felt complete inside. I found a piece of myself in that water, and for years, it became a constant source of fulfillment.

Yet, as I reached a certain level of skill, I found myself at a crossroads. I was eighteen, faced with a choice: Should I keep swimming at an elite level, or follow a “normal” path, going to college and pursuing a “real” career like everyone else? Society made it clear which path was practical and expected, and I felt an unspoken pressure to comply.

Ultimately, I chose the “safe” option. I quit swimming and studied to become a registered nurse. For a while, I felt proud of my decision. Nursing is fulfilling work, and I was recognized by others as someone with purpose, even as a “hero.” I had stability, respect, and everything I thought I was supposed to want.

But there was something else there, too—a quiet emptiness that I couldn’t ignore. It was a gnawing feeling, like I’d left a piece of myself behind, a piece I couldn’t get back. Despite the appreciation I received as a nurse, I felt a deep, lingering question: Is this all there is?

In the hopes of filling that gap, I decided to try something completely different. I began training in aerial arts, just for fun. But soon enough, “just for fun” grew into something more. Aerial arts opened up a part of me I had shut away—the part of me that felt fully alive. And the more I trained, the more I realized that I wanted this for real. My passion was strong enough that, in my thirties, I received a contract as a professional circus performer.

For the first time since my swimming days, I felt whole. But with this new identity came new judgments and doubts. I was no longer seen as a nurse with a “real” career but as a dreamer. People couldn’t understand why I’d left a stable job with a retirement plan to fly high on silks. I began to question my purpose… again!

Then, one day, I noticed something powerful. I’d grown used to seeing the delight on children’s faces in the audience, but as I looked closer, I saw the same spark of joy in the eyes of adults. I realized that I was offering something important, something they didn’t get to experience often. I was giving them a moment to feel wonder, to escape the weight of their daily routines.

In that moment, I saw my purpose clearly—I was there to bring joy, not just to children, but to everyone watching.

Years later, I married and had two beautiful children, a joy unlike any other. But as I adjusted to my new life, I found myself struggling again with that same emptiness, though now it was tinged with guilt. I had so much to be grateful for—a loving family, two amazing kids. How could I feel this way? I was thousands of miles away from my family and community, exhausted and trying to survive the challenges of motherhood. I knew I was losing myself again. I could feel it.

My husband noticed the heaviness in me, and one day, he brought me a gift: a set of paintbrushes and a blank canvas. He encouraged me to try something new, to see if it might help me reconnect with myself. I hadn’t painted since childhood, and I had no idea if it would help, but I picked up the brush. That one small act rekindled something in me that I thought was gone. For the first time in years, I felt excited, inspired, and awake.

Painting became my new way of following joy, and as I created art, I felt my purpose deepening. I was bringing beauty into the world, creating pieces that I could share that might spark joy in someone else. Art allowed me to process my own emotions and express my inner world, which made me feel whole again.

Reflecting on this journey, I realize that joy has been my compass all along. Life can take us on unexpected paths, and sometimes, society’s expectations steer us away from our true calling. But when we listen to that inner voice, when we follow what brings us joy, we find a direction that feels right—even if it doesn’t make sense to everyone else.

Here are a few insights I’ve gathered along the way:

Joy can be a powerful guide.

If we let it, joy can show us where we need to go, even when the path isn’t clear. It’s worth listening to that pull and letting it be our compass.

Embracing change can lead to fulfillment.

Choosing joy often means stepping into the unknown. It can mean letting go of what’s “practical” and taking a risk on something uncertain. But each change brought me closer to who I am meant to be.

Life’s journey sometimes brings us full circle.

I started with swimming, returned to performance in a new way, and finally found a place in art. Sometimes, joy leads us back to things we once loved but left behind. When we accept that, we open ourselves up to growth and fulfillment.

Looking back, I’m grateful for the courage it took to keep listening to my intuition. It led me through nursing, aerial performance, and eventually, to the canvas, each step revealing more of who I am. I’ve learned that when we allow ourselves to pursue joy—whatever that looks like—we move closer to the life we’re meant to live.

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“It takes strength and self-love to say goodbye to what no longer serves you.” ~Rumi

I promised myself at a young age that when I got married, I was not going to get divorced, no matter what! My parents had divorced when I was five, and I knew that I didn’t want to put my kids through what I’d experienced as a child who grew up in a “broken” family. I wanted my kids to know what it was like to live in a house with both their parents present and involved in their lives.

So, when I found myself seven years into my marriage, sitting in a therapist’s office wondering if my husband and I were going to make it, I had no idea what I would be facing if I had to navigate life, let alone parenthood, without my husband. How does one break free from emotional and verbal abuse without it permanently affecting who they are as a person?!

All I could think about at the time was my three beautiful girls, who deserved to have happy parents in a happy home living a happy life!

From the outside, our lives looked that way, but our reality was nothing of the sort. The yelling, the name-calling, the threatening, the withholding, and the verbal and emotional abuse were taking their toll on all of us until one day, after five years of trying to make it work, I had had enough.

The night I will never forget, almost twelve years into my marriage, we were all sitting at the dinner table, and like every time before, with no warning, a switch flipped, and the yelling began. But this time, I packed up my things and I left. And this would be the last time I would leave; after the three attempts prior, I was lured back with promises that everything would be okay and we would make it work, but this time was different. I didn’t go back.

Okay, I was out; now what?! Little did I know that leaving would be the easy part. Some of the most trying and challenging times of my life happened after I was able to finally break free. But I didn’t know that learning how to love myself again and believe that I was worthy of good things was going to be the real challenge, especially after what I’d faced.

The storms that happened once my marriage was over would shake me to my core. One particular time was when my middle daughter, only thirteen at the time, was able to find her way down to Tennessee from central Wisconsin without anyone knowing where she was or if we’d be able to find her.

My daughter despised me for breaking up her family and wanted to get as far away from me as she possibly could, even if it meant entrusting strangers to drive her in a car for fifteen hours while they made their way to Tennessee. Waking up the next morning after she vanished and reading the “goodbye” note she’d left on her bed, I honestly did not know if I would ever see her again.

To say I was in panic mode would be an understatement for how I felt during the next twenty-four-plus hours while we—my parents, my friends, my siblings, the police, and even strangers—attempted to find my daughter. I can think of no worse feeling in the world than that of a mother who is on the verge of or has just lost her son or daughter. I wondered, “How can this be happening? Haven’t we already been through enough?”

Exactly twenty-six hours after my daughter had found her way into that stranger’s vehicle, I received a phone call from a deputy in a county in Tennessee saying they had found her. Thank you, Lord, was all I could think—someone is watching over us!

I realized then it was time to figure out how to love myself again and heal from my divorce so I could be more present for my daughters.

Are there things I would have done differently? Absolutely! But you can’t go back and change the past; the only thing you can do is learn from it and do your best not to make the same mistakes going forward.

The best thing I did for myself was sign up for a subscription that gave me access to hundreds of workout programs I could do from home (since I was the sole provider of my daughters at the time). As I completed the programs, I saw improvements in not only my body but also my frame of mind, which pushed me to want to be better and do better with each one after that—not just for me but for my girls also!

Being able to push through tough workouts and seeing that I could do hard things that produced positive results helped build my confidence at a time when I needed it most! This newfound confidence boost encouraged me to keep pushing forward, even in the eye of the multitude of storms I was facing, which allowed me to start to heal.

The workouts were just the beginning for me. Ultimately, they led me on a path that would help me discover how to love myself again.

When I left my now ex-husband, I had no idea what I would be faced with until I was finally able to break free for good. But now that I have been out and have been able to transform my mind and love my life again, I realize just how incredibly powerful some of these lessons that I’ve learned truly are.

1. Forgiving is the first step to healing. 

A lot of people believe that forgiveness means you are condoning someone’s behavior, but that is not at all what you are doing when you forgive. Forgiveness is intentionally letting go of negative feelings, like resentment or anger, toward someone who has done you wrong.

Choosing to forgive when you’re ready means that you are making a conscious and deliberate choice to release the feeling of resentment and/or vengeance toward the person who has harmed you, regardless of whether or not you believe that person deserves your forgiveness.

You forgive to allow yourself to move on from the event, which also allows you to fully heal from it.

2. Mindset matters.

Your thoughts shape your reality, so if you think you don’t deserve good things, you won’t be able to attract them into your life.

When in a toxic environment, negativity has a way of clouding your judgment, which makes breaking free more difficult. But once you leave and start focusing on a growth mindset and optimism, everything changes. When you focus on the good, the good gets better. This is the foundation of how I rebuilt my life after breaking free from the toxicity of my marriage.

3. It’s crucial to listen to your gut.

Ignoring your intuition leads to situations you regret more times than not. Learning to trust my inner voice, the one that whispers to me when something isn’t right, has been my greatest guide to making better choices.

4. Positive change starts with self-love.

Self-love is not just a buzzword. It’s the armor you wear against people who try to break you down. It’s telling yourself that you deserve better, even if you don’t fully believe it yet, and taking action to create better, even if it’s just one tiny step.

For me, self-love started when I left my abusive ex-husband and then grew when I started taking care of my body. Sometimes even the smallest act of self-care can help us feel more confident in our worth.

If you’ve been in an abusive relationship too, remember—you can rebuild and thrive in a life you love!

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“Never hold yourself back from trying something new just because you’re afraid you won’t be good enough. You’ll never get the opportunity to do your best work if you’re not willing to first do your worst and then let yourself learn and grow.” ~Lori Deschene

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked my mother for the third time during our lunch together.

She sighed, put down her fork, and said something that still haunts me: “I’ve gotten used to competing with your phone for your attention.”

I looked down at my phone, Instagram still glowing on the screen, and saw myself through her eyes: a twenty-nine-year-old man more invested in strangers’ lives than his own mother’s stories.

I’m not alone in this struggle.

Studies show the average person spends two and a half hours daily on social media, with 210 million people worldwide believed to suffer from social media addiction.

But statistics didn’t matter to me until I saw how my own addiction was unraveling the fabric of my life.

How My Freelance Dreams Almost Died in My Social Media Feed

My freelance business was crumbling, one scroll at a time. What started as “just checking Twitter for networking” turned into a daily nightmare of missed deadlines and disappointed clients.

One morning, I opened my inbox to find three separate messages from clients asking about overdue projects. Was it that I was overpromising or improperly managing my time?

The truth was painful: I’d spent too much time consuming other freelancers’ “success stories” on LinkedIn, taking away from doing the work to create my own.

My portfolio website sat untouched for months while I obsessed over others’ perfectly curated project showcases.

A long-term client who’d promised to refer me to his network quietly stopped responding to my emails after I delivered their project a week late.

Projects that should have taken three focused hours stretched into two distracted days, filled with anxiety and self-doubt.

Facing the Real Person Behind the Screen

After losing an important client for “not meeting expectations,” I was forced to face an uncomfortable truth: Social media wasn’t my problem—it was my symptom.

I was using other freelancers’ highlight reels as a form of self-sabotage.

Every “hustle harder” and “how I made $10,741 last month” post became an excuse to stay paralyzed in comparison mode.

Rather than pitching new clients, I’d spend hours studying other freelancers’ portfolios. Instead of improving my skills, I’d scroll through Twitter threads promising “Ten secrets to six-figure freelancing.”

The harder truth?

My social media addiction was masking a deeper fear: the fear of actually putting myself out there and risking real failure. It was easier to live vicariously through others’ success stories than write my own.

Every time I felt the anxiety of an approaching deadline or the uncertainty of reaching out to new clients, I’d reach for my phone. The temporary escape of scrolling had become my security blanket.

My wake-up call came through numbers I couldn’t ignore: I had spent 458 hours on social media in the past three months—enough time to have completed a skills boot camp, started writing a book, or acquired several new professional certifications.

Instead, I had nothing to show for those hours except an intimate knowledge of strangers’ business journeys.

Building a New Foundation

My initial changes were small but significant:

• I moved my phone to another room during work hours.
• I created a “fear list” documenting what I was really avoiding when I reached for social media.
• I set up website blockers during my designated deep work hours.
• I established a morning routine that began with action, not consumption.

The most powerful change was implementing what I call the “Create Before Consume” rule: I wasn’t allowed to look at any social media until I’d created something of value that day—whether that was client work, improving my skills, or building my own business.

Each time I felt the urge to check social media, I asked myself, “Am I using this as a tool, or am I using it as an escape?” The answer was uncomfortable but transformative.

Nine times out of ten, I was avoiding something important—a challenging project, a difficult client conversation, or the nagging feeling that I wasn’t living up to my potential.

The shift from passive consumer to active creator wasn’t just about productivity—it was about reclaiming my identity as a professional.

Each focused hour became a small victory, each completed project a testament to what I could achieve when I stopped hiding behind my screen.

The Thirty-Day Journey That Changed Everything

I decided to change my relationship with social media rather than avoiding it. First, I had to rewire my brain to stop associating every free moment with reaching for my phone.

Instead of mindlessly scrolling, I trained myself to pause and reflect on why I was opening an app in the first place. Was it out of boredom, habit, or genuine intention?

Here’s what happened during my thirty-day detox.

Week 1: The Withdrawal Was Physical

I started keeping a journal of the moments I reached for my phone.

One entry reads: “Reached for phone forty-seven times before noon. Feel empty, anxious. Why is sitting with my own thoughts so terrifying?”

Week 2: Rediscovering Lost Connections

I called my mother—actually called her, not just liked her Facebook posts. We talked for two hours. She told me stories about her childhood I’d never heard before. “This is the first real conversation we’ve had in years,” she said.

Week 3: The Productivity Breakthrough

After being unmotivated for a couple of weeks, I discovered I could complete work in three hours that previously took all day.

My clients noticed the change. One of them even told me, “Great work! It’s clear whatever you’re doing is working—keep it up!”

Hearing that feedback reaffirmed just how powerful it can be to take control of your digital habits.

Week 4: Finding Real Joy in Self-Development

The most profound change came when I replaced mindless scrolling with intentional learning.

I committed to reading “Deep Work” by Cal Newport. The irony wasn’t lost on me—I’d saved that book to my “to read” list months ago, right between watching productivity TikToks and Instagram tutorials.

For the first time in years, I experienced what true focus felt like.

I started each morning with two hours of uninterrupted learning. Instead of scrolling through LinkedIn success stories, I was creating content and completing projects of my own.

Breaking Free: What Actually Works

Through my journey, I discovered some counterintuitive truths about breaking social media addiction:

1. Cold turkey doesn’t work long-term. Instead, create “social media hours,” designated times when you allow yourself to check platforms.

2. Replace virtual connections with real ones. I now have “coffee dates” with friends instead of messenger chats.

3. Practice mindful usage: Before opening any social media app, I ask myself, “What am I seeking right now?” Usually, it’s connection, validation, or escape from uncomfortable emotions.

4. Create before consuming. I spend my mornings writing or creating rather than scrolling through others’ creations.

The Ongoing Journey

Six months later, I still use social media but differently.

I’ve rebuilt relationships I nearly lost.

Most importantly, I’m present in my own life.

The real revelation wasn’t about social media being inherently bad—it was about how easily we can lose ourselves in the virtual world while the real one passes us by.

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“Create a safe space within yourself that no one will ever find, somewhere the madness of this world can never touch.” ~Christy Ann Martine

Losing my grandmother was like losing the one person who had always been my anchor. She was my steady rock, my quiet cheerleader, and the only person who truly made me feel that I was perfectly fine, just as I was. I never had to pretend around her or hide my mistakes or messiness.

She had this way of being present and calm, even when life around us wasn’t, and that gave me a sense of security that, looking back, I had leaned on more than I ever realized.

Her gentle spirit taught me what unconditional love looked and felt like, and without fully realizing it, I relied on her presence to keep me grounded and to make sense of things when everything else felt uncertain.

In my eulogy to her at her funeral, I called her “The Mary Poppins of Grandmas, practically perfect in every way.” And she was perfect in my eyes; she always will be.

When she passed, I felt an incredible emptiness; upon receiving the news, I fell to the floor. I was alone, I couldn’t muster up the strength to lift myself from the floor, and I was crying so hard I started choking. I crawled to the bathroom, thinking I was going to throw up. I was leaning up against the bathtub, sobbing, when a strange sense of peace came over me.

I started to calm down, and the song “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” popped into my head, creating an earworm repeatedly playing the song. I got up from the bathroom floor, grabbed my phone, and posted a video of the song on my social media profile. I found out later that day that that song was my grandma’s favorite.

It felt like I’d lost not just her but a part of myself—something I had unknowingly depended on for so long. Her love was a mirror that allowed me to see my worth; I wasn’t sure how to recognize it without her. The grief of her loss was profound, but underneath that grief, I knew something else was stirring. I needed to find the consistency she had provided, but this time, it had to come from within.

My journey toward healing began with the understanding that if I wanted to feel whole, I had to become that steady, loving presence for myself.

For so long, I had looked to others for validation, believing that if I gave enough, worked hard, and stayed flexible, I’d finally receive the desperately desired acceptance. But when she was gone, something clicked—I realized no one else could fill that space in my life. It was up to me to find that security within.

In the beginning, it felt like too much to take on. I faced layers of emotions and beliefs that had been there for as long as I could remember, and the thought of working through all of it was intimidating.

I saw how often I had tied my sense of worth to what I could offer others, how I felt I needed to prove myself through giving, and how I had relied on external reassurance instead of my inner validation. I had learned to take on the role of the fixer, the supporter, and the giver, often without realizing that I had neglected to support and care for myself.

With time, I began to understand that, like my grandmother, I needed to cultivate a constant, gentle presence within me that I could turn to, no matter what. I needed to become my safe place, someone I could rely on for kindness and encouragement.

One of the first steps was creating rituals that mirrored the warmth and steadiness she had always provided me. I would sit quietly each morning, meditating on gratitude and journaling about my worth before I began my day. These small, intentional acts became a way to ground myself, check in, and create a sense of stability in my life.

I wasn’t naturally good at setting boundaries—I would get an anxious feeling in my stomach when it came to saying no. I was always worried that if I said no, the other person would stop coming around, or I would hurt their feelings, and I would guilt myself.

Eventually, I reached a point where I knew I had to change things. I was allowing myself to be taken advantage of repeatedly. It went into a pattern of me giving too much, then resenting the other person or people involved and not realizing that the problem was me.

If I didn’t start respecting my limits, I’d have nothing left to give. Little by little, I practiced saying no without offering a reason or apologizing. It wasn’t easy. It felt foreign at first, like I was somehow selfish for doing it. But with each boundary, I began to feel a new sense of inner strength that I hadn’t felt before. It was like I was finally treating myself with the same kindness I tried to give everyone else.

Learning to sit with my emotions instead of running from them was the most challenging part. I understood that grief wasn’t something you just “get over.” It’s something you learn to live with. I stopped pushing away the sadness and let myself fully feel it, allowing it to come and go without judgment.

There were times when it felt overwhelming, but it was also healing. In those moments, I felt almost as if she was still with me, her presence comforting me as if saying, “It’s okay to feel this. It’s okay to let yourself grieve.”

Through this, I began rediscovering parts of myself I had set aside. I allowed myself to get creative again, expressing things I’d bottled up without worrying about how it would come across. I started journaling daily, writing about my dreams, fears, and memories. These weren’t just words on a page—they were my way of healing, piece by piece, as I found my way back to feeling whole again.

As time went on, I began to notice a shift. I felt a growing sense of worth that wasn’t based on anyone’s approval. I didn’t feel the same need to prove myself. I slowly accepted my flaws, realizing self-love doesn’t mean perfection. It means patience and the willingness to keep showing up for myself, especially on the tough days.

My grandmother’s passing taught me one of the biggest lessons of my life: I could be my safe place. I could build a life where I feel valued and loved from within without relying on anyone else to create that for me.

Of course, there are still days when I slip back into old habits, looking for validation outside myself, but now I know I have everything I need inside. Her memory stays with me as a reminder of strength and love—two things she taught me through how she lived.

For anyone struggling to find that sense of inner peace, I hope sharing my story shows you it’s within reach. It’s a journey; it takes time, patience, consistency, and commitment, but it’s worth it. Otherwise, you will never gain the sense of peace you deserve. In doing this, I’ve found a calm and self-assurance I never imagined. And I believe that’s something my grandmother would be proud of.

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“Your greatest contribution to the universe may not be something you do, but someone you raise.” ~Unknown

Have you ever heard the saying, “Mama knows best” or “If mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy”? Honestly, who decided that moms should know everything and that the entire emotional balance of the home rests solely on their shoulders? Isn’t Mom a human too? A beautiful soul navigating this life, trying to figure things out just like everyone else? How is it fair that we pile all the pressure onto this one person—the keeper of the schedules, the task doer, the tender space for everyone to fall?

It’s no wonder the pressure on moms today is sky-high. We carry expectations that are impossible to meet—being nurturing yet productive, selfless yet balanced. And let’s not forget about dads, who often get a bad rap for not doing things “as well as mom.”

We need to take a step back. Both parents are human. They come into parenting with their own limiting beliefs, inner critics, and childhood wounds. Being a parent doesn’t mean you automatically know what you’re doing.

I’ll never forget the drive home from the hospital with my first son. I was in the backseat, staring at this tiny human, thinking, “They’re really letting us take him home?”

It hit me, sitting in that glider in his nursery a few weeks later, that I had no idea what I was doing. I tried reading all the books, hoping the answers were tucked in there somewhere. But even after reading the same chapter of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child at least thirty times, I still felt lost.

So, I did what felt natural—I called my mom. Surely, she had the answers. But all she said was, “This too shall pass.” At the time, her words made me angry. I didn’t have time for things to pass; I needed solutions. Yet, over the years, I’ve come to realize that she didn’t have all the answers either. None of us do.

This journey of figuring it out—of reading books, blogs, and consulting my mom—lasted for many years. I wanted so badly to be a good mom. I was a good mom. I loved my kids deeply, left little notes in their lunch boxes, tucked them in at night, and kept them safe with helmets and seatbelts. But as he grew, so did the struggles, and often, so did my fear.

When my son was in elementary school, he began struggling terribly. At first, I thought maybe he just needed a little extra encouragement. But when he would cry at homework or tear up on our way to school, I knew it was deeper. He would rush through his work just so he could turn in his tests at the same time as the other “smarter” kids. School was overwhelming for him, and it was crushing me to watch.

Eventually, he was diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia, and a wave of conflicting emotions washed over me. I was relieved to know he had support now, but the meetings, the individualized education programs, the tutoring—all of it weighed on me.

Sitting in those meetings with teachers and specialists, I’d feel a tightness in my chest and tears spilling over. I wanted him to have an easier path, but I was realizing that I couldn’t just “fix” it. I was the mother, the one who was supposed to protect him, but I was helpless in the face of these challenges he would have to navigate on his own. My heart ached for him, and I often felt ashamed of my own emotional unraveling.

Reflecting back, I see how much of those tears were for him—and for me. I was spread too thin. Work was overwhelming, my marriage was strained, and I had little left to give. My life felt like a juggling act, and each new challenge threatened to tip the balance. The layers of fear, responsibility, and love were always there, piling up, and I felt the weight of every single one.

And then came the teenage years. Those years where the stakes felt higher, where choices carried more weight, and where my fear around his decisions—who he spent time with, the roads he might choose—grew even stronger.

I remember one day, standing in the garage in an argument with him. The tension was thick, and we were both yelling—my fear bursting out as anger. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about; it’s a blur. But the shame and guilt afterward were so clear.

The truth is, every stage of my son’s life brought forward a new version of myself—a woman, a mother, learning as she went, trying her best to balance it all. My own fear of failure, of not being enough, would surface in unexpected ways. But somewhere along the journey, I realized that my fears and my need for control were driving a wedge between us. And the more I tried to grip tightly, the more I lost sight of the tender love and wonder I wanted to bring into our relationship.

So, I started working on myself. I went to therapy and hired a coach—not because I was broken, but because I knew I wasn’t showing up as the parent, or the person, I wanted to be.

Through my healing journey, I learned that my desire to control was rooted in fear—a fear that if I didn’t do everything perfectly, he would somehow slip through the cracks. I feared for his future, that he’d face pain or hardship. But as I began to peel back those layers, I started to see that my fear wasn’t protecting him; it was keeping me from fully loving and trusting him.

As I did this inner work, something shifted. My approach softened. I wasn’t as reactive or rigid. I found that I could set boundaries from a place of love instead of fear, listen without rushing to fix, and let him make his own choices.

I became less focused on making sure everything was perfect and more focused on simply being there. I was less afraid, more open—and, truth be told, I began to enjoy life more. I found joy in the little things again, the mundane moments I used to take for granted. And he noticed.

My children began to see me differently. They told me I was more patient, kinder, and even more fun. This loop of healing—me working on myself, allowing my own growth to ripple into how I showed up for them—created a connection that only grew stronger. The more I invested in myself, the more balanced I felt, and the deeper my love for them became.

So, what about that old saying, “If mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy”? Perhaps instead we should say, “No one is happy all the time, but if mom is struggling, she needs time and space to address her own issues, and everyone in the house will benefit.” The same goes for Dad. If he’s checked out, he needs to come back to this one life we’re given. Both parents need to heal, grow, and show up for themselves so they can be there fully for their kids.

Just like the thermostat in your home, if things are too hot or too cold, you adjust it to find comfort. The same goes for parenting. When we take the time to work on ourselves, we create the right environment—not perfect, but balanced and loving—for our children to thrive.

It’s never too late to start. Let’s embark on this healing journey together so we can show up as the best parents we can be—not because we have all the answers, but because we’re willing to do the work, grow, and love along the way.

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“Health is the greatest possession. Contentment is the greatest treasure. Confidence is the greatest friend.”  ~Lao Tzu

When dealing with a serious health issue or life challenge, we can choose to navigate through it to the light or bury ourselves in its darkness. While it’s not always easy to find the light, it’s a much easier place to survive in and, in the long run, is much healthier. This way of being has helped me on my recent health journeys.

Twice in the past twenty-three years, I have received the news of a breast cancer diagnosis. Both incidences were completely different and unrelated. This is my story, and how looking for the light is so important in the face of adversity.

My first cancer diagnosis was in 2001 when I was forty-seven, received days before the horrific events of 9/11.

DCIS, an early form of breast cancer, was discovered through my annual mammogram. I was given the choice to have a lumpectomy and radiation or a mastectomy and reconstruction. I opted for the latter because I didn’t want to spend subsequent days, months, and years worrying about a possible recurrence. Plus, back then, radiation was more dangerous and not as refined and focused as it is today.

At the time, I was living in a small town in Florida and decided to travel to California for the best doctor to treat this type of cancer. It wasn’t easy being separated from my three children under the age of eighteen. In the end, it was the right choice and eventually led to a subsequent move to California, the place of my dreams. So sometimes going through difficult challenges can lead to better things.

After I had surgery, my husband Simon and I stayed in California for two weeks before returning home to Florida. I slowly got used to my new body’s landscape since my diagnosis and diligently continued to go for my annual mammograms, watching my only breast being squished between those two sheets of glass.

Tears would trickle down my face, triggered by the loss of the breast that fed my three children. During my meditations, I expressed gratitude for my life and remaining breast.

I tried to bring the light into my life whenever possible by engaging in self-care activities. I surrounded myself with loving and thoughtful people and tried to disconnect from those who had less hopeful attitudes.

Five years later, during a routine blood test, I found out that I had multiple myeloma, a rare type of blood cancer affecting the plasma cells. In short, it turns healthy cells into unhealthy ones.

I had no symptoms at the time, but was told that I’d need bloodwork every three months to make sure that the disease did not progress, and that down the road there was a chance I would need to undergo treatment for this incurable type of blood cancer.

The fear of enduring another cancer overcame me, and I researched the best integrative physicians in Los Angeles to help me navigate this new terrain. For eighteen years my myeloma was what was called “smoldering” because I had no symptoms, but my blood test continued to show high protein levels—a sign that the disease was present.

Each day I swallowed handfuls of vitamins to ward off any further disease progression. I met and consulted with the best doctors and researchers at the Mayo Clinic and Cedar Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. I was told that everybody’s case was different, but at one point treatment would be unavoidable.

My second breast cancer diagnosis came in 2024, not long before celebrating my seventieth birthday. I was feeling fine, and it was still a few months before my scheduled annual mammogram when I noticed that my right nipple had inverted.

A mammogram, biopsy, and MRI revealed lobular breast cancer, which is more aggressive than DCIS. I ended up having another mastectomy and reconstruction. Much to my chagrin, I also needed radiation. Thankfully, because my Onco Type DX Score—a score given from 0 to 100 indicating the likelihood of breast cancer returning—was low at only 9, I did not need chemotherapy.

I am not generally a fearful person, although I am prone to depression and holding feelings in. I continued to try to keep clear of those who were living more in the light than in the dark because it triggered feelings of depression. The entire experience triggered reminders of my first breast cancer experience, coupled with increasing fear and sadness.

Once again, I had to get used to my new personal physical landscape of implants taking the place of my real breasts. Much had evolved surgically in the twenty-three years since my last surgery, and the recovery seemed easier.

The radiation, however, took a lot out of me. In addition to shrink-wrapping my newly constructed breast, I encountered sheer exhaustion during the six weeks of radiation five days a week.

Unfortunately, during my hospitalization for this second mastectomy and reconstruction, my hemoglobin dropped significantly. This signaled to my doctors that my myeloma might be becoming active.

They scheduled a bone marrow biopsy and found that 90% of my marrow had cancer cells. This was shocking news. My oncologist had been suggesting treatment to ward off progression, but I declined and said that I would rather wait until I was symptomatic.

He had been very patient with me wanting to do it my way, combining Eastern and Western medicine, mainly because he knew that each case was different, and he honored my intuition about my body. However, he did tell me that there would be a time when he would say that I had no choice but to begin treatment, and unfortunately, it had arrived. He suggested I heal from my surgery before beginning.

The hemoglobin drop made me feel very uncharacteristically tired. I had been an active person, hiking and working out with a trainer, so having no energy was very difficult for me, plus being active is also a way to fend off depression.

I’d always been an advocate of listening to my body, and now I felt that my body was telling me that it was time for treatment that involved weekly injections at the hospital and taking a handful of medications at home to fend off any side effects.

I never really understood the concept of “chemo brain” until now, but I truly feel I cannot think clearly. It challenges my lifelong passion for writing and creating.

I’ve decided to continue to listen to my body—to rest when it asks to rest and move when it’s time to move.

During the course of my three cancers, I went from being mad at my body for putting me through all of this to respecting the temple that has kept me alive. I’ve accepted that I cannot be as productive, and that spending a day with one or all of my six grandchildren was more healing than writing any article or a book.

All in all, my healing had many layers—emotional, psychological, and physical. Compounding that with the fact that I was to live with an incurable cancer that would probably need treatment for the rest of my life, I was left feeling quite depressed.

I decided I could not manage alone without the assistance of an antidepressant, which would just keep my head above water. I wanted to thrive and just needed that little bit of support.

I maintained my sanity by deferring to self-care modalities, many of which I used in my younger years and during challenging times in my life, such as writing, meditation, listening to music, exercising, and connecting with friends.

There’s one song that inspired my way of being, and that was Gloria Gaynor’s song, “I Will Survive.” The lyrics became my mantra.

Cancer survivors can wear many faces. We might have a public face, and we might have a private face. True healing and recovery depend on the support of loved ones and trusted medical professionals.

My physicians were very caring and kind, and I’ll never forget the words of my first oncologist when he gave me my diagnosis: “If this experience doesn’t rivet you, nothing will. You’ll never look at life in the same way.” He was right.

My oncologist’s words continue to echo in my mind. From a physical standpoint, I can acknowledge and accept that my body will never look and feel the same. My daily glances in the mirror are a constant reminder of my journey. In spite of looking a little better when I’m dressed, when I’m unclothed, there’s no escaping the fact that I’ve had breast cancer—I have the scars to prove it.

I can hide under my clothing, my covers, or in my closet, but in the shower and during lovemaking, I cannot hide, so I’ve taught myself to accept my newly transformed body.

People say that scars give us character, and I’ve worked hard to convince myself of this supposed truth. I tell myself that the scars don’t really matter because the important thing is that I’ve survived, even though the moment I heard my doctor’s words, all I wanted to do was hide.

As survivors, we go through many mood changes, but in the end, I believe in the old adage, “From all bad comes good.” I’m cognizant of the importance of being mindful of life’s priorities.

As mentioned earlier, I’ve come to realize that my writing grounds me, makes me happy, and helps me survive. I also know that I need to surround myself with people who make me feel good about myself and who provide healing energy.

I suppose this is what intuitively happens when you come face-to-face with your own mortality—you try not to allow people into your life who drain you of the vital life force that is essential for your own healing. For me, doing so made me feel that I was shoring up my spirit’s natural defense mechanisms.

I’d always been a productive person, and my first cancer diagnosis brought with it a new sense of urgency to continue my writing practice and to share my words and passions with the universe.

While working on my latest memoir, I made a point of trying to relax and remind myself not to overdo it. I made sure to meditate and work out every day and get a massage and/or acupuncture when I was able to fit these forms of healing into my schedule.

I decided to express gratitude for my life and all the things I’d taken for granted, such as my family, friends, home, and the time I was able to spend in nature. Given my lifelong commitment to the care of others (I was trained as a registered nurse), I decided to turn that compassion inward and indulge in more self-care. For years I’d put everyone else’s needs first, so it felt good to offer gratitude and kindness to myself.

Of course, when we’re diagnosed with something like cancer, the possibility of a recurrence is always in the back of our minds—but we have no way to predict the future, so we can only do our best and be compassionate with ourselves and others.

I have repeatedly told myself that cancer was no longer welcome in my life. I realized that I would thrive as long as I continued to love and, like what psychic Sonia Choquette says, “When you name it, you claim it.” And I am naming to be in the light. That’s my choice.

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“A leader leads by example whether he intends to or not.” ~Unknown

This past year has been a journey—one that cracked me open in ways I never expected.

It began with life-changing news: I was pregnant with my third child. In August, I welcomed my baby, and as I held that tiny, precious life in my arms, the weight of reality crashed over me. Something had to give. I could not keep moving at the same relentless pace, endlessly pouring myself into others, holding their pain as if it were my own, and giving until there was nothing left. If I continued like this, I would become a shell of myself—a zombie mom, moving through life on vibrate mode, disconnected, exhausted, and lost.

For years, I had been the person everyone leaned on. The healer, the fixer, the one who never said no. As a therapist, it felt natural to care deeply, to hold space, and to offer whatever I had to those in need. I became so adept at giving that I forgot how to hold anything back for myself.

I thought that was love. I thought that was worthiness—being the person who could carry it all. But with another baby on the way, I finally saw the truth: If I didn’t change, I would be consumed. I couldn’t keep running on empty, sacrificing myself at every turn, and still be the mother my children deserved. I couldn’t be lost to burnout and depletion.

So, I made a promise to myself. I would protect my energy. I would honor my own needs. I would stop trying to be a savior.

“I am not a savior; I am a leader.” This became my mantra, my anchor in moments of doubt and old patterns.

It reminded me that my worth wasn’t tied to how much I gave or how many burdens I carried. Real healing wasn’t about sacrificing myself; it was about guiding and empowering others—without losing who I was in the process.

But breaking free of old habits isn’t easy. The reflex to jump in, to rescue, to absorb others’ pain is deeply ingrained. It’s part of who I’ve been for so long that choosing differently feels unnatural, even selfish at times.

Recently, a friend reached out in distress. Every instinct screamed at me to drop everything and save her. That’s what I always did—rush in, fix it, try to make everything better, even if it meant leaving myself drained and overwhelmed.

But this time, I paused. I took a breath. I reminded myself: “I am not a savior.” So, instead of absorbing her crisis, I encouraged her to lean on other supports and tap into her own resources. I stayed present, but I didn’t make myself the solution.

And let me tell you, it was hard. Guilt clawed at me. Doubt whispered that I was abandoning her, that I was failing her. I felt my inner child—the one who learned love was earned through fixing—screaming that I was making a mistake.

There were moments when it felt like I might break. Watching her struggle triggered every fear and insecurity I carried. But then something remarkable happened—she found her way. She leaned on others, drew on her own resilience, and overcame the challenge.

By stepping back, I hadn’t let her down—I had lifted her up. I had given her the space to find her strength, to be her own hero. And in doing so, I had freed myself from carrying a burden that was never truly mine to hold.

The realization left me breathless. By not being the rescuer, I had broken a cycle—a cycle that kept me drained and others dependent. I had shown up in a different way, and it felt terrifyingly unfamiliar but profoundly right.

I felt pride, relief, and a deep, aching grief. I grieved for all the times I had sacrificed myself, believing it was the only way to be worthy. I grieved for the younger me who thought love could only be earned through self-sacrifice. But I also felt hope—hope that I could lead with compassion and strength without losing myself.

This journey isn’t easy. The pull to rescue, to absorb, to fix is always there, whispering that I need to be more, to do more. But I’m learning to listen to a different voice—the one that tells me my needs matter too. That I am worthy of care and boundaries. That I can lead without sacrificing myself.

As I hold my new baby and navigate life with three children, I know there will be times when I slip. Times when I fall back into old patterns, when guilt gnaws at me, and when I feel the weight of everyone else’s needs pressing down. But I’m committed to choosing differently. I refuse to become the zombie mom, lost in everyone else’s expectations and needs. I deserve more. My children deserve more.

When I protect my energy and honor my needs, I become the mother I want to be. I show up with love, patience, and presence. I am not a savior. I am a leader. And when I choose to break these cycles, I give others permission to do the same. I create space for those around me to find their strength. I lead by example—not by sacrificing myself, but by showing what it means to love deeply without losing who you are.

So, I keep going. I choose myself, even when it feels hard. I break old patterns, even when it hurts. Because I deserve to be whole. I deserve to be honored. And those I care for deserve a version of me who leads with strength, compassion, and presence—not a shadow of who I used to be. I am not a savior. I am a leader. And that, for the first time in a long time, feels like more than enough.

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