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Metaphors. My therapist likes to speak in highly illustrative metaphors.  He’s the kind of guy who’d explain my life as  a Paris runway—chaotic, fabulously dramatic, and in need of editing before it falls flat on its face.   He’s the type who’d describe my mental state as a novel—half-finished, filled with plot twists, and just compelling enough to make you feel like you can’t put it down.   You get the idea.  In a recent session, I didn't just spill the tea-I upended the whole pot.  The topic? A recent verbal cage match with a relative who delivers insults with the precision and flair of Conor McGregor throwing punches at a press conference.  And it's not just her.  There's a pattern in my life of people treating me poorly.  I keep hoping it will be different but it never is.   So there I was, dramatically sprawled on a leather sofa, recounting my backstory like a telenovela star.  Tears?  Of course.  They ...

One of the things I lost in the divorce - along with my confidence, security, and faith in men - is this guy, Lord Byron. The poodle I found, trained, named, loved, and raised for eight years. Someone once told me that all change involves loss. Unfortunately, some changes involve larger losses than others. I am trying to be philosophical about the losses. Recently, I downloaded books on overcoming grief, the power of letting go, and learning how to practice small habits to achieve remarkable results. Brené Brown. Mel Robbins. James Clear. I have been hanging with the self-help homies, trying to master the subtle art of not giving a f*ck . Some books screamed at me to unleash my inner badass, scaring the self-pity out of me like a beer-swilling, tatted-up, hog-riding Hell's Angel pushing a patron off his bar stool. Call me crazy, but I don't want my life coach to have a trail of teardrops inked on his face. I am not a glutton for punishment. I need a softer, more cer...

Shell People While rewatching Under the Tuscan Sun for the umpteenth time, I hit the scene where the heroine, drowning in the fathomless sea of grief over her failed marriage, gets a verbal smackdown from her bestie. It’s not just advice—it’s a full-on Mike Tyson uppercut of truth, delivered with deadly precision. Bestie leans forward, fixes the heroine with a piercing gaze, and says, "You know when you come across one of those empty shell people, and you think, 'What the hell happened to you?' Well, there came a time in each of those lives where they were standing at a crossroads... someplace where they had to decide whether to turn left or right. This is no time to be chicken-shit." Ring that bell, Howard! It's a K-O! Bestie delivered a skillful conversational blow that knocked the heroine out of her justifiable self-absorption. Then, Bestie did what all good referees do when a boxer is knocked out. She gave the heroine a count of eight—she gave her time to pro...

Pondering. Mental health experts often speak of  five major life stressors —the kind that hit like an earthquake, shaking you to your very foundation. Over the past four years, I haven’t just encountered them; I’ve weathered their tremors, stumbled through the aftershocks, and am still navigating the rubble they left behind. They say, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."  But here's the truth:  that's *insert indelicate expletive*.   What doesn’t kill you doesn’t make you stronger—it leaves you fragile, like cracked foundations after a quake, prone to buckling under the slightest weight.  Trauma is like that.  It rocks, weakens, disorientates, discombobulates, shakes, and shatters. The depression that follows is the dust cloud that lingers, settling into every corner, making it hard to breathe or see a clear path forward. Trauma transforms in unimaginable ways, like surviving an earthquake that leaves your mental landscape unrecognizable. Disoriented...