For some of you, welcome.  For others, welcome back.  It feels appropriate to refresh my blog after a couple of years of pausing on my 23rd sober anniversary.  To reconnect through the pen and paper and open up again.  To rekindle that creative energy I have been blessed with, my willingness to share vulnerably […]

Self-pity.  It’s not something I typically think I’m feeling, because I like to consider myself grateful and realistic and open.  However!  This morning, I heard those words and thought, shit!  I have been RIDDLED with self-pity. For months.  I have this nagging tiredness which makes me feel sorry for myself.  I want to complain about

We miscarried, and I want to talk about it. Well, no – I do NOT want to talk about it, at all. It’s so painful, unnerving, and complex that I understand why so few openly share this experience until you open up and show yours.  I don’t want to open myself up to opinions, assumptions,

I’m here.  Still. Still.  Still.  Words mean everything, and nothing, all at the same time.  As a writer, and a highly sensitive person (actually termed HSP – there’s a documentary!), they mean a whole lot.  And depending on my mood, I make them mean entirely more or way less than their intent.  I digress. HELLO! 

The truth is that I wanted to be a glutton.  I wanted to be somewhat unbridled and eat without thinking, worrying, or calculating. I’m not saying it was right, or that it’s OK, but I’m being honest with myself.  I don’t do it very often, but I still do it.  And what I’ve learned for

I’ve never really been robbed before.  I had shit taken out of a car back in early college when we thought it was fun to still go to raves.  But this?  This is different.  This feels personal, even if it isn’t.  Like such a violation of my privacy and vulnerability.  Friday night my Jeep was

Every time I take an organic pause in writing, I say I haven’t written in a while.  Which is partially true.  You, reader, haven’t read my words on my blog in months because I haven’t had the drive to share intimately, or objectively, since my last post.  I put some things on social media, but

I was just going to do a short post online, but this deserves more space.  For me, and maybe for you. Over the last few weeks, I’ve let go of tracking my macros and inputting my preplanned meals (a week at a time) into My Fitness Pal, a practice I’ve maintained for … years.  This

Just because I can, doesn’t mean I have to. Seriously.  Yesterday absolutely lit my fire, but maybe with some pause and distance from the high, it’ll be to simply continue doing what I’ve been doing.  Lifting with intention and purpose under carefully structured programming, running a few days per week for joy, not a requirement.

I haven’t been able to write much about you.  It’s taken 3 weeks to not cry hysterically at some point in the day, and 3 weeks to be able to look at your photo without keeling over in two. You taught me more than I ever imagined needing to learn.  You were not Abby, especially