Tis’ the season for all things family, stress, and pie galore.

We lean into the cooler weather by unearthing our coats from the depths of our closets. We find ourselves brace for the awkward that is interacting with those we reserve communication just for the holidays. Tradition begs for our attention, which can also have a ripple effect into our skeletons neatly tucked away in our metaphorical closets.

The holidays reliably shift the narrative that floats throughout the therapy room. Old scars from past difficult experiences become irritated. Stress festers as the calling to give both vulnerably and materialistically slowly creeps upon us. Old conflictual interaction patterns begin to tug at our memories, and we find ourselves bracing for impact.

Fun fact, I hate conflict. I am wholeheartedly a lover not a fighter, despite what my feisty disposition may convey. Becoming a therapist only deepened my loathing for uncomfortable interactions, as I can empathize with many different versions of a story.

Many was the key word there. I am still very much human after all.

I have my own skeletons to tend to around this time of year. The heaviness behind the thump of my heart in my chest at the thought of them confirms their presence.  They usually start peaking out from behind their hiding places at the first sightings of carved pumpkins and spooky Halloween movies. By this point, they’re wandering aimlessly within the crevasses of my thoughts. Sigh, pesky buggers.

Perhaps the holidays are oddly heavy because of the nostalgia the crisp cold air brings. We are reminded of our own unique ‘Neverlands’; the worlds that once existed but have since faded away. Memories of warmth and connection seep into the dark corners that are collecting cobwebs in our hearts. Stubbornly cemented narratives are highlighted, a lack of closure is aroused, and it’s just damn uncomfortable.

Sometimes, people lean into narratives that support fragile egos, threatened by the thoughts of embracing accountability.

Sometimes, our loved ones leave this world without a proper or well-timed farewell.

Sometimes, we face obstacles that seem unsurpassable because it takes all parties to wrestle through conflict.

So, as we lean into the thick of the holiday season, and find ourselves eating way too much pie, I want to leave you with some tid-bits to take with you:

It’s OK if your narrative does not match another. We cannot control the stories that others choose to tell themselves. Just because you play a ‘bad guy’ part in someone else’s story does not deem you a monster.

Always be kinder than we feel.

Accountability is an elixir for healing connections and conflictual interactions.

Don’t forget to nurture your soul as ‘Neverland’ tugs at your heart this festive holiday season and you yearn for the times your heart is grieving.
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And last but not least, eat the damn pie. 

Fun fact, my husband is an avid podcast connoisseur. He’s got a diverse palate of interests, much of which he was able to pursue during his work-related travels. During our shared car rides, he’s slowly gotten me hooked on a few shows, one in particular is titled ‘Dear Therapist’. It captures the dialogue of two well-known therapists and their pursuits of literal therapizing with a real life human. It’s captivating, regardless of one’s profession.

Over this past weekend during one of our mini adventures, we listened to a woman’s experiences with her childbearing journey. As we listened along, I couldn’t help but pick up on the theme of idealistic expectations this woman seemed to have woven within her narrative. From having a detail-saturated birthing plan, to expecting nothing but experiencing labor all-natural, to “breast is best”, to hyper focused tunnel vision of wanting four children to seek fulfillment. It was exhausting to listen to.

How often do we get sidetracked by our idealistic expectations that we forget to invest in the hear-and-now of realistic expectations?

More often than not, it’s an unhelpful amount of the time.

I mean systemically, it’s easy to get caught up in the pursuit of ‘ideals’. We grow up mesmerized by Disney-inspired fairy tales of dreamy characters and happy endings. Media is dedicated to the portrayal of easily attainable ‘ideals’ from parenting, to Halloween costumes, to food prep. Social media rarely embraces the humanness of others, so we are surrounded by mostly happy or successful moments.

It’s quite easy to forget we are human beings.

While idealistic ideas have their perks, realistic expectations leave room for our humanness. Here, there’s freedom to flex when life has its unpredictable splash, when our personhood shows its vulnerability, and when the “mold” is not the best fit. Realism grants permission for outcomes that are an individual kind of turnout, while leaving room for acceptance and peace. When we get caught up in the idealistic ways of thinking, suddenly this line of thought can bleed into the lens of which we experience our worlds. Rarely is anything “enough” when we are fixated on the ideals.
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I want to encourage you (and myself) to routinely take a step back and reexamine the expectations that color our experiences. Leave the idealistic ways of being to the Disney princesses and celebrate the multidimensional soul that we are. Leave room for the messy, the unplanned, and the rough edges by adjusting those pesky expectations to ebb and flow that follow the melodies of living an authentic life. 

The peculiarities of this profession extend outside the office walls, as does any job. Yet, sometimes I think others dismiss the professionalism we mental health therapists uphold, which means it’s vital to take off our therapeutic hats once we lock up our therapy rooms. As the world becomes more chaotic, I am noticing that more people are busting at the seams, desperate to be heard. Like a hiccup that cannot help but erupt from our chests, hopping over boundaries and expelling their stories in rushed and impulsive monologues.  

That happened today. Someone caught a case of the vulnerability hiccups once they caught wind that I was a therapist. I was at a place where I readily seek asylum from the mayhem of work and the outside world, where I collided paths with a stranger. The interaction hopped from “Hi I’m Yada Yada. I hear you’re a therapist. Good, I need to talk to you,” to a sudden plop into a chair. Next thing I know I am learning about deeply carried wounds and emotional turmoil, the hiccups suddenly turning into word vomit escaping this person’s lips like a waterfall, rushing to find a landing place.

You can imagine my discomfort as the word vomit splashed around me.

I had hardly had time to cough out my own name. The conformational nod to my profession seemed to be enough of a trust-fall for this person to plunge into the nitty-gritty about their internal demons.

I think it’s about time to create my back-up plan ‘job’ business cards to start handing out to those whom I first meet. On difficult therapy days, I daydream about becoming a janitor. Yep, ladies and gents. A full-blown, navy-blue jumpsuit covered janitor. These are the days where sitting with tangible ‘crap’ seems more enticing than sitting with the ‘crap’ that haunts people in their every waking moments.

It’s disheartening when people are aching so deeply for a safe space for their internal distress that they pop at the mention of a therapist. Like the very word is the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I wonder if it’s uncomfortable for others to read about this side of the therapist’s chair.
If it is, please know I won’t be offended if you cease reading.

Because I get it. Sitting with someone else’s vulnerability is tough. When someone sheds light into their own exposed ‘stuff’, it begs for the listener to resonate with something inside themselves. This requires empathy, and empathy requires a certain level of attendance and energy. We have to be ready to receive someone’s ‘stuff’ in order to foster helpful spaces for vulnerability.

Just because I work as a mental health clinician does not mean I am a mental health clinician 24/7. Yikes, I would be a walking shell of a person if that were the case.

When I throw on my therapist hat, I prime myself to cultivate safe and empathetic spaces. I fixate on the person or persons sitting in front of me, shoving my ‘stuff’ to the side. I cast away my human reflex of judgement, and I replace this with unconditional positive regard. I feel with you. I hold the space for you, so you can catch your breath, explore, process, cry, scream, whatever it is that is necessary for you and your pursuit of healing.

This is heavy, heavy work for a person.
That’s why it’s pounded into our schooling to set hard boundaries around our work, so we don’t lose ourselves in the process. It’s way too easy to lose sight of yourself when you’re surrounded by tragedies, obstacles, traumas, and open emotional wounds for a living. It’s fulfilling and beautiful, but it’s heavy.

So, here is some friendly advice to those who encounter a therapist or two along the way. Recognize that the therapist in front of them is also a feeling, thinking, and breathing human being just like yourself. Unless I am meeting you in the office, I would like to make small talk before any deep, dark secrets are revealed. Asking for support on an issue is absolutely welcomed after we get to know one another, and I will happily send some referrals your way for outpatient therapy locations. Friendships are still as vital to my well-being as yours. Being seen for more than just my job is revitalizing, refreshing, and so deeply cherished. Although I am a counselor, I am also horrified of the dentist and cockroaches. I live with mostly managed anxiety. I am wholeheartedly human and flawed. Riding horses and chocolate cake bring me joy. You catch my drift.

I wish I could shed light on the gravity of the weight I am carrying silently on my back as my clients proceed on their healing journeys. Sometimes I wish I could get one of those magnets you see for dishwashers that signal when the dishes are clean or dirty. My magnet would read “Open for deep conversations” or “empathy burnout proceed with compassion”.

I patiently bared witness to the menagerie of difficult stories this stranger poured out, knowing this expulsion was not about me at all. I sat with them, tears and all. I expressed how I admired their strength and encouraged them to lean on their resiliency. I silently wished them well on their journey as we parted ways, willing the universe to be kind to them.
I will continue to do so for every soul that I have the honor of meeting.
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Just next time, I’ll hand out my janitor cards first. 

 
My apologies, folks. Somehow, I blinked and it’s October. I guess I wasn’t kidding when I said that September is nothing but chaotic in the therapy room. September was chalk full of last-minute requests for crisis-fueled sessions, educational advocacy, daunting piles of paperwork, and juggling my own humanness in the forms of dentist (yuck) and doctor appointments. I wish I had more thought-provoking material to report, however my days did not leave much room for pensive ponderings. Instead, I hit the ground at a full sprint, trying to keep an overwhelmed schedule running ‘status quo’.

Another part of me has been uncomfortably distracted by negativity looming over our heads. The point of this blog I had envisioned when I first began it was to be delightfully thought probing, and if anything, a safe space to land and catch one’s breath. So, I doubt many would find delight in the doom and gloom of a therapist ruminating in her own frustrations at impact of the brokenness of systems all around us. Take a peek at any news platform and you can catch storylines hinting at the robbery of women’s rights, missing humans, failing education systems, and an unrelenting Pandemic. For now, I’ll leave my meanderings at that.

While I’ve been subconsciously searching for a word to capture my internal experiences, I stumbled across a term that was uniquely validating. Perhaps, it will be for you too.

Languishing.

As silly as it may be, the image of Squidward from Spongbob Squarepants pops into my mind. The grey sea creature with the funny looking nose and the horrible clarinet playing abilities that paraded on the TV screens of my childhood. He is the prime, tangible example of what it means to feel languished.

It’s the experience of feeling stuck, muddled, and hollow.

As if it would be to exist peering through a muddy windshield day after day.

Aimless.

Aimlessness has to be one of the most gnawing sensations for me. I’m a direct aim and fire kinda gal. Yet, the past two years has muddled that ability, and the joy that accompanied it.

Instead I feel as if I am stuck in an aimless game of chasing my own tail.

A predominant theme in therapy has shifted to crisis management and focus on the immediate future, leaving little reliability to benefit from goal orientation further out. Clients arrive with a dullness to their eyes because of their own chaos they’ve trudged through that day haunts them. Windows of stress tolerance are slim, and I notice the increasing propensities we all have to spit venom at one another.

We are all overtired toddlers sick of trying to shove the square peg in the shapeshifting hole, and we could all use a really good nap.

There is an overall absence of well-being. A depletion of fulfillment. Our motivation is waning, our abilities to focus are foggy, burnout is fierce, and our sense of productivity is that of a Florida thunderstorm. Largely unpredictable and mostly a pain in the neck.

And you know what?

It’s OK.
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It’s OK to be aimlessly in this spot emotionally. It’s OK to not be the epitome of mental health. It’s OK to snack a little more, to exercise a little less. Because what’s important is that you meet yourself where you are at with compassion rather than criticism. Compassion will prime the way for the moments that soothe our languishing souls. Compassion will leave the light on for when crisis management fades and we regain our confidence in seeking fulfillment and predictability. Compassion for our humanness will maintain the candle of hope for peaceful days to come. 

Somehow, I woke up this morning and it was September. Peeking into the social media world, and it’s hard to miss folks kicking up their heels in celebration of pumpkin-spiced goodies and welcoming the season of spooky and sweaters. Football is at the cusp of its season’s kickoff, and people are eagerly formulating their fantasy football leagues.

September is a notoriously hectic month in the therapy room. Sessions have a reliable uptick in frequency as people settle into the rigor of demands exuded by school, work, and regularly programmed life happenings. I’ve always wondered about the correlations. Perhaps it’s a mix of first report cards, lack of sleep, and realization we’re not in the ‘Kansas’ of summer vibes anymore.

Thematically, there has been a shared point of ‘stuckness’ amongst those who grace the therapeutic space. One that seems to be the glue that halts one’s narrative of forward progression through life and damns them to their own versions of Groundhog’s Day. While not out rightly proclaimed, this theme presents itself within narratives in forms like “I don’t know how much longer I can take this” or overgeneralizations such as “I’m always going to feel this way” and “it’s never going to get better”. The list goes on, but you have an idea of the headspace.

Fun fact, each one of us has an internal dialogue that is maintained throughout our lives.

Yes folks, we talk to ourselves.
All the time.

This does not make us crazy. This makes us living beings with abilities to form conscious thoughts. Our internal narration of our experiences and perspectives cultivates our morals, values, and opinions. Think of this as our metaphorical fingerprint that contributes to our uniqueness as individuals.

We are existing conundrums because all of us engage in an internal conflict of finding change uncomfortable, yet craving change when our experiences are perceived as stagnant. In a perfect world, we could pick and choose what changed and what stayed the same. Yet, we all know this only exists in the Marvel Universe, fairytales, and religious beliefs.

So...

What is the story you are telling yourself?

Sit for a minute and let that question marinate within your mind. Imagine if that internal voice began to narrate through the lens of which you perceive your life. What would it say?

In a world that exists largely outside of our control, the story we tell ourselves is the one aspect that is rightfully ours. If you recall in a blog a few posts ago, I explored three aspects of life that are guaranteed to us along our journeys. These are the beginning of life, the end of it, and the change that exists in between. There are many factors that come into play that try to talk us out of these assurances such as emotions and the influence of others. The fancy term for when emotions begin to define our fate is emotional reasoning. For example, if we feel defeated, then we must be doomed to despair for the rest of our existence. Cognitive Behavior Therapy would have a hay day with that mentality.

No matter what emotions might tell us, the story we tell ourselves does not have to be dictated by overgeneralizations that knock the wind out of our sails.

Check yourself before you wreck yourself, friends.

The frustration we can all resonate with presently is extremely valid. Our experiences feel stagnant because there is a giant Pandemic interrupting our regularly scheduled expectations of how life is supposed to be. We are existing within a season of life where “this isn’t how I imagined my life” is the perpetual catch phrase. Our nation is stomping their feet and banging their fists in protest. I get it. I feel it too.

However, the frustration and anxiety does not have to dictate your story.

This is where we are faced with a choice.

We can either succumb to our emotional experiences and allow them to color our internal storylines, or we can make room for both. We can recognize our emotions and choose to honor the humans we are existing in a chapter of life that’s hard as hell.

Our lives are a chapter book.
We fill in the pages.
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In what manner and through what lens is very much in our hands. 

My husband and I were chatting the other night over dinner about a peculiarity we share. When we were younger, school was a natural alignment to time, such as when we were in certain grades or the year we graduated. I’m fairly certain this alignment to memories to what occurred when was somewhat clear, yet there is no promise to that. It seems the majority of my memories “pre-COVID” are a jumbled conglomeration of more innocent times filled with handshakes, hugs, and far less Lysol.

When I examine time post-COVID, the clarity is uncanny. I can distinguish memories easily, as can my husband. Whether it be attributed to the short-term or stress, it's irrelevant. It seems we are stuck with the reality that this virus is not fizzling out anytime soon.

For those who are unsure, Adjustment Disorder is a very real diagnosis. It is when there is a development of emotional or behavioral symptoms in response to an identifiable stressor that has a clinical impact and impairment on one’s ability to function within 3 months of the stressor.

Sound familiar?

Folks, we are roughly eighteen months into a hellish nightmare with no break in sight. Opinions aside, I am back to counseling with a mask on and maintaining as much social distance as appropriate. Parents sit on my couch with death grips on tissues as they process the feat of sending their children back to school yet feeling as if they are sending them into warzones. Hospitals are overflowing once again, medical professionals are seeing double, shortages of goods haunt us within most every facet of our lives. The unknowns keep us up at night, fear grips our subconscious as COVID continues to place our loved ones within hospital walls we are unable to step foot in. Unpredictability is enmeshed within our worlds and it’s showing.

It’s difficult to adjust and flex to the demands of regularly-programmed life when there is a constant stressor of a pandemic looming over our heads. We notice our zones of tolerance are shrinking, our impulsiveness to cope in unhealthy, yet numbing manners increase, and we teeter on the edge of crippling burnout on the daily. What’s-his-face is screaming at so-and-so, and the blame game is circulating like wildfire.

As a nation, I would diagnose us with Adjustment Disorder with mixed disturbance of emotions and conduct. F43.25. Clinical recommendation of consistent therapy is encouraged.
Too bad access to beneficial mental health support and/or care is near to none at the present moment.

In case anyone is wondering what career to choose, we need mental health therapists desperately. The demands for therapy have quadrupled over the past eighteen months. Go figure.

So what do we do?  The most exhausted question of the therapy room recently.

We keep going.

Validate the slew of emotions that may wreak havoc on your heart. Cultivate boundaries and build them up high around your own self care and investment in grounding yourself in the present. Recalibrate the universe by small acts of kindness and shared smiles. Recognize the uniqueness of your perspective. Invest in sleep. Take your vitamins.

Don’t undermine the resiliency you muster every single day.
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You deserve a sticker.

Have you ever seen the movie Up? You’d remember if you did, it hits you right in the feels. An iconic character throughout the film was a bubbly talking Labrador, Doug. Doug provided a plethora of comedic relief, and one of the scenes that stuck with me was when he was enthusiastically engaged in dialogue with someone until he caught eye of a critter, in which he abruptly proclaims mid-sentence “SQUIRREL!”.

Despite our best efforts, we have a lot in common with this goofy pup.

We exist in a world fueled by minimization and are perpetually distracted by irrelevant knick-knacks.

Think about it.

We giggle when kiddos faceplant and pop up to exclaim “I’m OK!”
Our workplaces pressure us to “man up” when we are under the weather or face emotional tragedy.
We fire off excuses to provide cushion for those who let us down or experiences that time and time again evoke disappointment.

“Yeah, she forgot my birthday, but she has a lot going on at work so it’s OK”
“He yelled at me for burning the chicken, but he had a hard day and was stuck in traffic on the way home.”

Yikes.

Switch gears to knick-knacks and we all have a little Doug in us. Us humans go on quests for dopamine through perusing things irrelevant to actual fulfillment. This can take many forms particular to the soul we are referring to. If we feel uncomfortable emotions, we lean on Amazon, booze, adopting cats, and taking a hit off of a vape. Instead of being taught how to ride the wave of emotionality in its authentic form, we are victims of more instant gratification through the “shiny” and convenient.

“I could reach out to a therapist to help me process my grief of losing my mother… or I could go to Target to take my mind off things.”

SQUIRREL!
Sound familiar?

*Insert friendly reminder here*

One’s headspace is far more comfortable the more we validate our own experiences. Minimizing our emotions and perspectives is one of the hardest and most prevalent habits to break. The dismissal- saturated narrative of our realities fuels the cultivation of unhelpful thought patterns. These can include coming down with a case of the “shoulda coulda wouldas”, black or white thinking, or mind-reading just to name a few. It’s apart of healthy boundaries to vocalize when one’s boundaries have been breached and feelings have been hurt. Fun fact, feelings serve a purpose, as obnoxious as they may be. Anger signifies when there is an unmet need, sadness highlights the significance of something to us, and nervousness highlights when our bodies believe increase arousal is key to survival.

I recently coined the phrase “Don’t overlook your joy in the pursuit of your happiness”.
While we cannot outrun the “Doug” in us, let’s all aim to “SQUIRREL” at the things in our life that fuel our joy. We are all perpetually seeking our fantasied “final happiness destinations” in one fashion or another. Yet, many of us (including myself) overlook the joy right in front of us along the journey of life. What if we “squirreled” at the dazzle of the smile of someone we love? Or we pause to appreciate the amazement in a child’s eyes dancing in the light of fireworks? Or backtrack to admire the radiance of a deep-red flower along the sidewalk on our ways to our cars in the mornings before work?
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Tune into the awareness of how minimization and the preoccupation of irrelevant knick-knacks within your day-to-day. Your soul will thank you.
 

Truth be told, there is nothing ‘idle’ about me. I feel most at home in my body when I’m on the go, embracing the fluidity I have been blessed with. What’s even better is when I’m able to move in harmony with another, my favorite being a horse. My mind seems to follow my body’s lead in congruence, reliably mulling over one thing or another. Chipping away at a goal, even if the goal must be creatively dreamt up. I am pretty certain my spirit animal is the Energizer Bunny. The beat of my metaphorical drum sounding its predictable melody day after day.
It was so much easier to feel at home in my mind and body before my world got turned on its head.

My paths to busy were smooth from years of trekking. My mindfully preoccupying outlets were secure and oh-so-comfortable. I practically purred from contentment.

I had the security of a textbook, the support of superior supervising professionals, and the joy of my horse I felt soulfully connected to.

The noise of my contentment drowned out the fact time was marching forward. Subtle, and then all at once, I was met with the consequence of growing up.

I’m left looking around my world, lost in the aftermath of a chapter of a good time.

Clutching a halter with no horse to catch, entering a barn with no whinny to welcome.

The letters following my name signal my expertise, however lonely it may be.
Grief has become a heavy brick I tote around during my days. I have mastered the art of neatly tucking it away as I pull on my ‘therapist-mask’ to disguise the sadness pooled behind my eyes. I admit, I leave this mask on after I exit the therapy room on days the brick is too rough to sit with. It creates distance not only from myself, but from my longing for the mane I so desperately want to bury my face in.

Yet, despite this brick, I have also begun to feel joy again. At first, it came out of nowhere; the laughter bubbled up from my chest, clearing out the cobwebs as it sounded from my soul. The reason was just as equally ridiculous. I was watching a short clip of people parkouring onto foam, yelling from the top of their lungs. Something in me clicked into place, as if a cogwheel within my heart became unstuck. For whatever reason, something about the ridiculousness of these men flinging themselves off of high places to land dramatically in a pile of foam was deeply relatable. A perfect example of what it has felt like to move through this past year.  Suddenly, I was peeling with laughter, the sound startling all occupants of my home.  For those few moments my soul leaned into joy and I relished in the lightness. As if I had rubbed the fog off a cloudy mirror and caught a glimpse of the girl who had gone into hibernation the moment she kissed her beloved horse goodbye.

Since then, I’ve been mindful about my body and mind’s propensity for both. During my days, I take note of the heaviness of my evolving grief, and yet the beginnings of other sensations like passion and enjoyment. Feelings I had all but given up on. Feelings I soulfully believed were buried alongside Sadie. I traveled through life for a long time believing she was the keeper of my happy.

While Sadie took such good care of my heart, it’s time for me to take back ownership. It was never Sadie’s burden to bear the responsibility of my joy, and I realize this now. She blessed me with innumerable gifts, and the ability to grow up with the guarantee of my happy being tangible out in the world was one of them. No matter the obstacle, she was there. No problem could outweigh the promise and security I knew from the love of that creature. It’s the kind of fierce love that knows no limits, even after one soul is gone. I feel her all around me, and I feel her in the preservation of my joy.

Sometimes sadness can bear an overpowering brunt on us. Anger can flow through our veins and ignite us with rage. But I want to recognize that these times are guaranteed temporary. Our range of emotion and the rhythm of the ocean have something in common in that is they flow. Emotions and the ocean waters are never stagnant.  There is a promise in our abilities to feel more than one emotion at any given time. Just as we can be brimming with sorrow, we can also peel with laughter than warms our bones and hurts our cheeks. We can feel deeply, and many things at a time, and this is a good thing. This is our ticket to healing.

Lean into the space where the comfortable and uncomfortable exist.
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This is authenticity in its rawest form. 

I’m Watching the Olympics this year, and my heart is breaking.
Heavy as I catch glimpses into the vulnerability these athletes are having to bare.
There’s an element to these games that has gone unspoken and I can see it slowly suffocating our beloved Olympians.

They are not meant to do this alone.

On the surface, these people are polished. The epitome of health. Their bodies scream athleticism. Yet, these shouts seem to distract from the chaos that swirls within them.
The chaos has begun to peak through their chiseled exteriors. The raw emotional storm that wrecked through Dressel at the sight of his loved ones thousands of miles away after he won Gold in the 100m freestyle begged tears from my eyes. Perhaps it’s just me, but those tears were not solely from the joy of triumph but echoed the soulful sorrow of isolation and longing. He and his people all but reached for one another through the screens. The media tried in desperate attempts to shrug the video connection off as a “blessing they get to connect so soon after the meet”. Yet, their was deep pain that flickered behind his eyes.

Olympians are not meant to do this alone.

Oh Simone. Beautiful girl, my heart swells for you. The building of the media’s perseveration on her as God-like cultivated nothing beneficial. She’s a glimmer of light in a world gagged by darkness, and she has had to bear the brunt of millions desperation for joy. The limelight was thrust upon her, and she was willed into America’s distraction without much say.

So many are so quick to brush off the horrendous trauma Simone and so many others endured. Stuck in their privilege of not having first hand experience with the post traumatic stress symptoms survivors of abuse endure unabatedly.
We took this young woman, willed her into giving up her humanness for the sake of our joy, and plopped her on a stage to perform in nothing but a robotic nature.

Olympians are not meant to do this alone.

Our beloved athletes don’t do this for their own selfish pride. They do not train for hours a day, seven days a week, for years for pure self-satisfaction and bragging rights.
They do this for those that make their word go around.
They do this for the fulfillment of the systems they exist in.
Without those that create safe spaces and ooze unconditional love as they shout out words of encouragement until their voices cease to exclaim, the ability to remain grounded and centered becomes off-kilter.

Simone is just as human as you are.
Dressel is just as human as the person next to you.

The amazing people who are a world away are more deserving of our love and support than perhaps any Olympians before them. Personally, I am in awe of the resiliency embraced. 

We, nor they, are meant to do this thing called life, alone.

I live for the phrases I hear throughout my days that tickle my soul. That stop me mid-step as if I hear the tune of a catchy song, I can’t help but whistle along to. The flavor of these phrases are enticing, and I follow the tangential muse as one would be drawn to the aroma of a savory sweet wafting through one’s home. For someone whose mind is always busy, these phrases are a welcome change of mental pace.

A hop, skip, and jump ago, I stumbled across the witticism “recalibrate the universe”. Someone was nursing a bruised ego of being stood up, and another someone responded to their defeat in this notable way. I couldn’t help but let a grin spread across my face at the thought of living life abundantly in response to a disappointing situation.

I mean, think about it.

It’s quite the middle finger to the composition of a lackluster experience.

A commonality in my work is reexamining how we manage our power in any given situation. Whenever we devote our mind’s dwellings to anxiety or overbearing anger, we are also handing over our personal power to the source of discomfort on a silver platter. For those who provoke the most discomfort out of us, logically they don’t deserve to harbor one of our most sacred possessions, our minds. The complexities that exist in our own heads are so underwhelmingly cherished nowadays. As if it’s a fad to make the existence in one’s own internal dialogue as disastrous as possible. Negative self-talk is popularized due to the critical nature of possessing a contented image of oneself. The popular misconception is that this is “selfish” or “self-absorbed”.

Sigh.

That might be why this simple collection of words threw me off in the most delightful way.
One of the ways we can maintain our power in the face of obstacles or hardships is to focus on recalibrating the universe. Not divulging our thought patterns to the soul-sucking nature of resentment, but to throw our metaphorical middle fingers up in the air and proclaim the right to our power, our thoughts, and our responses to the bullshit that we are all guaranteed to stumble across.

How?
By embracing the courage to live our lives out loud.

You find yourself being stood up by a date? Treat yourself to a three-course meal.

You feel undervalued by your boss? Invest your free time in a passion that lights your world on fire.

You lose two dear family members and your cherished animal companion in the span of three months? Honor their memories and book a trip that prioritizes joy because life is too damn short.

The obstacles that are promised in life do not warrant the robbery of our own personal power. Sure, they demand room within our minds, but they certainly do not have the right to become permanent residents to preoccupy us from the present. You all have the right to your own power and what takes up space in your mind. You are all worthy of this. Despite what the cruelty or ill-natured humans may proclaim.

Go forth, my delightfully messy humans.
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Recalibrate the universe by the act of living life out loud.