Hey Dana Jane

Category: Therapy

In this category, we delve into the transformative journey of therapy and mental health support. From personal experiences to expert insights, you’ll find stories, tips, and resources that explore the healing power of self-discovery and professional guidance. Whether you’re seeking tools to navigate life’s challenges, curious about different therapeutic approaches, or simply looking for a sense of connection, this space is dedicated to promoting emotional wellbeing, growth, and resilience. Together, let’s break stigmas, share perspectives, and embrace the value of taking care of our minds.

  • Maybe God Had Other Plans

    I have been thinking a lot about Christa Pike.

    Not because I believe she is innocent. Not because I think what she did to Colleen Slemmer can be explained away, excused, or forgotten. And certainly not because I expect Colleen’s mother to forgive the woman who took her daughter’s life.

    What happened to Colleen was horrific. There is no softer word for it.

    I have read about what happened, and as a mother, I cannot imagine the pain of losing a child in such a violent and senseless way. I understand why Colleen’s mother has spent decades carrying anger, grief, and a desire for justice. I don’t presume to tell her how she should feel or whether she should ever forgive.

    But I also believe something very strongly:

    I do not believe that human beings have the right to take another person’s life as punishment.

    I am conservative. I am Catholic. And I know that some people may find those beliefs contradictory when it comes to the death penalty.

    They aren’t contradictory to me.

    My opposition to capital punishment isn’t rooted in sympathy for criminals or a belief that horrific crimes shouldn’t have severe consequences. I believe people should be held accountable for the things they do. I believe victims deserve justice. I believe society has a responsibility to protect innocent people from dangerous individuals.

    But I don’t believe that means we have been given the authority to play God.

    And then came what happened to Christa Pike.

    She was strapped to a table. The state of Tennessee attempted to execute her by lethal injection. Two doses of the execution drugs were administered, and the execution could not be completed.

    She survived.

    I don’t pretend to know what that means.

    I don’t know why it happened. I don’t know what God intends for Christa Pike. I don’t know whether this was simply a catastrophic failure of an execution procedure or something more.

    But as a person of faith, I cannot help but wonder.

    Maybe God had other plans.

    I know how that sounds.

    Some people will read that and think, How could you possibly say that about someone who did what she did to Colleen?

    Because believing that God may have spared someone’s life is not the same thing as saying that person doesn’t deserve accountability.

    Maybe the rest of Christa Pike’s life is supposed to be lived behind bars, facing the reality of what she did every single day.

    Maybe there are things she still needs to learn.

    Maybe there is repentance that has not yet happened.

    Maybe there are people she needs to help through her testimony.

    Maybe there is a possibility of redemption that none of us can see.

    Or maybe there is some purpose known only to God.

    That’s the thing about faith. We don’t always get to know the why.

    And I think that’s where my Catholic faith matters most.

    I believe in the sanctity of human life even when that life has been terribly misused. I believe that God created us, and that ultimately, our lives belong to Him.

    That doesn’t mean consequences disappear.

    It doesn’t mean forgiveness is owed.

    It doesn’t mean Colleen’s mother has to embrace Christa Pike or pretend that the murder of her daughter didn’t destroy a part of her life.

    It doesn’t mean we forget Colleen.

    Quite the opposite.

    Colleen deserves to be remembered.

    Her life should never become merely the footnote to the story of the woman who killed her.

    And perhaps that is another reason I struggle with the death penalty. When we execute someone, we don’t bring the victim back. We don’t erase the crime. We don’t restore the family that was shattered.

    We simply take another life.

    I know there are people who disagree with me. I understand why some believe that certain crimes are so terrible that death is the only appropriate punishment. I understand the desire for justice, especially when the victim’s life was taken so brutally.

    But I don’t believe justice requires me to believe that the government should have the power to decide when another human being’s life ends.

    I believe in justice.

    I also believe in mercy.

    And I believe that ultimately, God is better equipped than any of us to judge a human soul.

    So when I think about what happened to Christa Pike, I don’t think, She got lucky.

    I think about the fact that she was supposed to die, and she didn’t.

    And I can’t help but wonder if there is a reason.

    Maybe God spared her.

    Maybe He didn’t.

    I don’t know.

    But I know this: I am not going to presume to know God’s plans.

    I can condemn what Christa Pike did to Colleen Slemmer while still believing that Christa Pike’s life has value.

    I can grieve for Colleen and her family while believing that another death will not undo theirs.

    I can understand why a mother cannot forgive the person who murdered her child while still believing that forgiveness, repentance, and redemption ultimately belong in God’s hands.

    And I can believe that some people deserve to spend the rest of their lives behind bars without believing that any human being has the right to decide that another human being’s life is over.

    Because I don’t believe we are God.

    And maybe, just maybe, last night’s events were a reminder of that.

  • When Mom Chooses the Man: The Children Who Learn They Come Second

    There is a particular kind of heartbreak that doesn’t look like abandonment at first.

    Mom is still there.

    She still has a phone. She still posts pictures. She still says she loves her children. She may even insist that everything she does is for them.

    But somehow, there is always a man.

    And somehow, the children keep coming second.

    I have a hard time understanding the woman who can look at her child—the little person who depends on her for security, consistency and unconditional love—and repeatedly choose the attention, approval or companionship of a romantic partner instead.

    Not once.

    Not during a difficult season.

    But as a pattern.

    The boyfriend gets the late-night phone calls.
    The boyfriend gets the weekends.
    The boyfriend gets the emotional energy.
    The boyfriend gets defended when the children have legitimate complaints.
    The boyfriend gets priority.

    And the children learn, sometimes without anyone ever saying the words:

    Mom chooses him. Not me.

    That lesson can be devastating.

    Psychology has long recognized that children need reliable, responsive caregiving to develop healthy relationships and emotional security. And research suggests that the quality of adults’ romantic relationships can spill over into their parenting. A longitudinal study following multiple generations found that romantic relationship functioning was associated with later parenting quality, while another study found that warmth and positive communication from a romantic partner could actually protect against harsh parenting. (PubMed)

    So this isn’t simply about a woman “having a boyfriend.”

    Of course mothers are allowed to fall in love.
    Of course mothers deserve companionship.
    Of course parents are allowed to have lives outside their children.

    That’s not the issue.

    The issue is when the relationship begins consuming the space that belongs to the parent-child relationship.

    And sometimes, the behavior starts looking disturbingly self-centered.

    Everything revolves around what she wants.

    She wants to feel loved.
    She wants to feel desired.
    She wants someone to tell her she’s beautiful.
    She wants someone to rescue her.
    She wants the excitement.
    She wants the validation.

    And if the children complain?

    They’re “jealous.”

    If they feel neglected?

    They’re “ungrateful.”

    If they don’t like the boyfriend?

    They’re “trying to ruin her happiness.”

    Suddenly, the children aren’t children anymore.

    They’re obstacles.

    That is where I think the word narcissistic enters the conversation—not necessarily as a clinical diagnosis, but as a description of a pattern of behavior in which the adult’s emotional wants consistently eclipse the needs and feelings of everyone around her.

    And there is another person in this equation that we don’t talk about enough:

    The man.

    Because if a man knowingly dates a woman who is neglecting her children to be with him, what exactly is he doing?

    A decent man doesn’t need to compete with children.

    He doesn’t need to be the center of her universe.

    He doesn’t need her to cancel plans with her kids so she can spend the weekend with him.

    He doesn’t need to be prioritized over a child’s birthday, school event, emotional crisis or basic needs.

    And if he notices that she’s neglecting her children for him, the healthy response isn’t:

    “Great. More time for me.”

    It should be:

    “You need to be with your kids.”

    That’s why I struggle with the idea that these men are simply “lucky” to have found a woman who is so devoted to them.

    Maybe sometimes they’re not lucky.

    Maybe they’re weak.

    Not because they are men.

    Not because they have relationships with single mothers.

    But because accepting a position of importance that comes at the expense of children requires a certain willingness to look away.

    A strong man doesn’t need to win a competition against a woman’s children.

    He doesn’t want to.

    He understands that children aren’t rivals.

    He understands that being a good partner sometimes means saying, “Go be Mom. I’ll be here.”

    And there is actually evidence that romantic partners can play a constructive role in parenting. Research has found that supportive romantic partners can help interrupt patterns of harsh or abusive parenting. (PubMed Central (PMC))

    That’s the part that gets lost.

    A romantic partner doesn’t have to be the problem.

    He can be part of the solution.

    He can encourage her to show up for her children.

    He can respect their place in her life.

    He can refuse to participate in manipulation or parental alienation.

    He can understand that dating someone with children means entering a family system—not replacing the children inside it.

    Because children notice.

    They notice who gets Mom’s attention.

    They notice who gets defended.

    They notice who gets her patience.

    They notice who she drops everything for.

    And eventually, they stop asking.

    That’s perhaps the saddest part.

    A neglected child doesn’t always become louder.

    Sometimes they become quieter.

    They stop expecting Mom to come.

    They stop telling her things.

    They stop asking for help.

    They stop believing they’re important.

    And eventually, they may grow into adults who understand exactly what happened but struggle to put words to it:

    “My mother loved having a man more than she loved being my mother.”

    That’s a brutal sentence.

    And I don’t think we should casually throw around accusations of narcissism, because narcissistic personality disorder is a clinical diagnosis—not a synonym for “selfish woman.”

    But we also shouldn’t hide behind diagnoses when the behavior itself is obvious.

    If a mother consistently sacrifices her children’s emotional needs for romantic attention, the behavior deserves scrutiny regardless of what diagnosis—if any—might explain it.

    And if a man knowingly accepts that arrangement, he deserves scrutiny too.

    Because love isn’t supposed to require someone else’s abandonment.

    A healthy relationship shouldn’t demand that children disappear so two adults can feel important.

    A good mother doesn’t have to stop being a woman when she becomes a mother.

    And a good man doesn’t need her to stop being a mother in order to be his woman.

    Children shouldn’t have to compete with adults for a place in their parent’s heart.

    And any relationship worth having should be strong enough to understand that.

  • Part Two: Who Gets to Define Womanhood?

    My last post was about a Rebecca Solnit quote that has been rattling around in my head for months:

    “One of the rights that the powerful often assume is the power to dictate reality.”

    The more I think about it, the more I see another uncomfortable question hiding inside it.

    And this one takes me somewhere I suspect a lot of people would rather I didn’t go.

    What happens when someone enters a category historically defined by the exclusion and oppression of another group—and then assumes the authority to tell that group what its own category means?

    Let’s talk about women.

    Specifically, trans women.

    Before anyone reaches for the outrage button, let me make something very clear: I am not questioning whether every trans person is sincere about their identity. I’m not suggesting every trans woman has the same life experience, social circumstances, privilege, or relationship with power. Some trans people experience profound discrimination and vulnerability, and I’m not interested in pretending otherwise.

    That’s not my argument.

    My argument is about power.

    And Solnit’s quote gives us a fascinating lens through which to examine it.

    What happens to power when you change categories?

    A person who was born male and raised in a society that, rightly or wrongly, often affords males greater physical, social, and institutional authority does not necessarily shed every bit of that history, conditioning, confidence, or socialization simply by changing their identity.

    Why would they?

    We don’t generally believe that social conditioning disappears overnight.

    And yet, in some of the loudest contemporary arguments about sex and gender, I see something that feels strangely familiar.

    A male person enters a female social category—and then, in some cases, tells women what womanhood means.

    Tells women what their boundaries should be.

    Tells women what language they should use.

    Tells women which spaces they should be comfortable sharing.

    Tells women that their discomfort is prejudice.

    Tells women that their understanding of their own sex is outdated, bigoted, or simply wrong.

    And I can’t help thinking:

    Isn’t that exactly the kind of power Solnit was talking about?

    The irony isn’t lost on me.

    For centuries, women were told what we were by men.

    Men defined our roles.

    Men defined our sexuality.

    Men defined our legal rights.

    Men defined our reproductive choices.

    Men defined what was appropriate for women to wear, say, think and do.

    Men told us what our bodies meant.

    Men told us what we were allowed to be.

    And now we’re having a cultural argument in which some women are being told that their understanding of womanhood itself is wrong.

    By whom?

    Increasingly, by people who were not born female.

    That’s a pretty extraordinary historical reversal.

    And I think we’re allowed to examine it.

    Here’s the question that makes this uncomfortable.

    If one of the privileges of the powerful is the assumed authority to define reality for others, what happens when that authority crosses the boundary between sexes?

    Does identifying as a woman automatically erase the socialization that occurred while being raised male?

    Does it erase physical differences?

    Does it erase the experience of having moved through the world with a male body?

    Does it erase whatever confidence, social conditioning, or authority may have developed along the way?

    Of course not.

    But neither does being trans automatically mean someone retains every aspect of male privilege forever.

    Both things can be true.

    A trans woman can experience genuine discrimination and have experienced aspects of male socialization.

    A trans woman can be vulnerable and still possess forms of authority or confidence associated with having been raised male.

    Human beings are complicated.

    That’s precisely why I don’t buy simplistic arguments on either side.

    But here’s where I really want to push the question.

    What happens when someone’s identity becomes an argument for overriding someone else’s boundaries?

    Because women have spent centuries being told that our boundaries are negotiable.

    Our bodies are negotiable.

    Our privacy is negotiable.

    Our discomfort is negotiable.

    Our safety is negotiable.

    And we’re still expected to be accommodating.

    Be compassionate.

    Be understanding.

    Don’t offend anyone.

    Don’t make anyone uncomfortable.

    Don’t ask difficult questions.

    Don’t notice the obvious.

    Don’t say the wrong thing.

    And above all:

    Don’t make the other person feel bad about themselves.

    But here’s something I’ve learned:

    Being compassionate toward someone does not require surrendering your own boundaries.

    And respecting someone’s dignity does not require pretending that sex doesn’t exist.

    So let’s conduct a little thought experiment.

    Imagine the sexes were reversed.

    Imagine women had historically possessed greater physical strength, institutional authority, political power and social dominance.

    Imagine women had spent centuries telling men what their bodies meant.

    Imagine a man said:

    “I don’t want to change clothes in front of someone female.”

    Would we immediately tell him he was hateful?

    Would we tell him that his discomfort was rooted in prejudice?

    Would we tell him that his understanding of male privacy was merely a social construct?

    Would we tell him that his boundaries were invalid because another person’s identity mattered more?

    Would we call him insecure?

    Fragile?

    Bigoted?

    Or would we suddenly understand the concept of sex-based boundaries?

    That’s the thought experiment I want people to sit with.

    Because something interesting happens when the sexes are reversed.

    Suddenly, a lot of people discover principles they weren’t previously willing to extend to women.

    And here’s an even harder question.

    If you believe women should surrender sex-based privacy because gender identity determines access to female spaces…

    Would you be equally comfortable surrendering your own privacy?

    Not theoretically.

    Not philosophically.

    Personally.

    Would you be comfortable changing clothes beside someone whose biological sex you knew was female but whose gender identity was male?

    Would you be comfortable showering beside that person?

    Would you be comfortable with your teenage children doing the same?

    And if your answer is no, ask yourself why.

    Don’t immediately call yourself a bigot.

    Don’t immediately call yourself enlightened.

    Just examine the feeling.

    Maybe you’re discovering something very old and very human:

    Sex matters.

    Especially when bodies are vulnerable and privacy is involved.

    And then there’s language.

    I’m fascinated by the idea that acknowledging someone’s identity can sometimes require another person to surrender their own description of reality.

    I can respect you.

    I can be kind to you.

    I can defend your right to live peacefully.

    I can oppose discrimination against you.

    I can even understand why you experience yourself the way you do.

    But does that mean I have to surrender my understanding of biological sex?

    Does your identity give you the authority to dictate mine?

    Does your discomfort with my words automatically outweigh my discomfort with being required to use them?

    And if the answer is yes…

    Who gets to decide?

    Because that is where we circle right back to Solnit.

    Who gets to dictate reality?

    That’s the question.

    And I don’t think the answer should be:

    Whoever is most offended.

    I don’t think it should be:

    Whoever has the most socially acceptable identity.

    And I certainly don’t think it should be:

    Whoever can successfully make the other person feel guilty for disagreeing.

    Because that’s still power.

    It’s simply a different kind of power.

    If we are serious about dismantling oppressive power structures, we should be willing to examine all power—including power that arrives wrapped in the language of compassion, identity and liberation.

    Otherwise, we’re not dismantling the hierarchy.

    We’re just changing who gets to stand at the top of it.

    And women should be allowed to notice that.

    I don’t want power over anyone.

    That’s the distinction I wish more people understood.

    I don’t want to dictate someone’s private life.

    I don’t want to humiliate anyone.

    I don’t want anyone persecuted because they are transgender.

    I don’t want anyone denied basic human dignity.

    But I also don’t want anyone dictating my reality.

    I don’t want someone else deciding what my sex means.

    I don’t want someone else deciding which boundaries I’m allowed to have.

    I don’t want someone else deciding that my discomfort is automatically illegitimate.

    And I don’t want to be told that my refusal to agree is evidence that I hate someone.

    Disagreement is not dehumanization.

    Boundaries are not hatred.

    Questions are not violence.

    And women are not obligated to disappear inside someone else’s definition of womanhood in order to prove that we’re compassionate people.

    Maybe the most radical thing we can do is apply the same principle to everyone:

    No one gets to dictate reality for everyone else.

    Not men.

    Not women.

    Not trans people.

    Not cis people.

    Not doctors.

    Not bosses.

    Not politicians.

    Not activists.

    Not institutions.

    Nobody.

    You don’t have to agree with me.

    You don’t even have to like what I have to say.

    But you don’t get to tell me what I am allowed to experience.

    You don’t get to tell me which boundaries I’m allowed to have.

    And you don’t get to demand that I surrender my understanding of reality simply because my understanding makes you uncomfortable.

    Because I’ve spent enough of my life being told to be quiet.

    To be agreeable.

    To be polite.

    To accommodate.

    To question myself.

    I’m not doing it anymore.

    I don’t need to control your reality.

    I simply refuse to surrender mine.

    And maybe that’s the real lesson hidden inside Solnit’s quote.

    The opposite of being powerful isn’t being powerless.

    Sometimes it’s simply refusing to hand someone else the pen.

  • Who Gets to Decide What Is Real?

    “One of the rights that the powerful often assume is the power to dictate reality.”
    — Rebecca Solnit, Whose Story Is This? (Goodreads)

    That sentence has been sitting with me.

    Not for an afternoon. Not for a day or two.

    For weeks. Maybe months.

    I keep turning it over in my head because the more I think about it, the more places I see it.

    Childhood. Work. Men. Doctors. Politics. Relationships. Institutions. Authority.

    It is the same thing wearing different clothes.

    The powerful don’t always have to threaten you into silence. Sometimes they simply tell you that your version of reality isn’t reality at all.

    That’s not what happened.

    You’re remembering it wrong.

    You’re too sensitive.

    You’re overreacting.

    That’s just how things are.

    You’re misunderstanding.

    You don’t know what you’re talking about.

    And if you hear it enough, from people with enough authority, you can begin to wonder whether maybe they’re right.

    That is the truly insidious part.

    Power doesn’t always look like a fist.

    Sometimes it looks like a person sitting across from you calmly explaining your own life back to you.

    I have been on the receiving end of that more times than I care to count.

    As a kid, there were things I experienced that other people had their own preferred explanations for. Adults get very good at deciding which version of a family story is acceptable and which version must never be spoken aloud.

    Then there were the terrible bosses I encountered at an insurance company where I once worked.

    There is a particular kind of corporate power that can make you question your own instincts. Someone above you can rewrite an interaction, redefine a problem, minimize something that happened, or make you feel like your discomfort is actually the problem.

    And then there was bartending.

    I learned a lot about power behind a bar.

    Especially male power.

    A drunk man can walk into a room believing that because he bought a beer, he bought a little piece of everyone in it.

    He gets louder.

    He gets meaner.

    He gets handsy.

    He crosses a line.

    And then, somehow, you’re the one who is supposed to manage his feelings about being told he crossed it.

    I’ve watched men behave badly and then watched them construct an entirely different story about what happened.

    And I learned something important:

    Someone’s confidence in their version of events does not make their version true.

    That lesson has followed me into adulthood.

    It followed me into the doctor’s office, too.

    There is something uniquely infuriating about sitting in front of a doctor and describing what is happening inside your own body—only to have someone with a medical degree decide that because they cannot immediately explain it, it must not be happening.

    You know your body.

    You know when something isn’t right.

    You know when you’ve been dismissed.

    And there is a particular arrogance in being told, implicitly or explicitly, that the person experiencing the symptoms has less authority over them than the person reading the chart.

    Expertise matters.

    Doctors know things I don’t.

    But expertise should not require pretending the patient knows nothing.

    There is a difference between saying, “I don’t know yet; let’s investigate,” and saying, “I don’t see it, therefore it isn’t real.”

    The first is medicine.

    The second is power.

    And then there is politics.

    This is where the quote gets especially uncomfortable.

    Because I don’t think the instinct to dictate reality belongs exclusively to one political party.

    Democrats do it.

    Republicans do it.

    Progressives do it.

    Conservatives do it.

    Religious people do it.

    Secular people do it.

    Corporate executives do it.

    Activists do it.

    Institutions do it.

    And ordinary people do it.

    We all have the capacity to become attached to a story so tightly that admitting the story is incomplete feels like admitting we are wrong.

    Political identity can make this particularly vicious.

    Sometimes the argument isn’t really about facts anymore.

    It’s about allegiance.

    Our people don’t do that.

    Their people always do that.

    My side is defending reality.

    Your side is denying reality.

    And suddenly we’re no longer asking, “What actually happened?”

    We’re asking, “Which version of what happened protects my identity?”

    That’s dangerous.

    Because reality doesn’t owe us ideological loyalty.

    It doesn’t care whether the truth makes Democrats uncomfortable.

    It doesn’t care whether it embarrasses Republicans.

    It doesn’t care whether it ruins someone’s carefully constructed worldview.

    Reality is reality.

    And sometimes the most honest thing a person can say is:

    “I was wrong.”

    Which brings me to women.

    I have spent enough of my life being told—directly and indirectly—that my boundaries, perceptions, discomfort, instincts, and experiences should be negotiable.

    That women should accommodate.

    Women should be understanding.

    Women should be polite.

    Women should not make people uncomfortable.

    Women should explain themselves.

    Women should be quiet when the conversation becomes inconvenient.

    And I’m increasingly uninterested in that bargain.

    I don’t believe respecting another person’s humanity requires me to surrender my own.

    I don’t believe empathy requires pretending biological sex doesn’t exist.

    I don’t believe acknowledging someone else’s identity requires me to deny my own.

    And I don’t believe women should be shamed into surrendering privacy, safety, language, or sex-based boundaries simply because someone else has a different understanding of gender.

    That isn’t hatred.

    It is disagreement.

    And disagreement is not violence.

    Women are allowed to say no.

    We’re allowed to have boundaries.

    We’re allowed to have private spaces.

    We’re allowed to describe our own experiences.

    We’re allowed to disagree with people—including people who insist that their interpretation of womanhood must supersede ours.

    And perhaps most importantly:

    We are allowed to define our own reality.

    Because that is what Solnit’s quote keeps bringing me back to.

    Power doesn’t just determine who gets to make decisions.

    Sometimes power determines whose version of events gets believed.

    Whose pain counts.

    Whose memory counts.

    Whose discomfort matters.

    Whose voice is considered credible.

    Who gets called difficult.

    Who gets called unstable.

    Who gets called hysterical.

    Who gets told they’re imagining things.

    Who gets told to sit down, shut up, calm down, move along, get over it, or stop making everyone uncomfortable.

    And who gets to walk away believing they were right simply because they had more authority.

    I’ve spent enough of my life watching that happen.

    I’m not interested in participating in it anymore.

    I don’t need everyone to agree with me.

    That’s an important distinction.

    I don’t need to dictate your reality.

    But you don’t get to dictate mine.

    You don’t get to tell me what I experienced.

    You don’t get to rewrite my memories.

    You don’t get to define my boundaries.

    You don’t get to tell me what my body is doing.

    You don’t get to demand that I call something acceptable when I don’t believe it is.

    You don’t get to manufacture a version of events and then punish me for refusing to repeat it.

    And you certainly don’t get to silence me simply because my voice makes you uncomfortable.

    I’ve learned something over the years:

    Being silenced and being disagreed with are not the same thing.

    I can tolerate disagreement.

    I can tolerate criticism.

    I can tolerate being wrong.

    What I won’t tolerate anymore is blatant disrespect disguised as authority.

    I have spent too much of my life making myself smaller so other people could remain comfortable with their version of reality.

    I’m done with that.

    You can disagree with me.

    You can challenge me.

    You can tell me I’m wrong.

    But you don’t get to tell me that I didn’t experience what I experienced simply because acknowledging it would inconvenience you.

    I know what I know.

    I know what I’ve lived.

    And I am no longer asking permission to say so.

    I will not be silenced.

    Not because I believe I’m always right.

    But because I have finally learned that someone else’s power does not give them ownership of my reality.

  • Unlearning the Lie: A Journey Out of Dysfunction

    Disclaimer:
    To my family members who may be reading this—this is not a personal attack. This is a raw and honest account of my experience growing up in a dysfunctional family system. This is the result of years of therapy, painful reflection, and personal growth. If this makes you uncomfortable, I encourage you to sit with that discomfort. These things happened to me. Your discomfort is yours to manage. I won’t be gaslit, dismissed, or silenced.

    For as long as I can remember, I lived in a house where appearances mattered more than authenticity, where silence was safer than speaking up, and where love came with conditions. The air was often thick with unspoken expectations, repressed anger, and inherited trauma, disguised as tradition. There was little room for individuality—only conformity.

    The voice in my head that doubted me, shamed me, told me I was “too much” or “not enough”? It wasn’t mine. It belonged to a chorus—my parents, some aunts and uncles, a grandparent. Their values were imposed on me like scripture: obey, conform, suppress, believe. I was conditioned to accept their version of religion, success, womanhood, and morality without question. I spent decades chasing their ideals, only to end up exhausted and empty.

    It’s taken five years of therapy—deep, soul-level work—for me to realize that voice was never mine. That guilt and shame? Not mine to carry. Those expectations? Not my responsibility. My therapist once told me, “Just because they handed you the script, doesn’t mean you have to keep reading from it.” That was the moment everything began to shift.

    At 46, I’ve never been clearer. I no longer pretend. I no longer force myself to align with values that don’t fit. I don’t exist to be a mirror for someone else’s version of the “right” life. I now extend the compassion to myself that I so freely gave everyone else. That’s the most sacred, powerful gift I’ve ever given myself.

    Yes, my philosophies have shifted. Yes, my goals and beliefs look different. And no, I will no longer contort myself to please people who can’t—or won’t—see me clearly. I’m no longer afraid to stand up for what’s right for me.

    And if this disappoints my parents, siblings, or extended relatives—so be it. That disappointment is theirs to hold. I was never equipped to be the manager of everyone’s emotions, and I’m done trying to be. I have finally stepped out of the shadows of who I was told to be, and into the light of who I actually am.

    This is my truth. And I won’t apologize for it.

  • Blog Post: “Wait…Am I the Narcissist?”

    Let’s talk about a hard truth today—narcissists, and what it’s like when one calls you a narcissist.

    It’s jarring, isn’t it? You’re standing there, trying to explain your feelings or set a boundary, and suddenly—boom—you’re accused of being selfish, dramatic, attention-seeking, or even worse: a narcissist.

    And for a split second, it works. You start to spiral. Am I really like that? Do I make everything about me? Am I the problem?

    Let me stop you right there. The fact that you’re even asking yourself those questions is a huge red flag in the other direction. Real narcissists don’t wonder if they’re narcissists. They don’t question their intentions or worry about how they affect others. That kind of self-awareness? Not in their playbook.

    Narcissists are often incapable of true introspection. They don’t believe they’re flawed or that they could be the cause of hurt. If they ever say things like, “I know I have my faults” or “I guess I’m just the bad guy,” it’s almost always part of a strategy. It’s manipulation disguised as humility. It’s them fishing for reassurance, guilt-tripping you, or trying to flip the script so they can get what they want—your silence, your apology, your compliance.

    So let’s be honest: dealing with a narcissist is emotionally exhausting. They project, they gaslight, and they rewrite reality in a way that makes you look like the villain for simply having needs or drawing a line. And when you finally push back, when you say “Enough”—that’s when they panic. That’s when the accusations start.

    But here’s the truth: if you’ve spent time questioning yourself, reflecting, even reading this blog post because it struck a chord—you’re not the narcissist. You’re likely the empath, the peacekeeper, the overthinker. And narcissists love those types because they’re easy to manipulate. Easy to guilt. Easy to confuse.

    Here’s your reminder: setting boundaries is not selfish. Asking for respect is not narcissistic. Walking away from toxic behavior is not a character flaw. It’s called growth.

    If someone keeps calling you the problem every time you stand up for yourself, it might be time to consider who really has the problem.

    You’re not crazy. You’re not selfish. And no—you’re not the narcissist.

    Keep shining your light. The right people will never try to dim it.

  • The Only Real Control We Have (Spoiler: It’s Not Over Other People)

    Let’s be real for a minute.
    You’re not going to fix that egomaniac in your life.
    You’re not going to outmaneuver the narcissist.
    And you’re definitely not going to “change” that toxic person who’s been draining your energy like it’s their job.

    I know, I know—this isn’t what you want to hear. But it’s what you need to hear. Because here’s the deal:
    The only realistic form of control you have in this life is self-control.

    That’s it. That’s the truth, in all its uncomfortable glory.

    You can’t control how other people treat you. You can’t control how they twist your words, push your buttons, or show up with all the emotional intelligence of a brick wall. You can scream into the void, lose sleep, spiral with overthinking, and still—they’re going to do whatever the hell they want.

    But here’s your superpower: you can control how you respond.
    That’s not weakness. That’s not giving up. That’s strength. That’s freedom.

    Setting boundaries isn’t about changing someone else’s behavior. It’s about saying, “I’m not available for this kind of nonsense anymore.”
    Walking away doesn’t mean you lost. It means you’ve decided your peace matters more than trying to win a battle you never signed up for in the first place.
    Choosing silence doesn’t make you passive. Sometimes, it’s the loudest thing you can do.

    And I get it—we all want justice. We want accountability. We want people to see the light and finally say, “You were right. I was the problem.”
    But you’ll wait forever for that moment with some people. And in the meantime, you’re sacrificing your sanity.

    So here’s the challenge:
    Stop trying to control what’s outside of you, and start mastering what’s within.
    Your thoughts. Your choices. Your reactions. Your energy.

    Because when you stop trying to change toxic people and start changing how you show up around them, something wild happens:
    You get your power back.

    And trust me, that feels a hell of a lot better than banging your head against the wall trying to fix people who don’t want to be fixed.

    You want control? Take it.
    Not over them—over you.
    That’s where the real magic is.

  • Book Review: It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover

    I read It Ends With Us in less than three days. I didn’t want to like it, but I did. And that’s the conflict this book leaves you with—how can something so well-written, so compelling, also feel so deeply unsettling?

    Colleen Hoover doesn’t just tell a love story; she unravels one. At first, I wanted to love Ryle. He was charming, ambitious, and passionate. But then I hated him. I wanted to shake Lily, to hug her, to beg her to see what so many women struggle to recognize: that love doesn’t excuse abuse, and that abusers don’t often change.

    This book wrecked me. I haven’t personally experienced domestic violence, but I know women like Lily. I have watched some leave, and I have watched some stay. And that’s what I may never be able to fully understand—the staying. Hoover doesn’t romanticize Ryle’s actions, but the novel does what real life often does: it makes you question, makes you hope, makes you ache for the person who isn’t what you thought they were.

    While It Ends With Us is undeniably powerful, it also toes a line that made me uncomfortable. Is it fair to frame a story of domestic violence within a romance? Does it risk softening the reality of abuse? I don’t know. What I do know is that this book makes you feel everything—love, anger, frustration, devastation—and maybe that’s the point. Hoover gives us a protagonist who has to make an impossible choice, and through her, we are forced to confront the complexities of love, trauma, and survival.

    Would I recommend It Ends With Us? Yes, but with caution. It’s not an easy read, nor should it be. But it’s an important one.

  • Drowning in Denial: Loving Someone Who Won’t Save Themselves

    It’s a strange kind of grief—watching someone you love slowly destroy themselves, knowing that no matter how much you plead, beg, or cry, they won’t change. Not because they can’t, but because they won’t. Because the bottle is easier. Because the pain is numbed just enough to make tomorrow seem bearable, even if it means drowning today.

    You tell yourself it’s a disease. You remind yourself of that every time they make promises they won’t keep. Every time they slur their words through another excuse. Every time they look you in the eyes and swear they’ll do better, but the next weekend, they’re right back where they started. You know addiction is powerful, but what you don’t understand—what keeps you up at night—is why they don’t seem to want to fight it. Why they won’t even try.

    And maybe the worst part is that they think they’re fooling you. They act like they have it under control, like their drinking isn’t a problem as long as they still go to work, pay their bills, and function just enough to pretend everything is fine. But you see the cracks. The way their hands shake in the morning. The way their personality shifts, sharp and defensive, when you bring it up. The way they push you away, either because they don’t want to hear the truth or because deep down, they know they’re failing you, and it’s easier to resent you than to face themselves.

    You remember the person they used to be. The one who laughed with you, who had dreams and plans, who cared. And you wonder if that person is still in there somewhere, buried beneath the layers of liquor and denial. You wonder if they ever think about getting better, if they ever wake up and realize what they’re losing. What they’ve already lost.

    But the hardest part—the part that breaks you over and over—is knowing that no matter how much you love them, no matter how much you want to save them, you can’t. Because they don’t want to be saved. And until they do, you’re just standing on the shore, watching them drift farther and farther away, screaming into the wind, knowing they can hear you but choosing not to listen.

  • Confronting History: Finding Healing in Grief

    As someone who spent years tucking childhood traumas into the deepest, darkest corners of my mind, I can’t help but marvel at the truth in Alice Miller’s words: “The aim of therapy is not to correct the past, but to enable the patient to confront his own history, and to grieve over it.” It’s a simple yet profound idea—that healing isn’t about rewriting the narrative, but about finally reading it with clear eyes.

    For most of my life, I denied the dysfunction that shaped me. My upbringing revolved around my dad’s tavern, where the clinking of glasses and the hum of jukebox tunes were as constant as the sun rising. It was a place of laughter, yes, but also a crucible for my understanding of relationships, self-worth, and emotional stability. Add to that the complexities of family dynamics, and you’ve got a recipe for a psyche riddled with cracks I didn’t even know were there.

    Therapy wasn’t about patching those cracks for me; it was about examining them. Each session felt like holding a magnifying glass up to my history, unearthing the silent resentments, unspoken grief, and buried fears that had quietly dictated my behavior. But the hardest part wasn’t just facing those moments—it was grieving for the child who endured them.

    Grief in this context is a strange thing. You’re not mourning a loss in the traditional sense; you’re mourning the life you didn’t have, the safety you didn’t feel, the love you didn’t always receive. You’re allowing yourself to feel the sadness, anger, and betrayal that you suppressed for survival. And let me tell you, that process is equal parts liberating and exhausting.

    I’ll admit, I resisted this grief at first. I wanted to be “fixed,” not to cry over memories I’d spent decades avoiding. But therapy taught me that grief is not weakness—it’s acknowledgement. It’s a way of saying to your younger self, “I see you. I understand now. And I’m so sorry you went through that.”

    For me, this grief brought clarity. It helped me understand why I’d accepted dysfunctional patterns in adulthood—because they felt familiar. It allowed me to set boundaries, to recognize that loving people doesn’t mean tolerating their toxicity, and to finally let go of the guilt I carried for simply wanting peace.

    So no, therapy didn’t rewrite my past. My childhood remains what it was—messy, complicated, and full of contradictions. But therapy gave me the tools to confront it, to grieve over it, and to move forward with a little more grace and a lot more self-compassion.

    If you’re on this journey, know that it’s not about erasing pain but about transforming it. You can’t go back and give yourself a different childhood, but you can give yourself the closure you deserve. Grieve the losses. Feel the feelings. And in doing so, you’ll find a strength within yourself that’s been waiting all along.

    And if all else fails, remember this: You’re not crying because you’re broken. You’re crying because you’re finally whole enough to feel it.