Hey Dana Jane

Tag: healing

  • From Static to Stillness

    Last night I had one of those dreams that lingers.

    I pulled two metal antennae out of my head.

    Not gently. Not surgically. I just reached up and removed them, like they had always been there. I remember touching the holes afterward, feeling where they had been attached. It wasn’t bloody or dramatic. Just… aware. Curious. Almost relieved.

    And then, much later in the dream, I was nursing a baby.

    When I woke up, it felt symbolic. Not random. And the more I’ve sat with it, the more it feels like a picture of what this season of my life — and this season of Lent — has been.

    For a while now, I’ve felt mentally overloaded. Not just busy — overloaded. So many voices. So many opinions. So many expectations. Family systems. Politics. Faith conversations. Social media. Cultural narratives. Old childhood beliefs. New revelations.

    It’s like I’ve been walking around with antennae, constantly receiving signals.

    Constantly scanning.

    Constantly processing.

    And if I’m honest, some of those signals weren’t even mine to begin with. They were installed in childhood. Fear-based interpretations of God. Family patterns. Ideas about authority. Ideas about women. Ideas about obedience and worth and silence. Things I absorbed before I was old enough to evaluate them.

    The antennae in my dream felt metal. Mechanical. Not organic.

    That’s what struck me.

    They weren’t part of me. They were attached to me.

    Pulling them out felt like a quiet act of fasting.

    Because that’s what Lent is, isn’t it? Not just giving up chocolate or wine, but removing what doesn’t belong. Detaching from what feeds the ego, the noise, the fear. Stripping away what has attached itself to us over time so we can hear God more clearly.

    “I don’t need to receive every signal anymore.”

    That sentence has been sitting in my spirit this morning.

    Lent invites us into the desert. And the desert is quiet. No constant updates. No crowd noise. No performance. Just you, your thoughts, and God.

    Maybe the antennae had to come out so the static could stop.

    Touching the holes afterward felt like examen — noticing where those messages used to enter. Not pretending they were never there. Just acknowledging them. Naming them. Offering them.

    That’s what growth has felt like lately.

    Not rebellion.
    Not rejection.
    Revelation.

    I’ve been having these “aha” moments — the kind that don’t feel condemning, but freeing. Like God gently saying, “You weren’t ready to understand this before. But you are now.”

    Lent isn’t about shame. It’s about clarity.

    And here’s the part that moves me most.

    After removing the antennae, I was nursing a baby.

    That image feels holy.

    Because once you stop absorbing everything from the outside, you finally have the capacity to nurture what’s growing inside.

    Nursing is slow. Quiet. Intentional. Protective. It’s life-giving. It’s intimate. It’s not loud or performative.

    It feels like this softer version of me I’m growing into.

    I’m still strong. Maybe stronger. But softer. Less reactive. More grounded. More protective of my peace. More selective about what I allow into my mind and spirit.

    Maybe the baby represents a new understanding of God — not the fear-based version I inherited, but the faithful, patient, revealing-in-seasons God I’m coming to know.

    Maybe it represents my inner child finally being cared for instead of corrected.

    Maybe it represents faith that is chosen, not installed.

    Lent is a season of subtraction before resurrection.

    You clear out.
    You detach.
    You fast.
    You sit in the quiet.

    And in that space, something small and vulnerable is born.

    What if the goal isn’t just to give something up — but to make room to nurse what God is forming in us?

    If there’s anything someone else might take from this, maybe it’s this:

    You are allowed to question what you were handed.
    You are allowed to disconnect from voices that exhaust you.
    You are allowed to refine your faith instead of abandoning it.
    You are allowed to grow into revelations you weren’t ready for at 20.

    And Lent is not punishment.

    It’s pruning.

    Sometimes you have to remove the antennae before you can nourish the baby.

    This morning, my strange dream doesn’t feel strange at all.

    It feels like the desert.

    And it feels like new life quietly beginning.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • The Mirror of Grief

    The aim is not to untangle the past,
    to pull each thread and weave a new story,
    not to mend the frayed edges of memory
    with needles of reason or spools of time.
    No, the past is not clay,
    and we are not potters shaping its hardened form.

    It is the weight we carry,
    pressed into the soft earth of our becoming,
    an indelible signature of what was.
    We do not correct the rain for falling,
    nor the storm for its fury.

    Instead, therapy is the mirror held close,
    its surface dark and reflective,
    daring us to meet the gaze of our own ghosts,
    to sit in the company of sorrow
    and call each shadow by its name.

    Here, grief blooms like a strange flower,
    its petals heavy with the dew of acknowledgment.
    We do not prune it; we let it grow,
    wild and tangled in the garden of our truths,
    until the roots touch what has been buried.

    This is not the work of undoing,
    but the slow art of reckoning—
    to confront the echoes
    and let them linger,
    to touch the edges of pain
    and know it as ours.

    Only then, with the past unearthed but unaltered,
    do we breathe in the ache,
    let it fill our lungs like smoke
    until it fades into air,
    leaving us not lighter,
    but freer.

    -DJT

  • The Draw of Psychology

    I recently came across a quote from The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides that stopped me in my tracks:

    “I believe the same is true for most people who go into mental health. We are drawn to this profession because we are damaged—we study psychology to heal ourselves.”

    It struck a chord with me because it encapsulates the deeply personal reason I’ve always been fascinated by psychology. My interest began with my very first college psychology class. I was hooked, not just by the science of it, but by the way it seemed to illuminate the human condition—my condition.

    Years later, when childhood traumas I had long buried began to surface, psychology became a lifeline. Therapy and psychology books were the first places I turned, hoping to understand myself, heal, and learn how to set boundaries. I wanted to know why I had spent decades in denial about the dysfunction in my family. I had questions, and psychology held the answers I desperately needed.

    What I’ve learned is that denial is a survival mechanism. It shields us from pain until we’re ready to confront it. For years, I clung to a narrative that felt safe. But when the cracks appeared, I couldn’t unsee them. Psychology helped me name the chaos I grew up in, recognize unhealthy patterns, and, most importantly, begin the work of healing.

    And here’s the thing—I’ve come to believe we’re all healing from something. Life leaves its marks on all of us, whether it’s childhood wounds, broken relationships, or the weight of unmet expectations. Healing isn’t linear, and it isn’t quick. It’s messy, frustrating, and often painful. But it’s also worth it.

    Psychology taught me that understanding is the foundation of healing. By exploring the “why” behind our emotions and behaviors, we can begin to untangle the threads of our past and create a healthier future. It’s a process of unlearning harmful patterns, rewriting our inner narratives, and building something stronger in their place.

    For me, psychology has been more than an academic interest; it has been a mirror, a roadmap, and a guide. It’s shown me that while we may be “damaged,” we are not broken beyond repair. We are capable of growth, resilience, and transformation.

    If you’ve ever been curious about what makes us who we are, I encourage you to dive into this field—even if you’re just exploring for yourself. It’s not just about healing the world; sometimes, it’s about healing ourselves first. And as we heal, we create space for others to do the same.

  • Protecting Your Family From Manipulative People

    Let’s talk about something we all hope never to deal with: people who try to worm their way into your family and use manipulation to get what they want. You know the type—they seem charming at first, maybe even helpful, but over time, their true colors start to show. Before you know it, they’re stirring up drama, playing the victim, or turning people against each other. It’s exhausting, right?

    Here’s the thing: protecting your family from these kinds of people isn’t just important—it’s absolutely necessary. Let’s break it down.

    How Manipulators Operate

    These people don’t show up with a flashing sign that says, “I’m here to mess things up!” They’re sneaky. They might:

    • Act helpless: They love to make you feel sorry for them. Suddenly, you’re bending over backward to help someone who never seems to help themselves.
    • Twist the truth: They’ll make you question your own memory or feelings. You’ll catch yourself thinking, Am I the problem here? Spoiler alert: you’re not.
    • Exploit weaknesses: Maybe they latch onto the soft-hearted member of your family, or they guilt-trip someone who’s too nice to say no.
    • Create drama: They thrive on chaos. They’ll pit people against each other or stir up conflict to keep the focus off their own behavior.

    Sound familiar?

    Why It’s Such a Big Deal

    If you let this kind of behavior slide, it doesn’t just go away. It grows. Here’s what happens when you don’t set boundaries:

    1. Trust gets shaky: Suddenly, you’re questioning each other instead of the person causing the problems.
    2. Everyone’s drained: Dealing with manipulation is emotionally exhausting. You end up feeling tense, frustrated, and maybe even guilty for wanting peace.
    3. The family dynamic shifts: Instead of feeling like a team, your family starts to feel fractured, which is exactly what the manipulator wants.

    So, What Can You Do?

    Protecting your family doesn’t mean you have to be rude or aggressive, but it does mean you have to take a stand. Here’s how:

    • Set boundaries: Be clear about what’s okay and what’s not. And don’t just set the boundary—enforce it.
    • Trust your gut: If someone’s actions consistently make you uncomfortable, pay attention to that feeling.
    • Stick together: Talk openly as a family about what’s going on. The manipulator’s power comes from dividing you—don’t give them that chance.
    • Know when to walk away: If someone keeps crossing the line despite your best efforts, it might be time to cut ties. It’s tough, but sometimes it’s the only way to protect your peace.

    It’s Okay to Protect Your Space

    At the end of the day, you don’t owe anyone an open door to your family. If someone’s behavior is causing harm, you’re allowed to step in and say, “Enough.” That doesn’t make you mean or heartless—it makes you protective of the people you care about.

    Family should be a place of love and support, not manipulation and drama. If someone can’t respect that, it’s not your job to make excuses for them. Trust yourself, stand firm, and protect what matters most. You’ve got this.

  • Full Circle: A Reflection on Penny, My Childhood Bully

    Life has a funny way of coming full circle, doesn’t it? As I sit here reflecting on my childhood, one story stands out—a story that I’ve spent years processing, only to find it has a twist ending that even I couldn’t have predicted.

    Let me introduce you to Penny, the girl who turned my junior high years into a battlefield. Penny and I met in 5th grade when she transferred to the same elementary school. At first, we were friends—two girls navigating the awkwardness of pre-adolescence. She lived in a trailer park with her mom and younger sister. I visited her home a handful of times, but there was never much adult supervision. Her mom worked second shift at a nursing home and would often head out to the bars after her shift, leaving Penny and her sister to fend for themselves.

    We spent summers walking around the trailer park—something I now realize was dangerous given the sketchiness of the area. Penny loved chasing boys and flirting, a hobby that didn’t sit well with me. But things shifted in 7th grade when Penny decided I was a threat to her relationship with her boyfriend. The accusation was absurd—I had no interest in him—but that didn’t stop her from turning on me.

    The insults came first. She called me ugly, accused me of stealing his attention, and declared I’d never be good enough for anyone. By 8th grade, she’d recruited a posse of mean girls to back her up. I was shoved into lockers, my head slammed against walls, and mocked with the nickname “Tuna.” They tried to make me feel ugly, unwanted, and disgusting. And for a while, they succeeded.

    Their cruelty stripped me of my confidence, leaving me feeling small and helpless. My father, furious at the treatment I endured, told me to steer clear of those girls, calling them “derelicts and deadbeats.” Over the summer before freshman year, I took his words to heart. I realized I had nothing to prove to Penny or anyone else. I learned to stand up for myself and started to see their behavior for what it was: jealousy.

    They envied the life I had—a stable home, loving parents, and opportunities they couldn’t imagine. I was more than just the girl-next-door pretty or the friendly face in class. I had potential, ambition, and resilience.

    Fast forward to now, and here’s the ironic twist: Penny is a bartender at my family’s tavern, a job she landed during a period when I was no-contact with my family. When I first heard the news, I laughed. The girl who once tried to make me feel small is now working for my family. Imagine being a single mother of five, no education, and needing to ask for a job from the family of the girl you tormented in junior high.

    Is she laughing about this, thinking she pulled one over on them? Maybe. I’m almost certain her thinking was, look how dumb the Jurgellas are, they know I bullied Dana and hired me anyway. But I can’t help but see the poetic justice in it all. Penny, who thought she was untouchable back in the day, is now slinging drinks in a bar owned by my family.

    Meanwhile, I’ve built a life I’m proud of—a college-educated professional with a fulfilling career, a loving husband, and three wonderful kids. I live in a home filled with love, a far cry from the chaos of her trailer park days.

    Penny once tried to make me feel like a loser, but life has a way of revealing the truth. I didn’t just survive her bullying; I thrived despite it. And that’s the ultimate victory.

  • Grief, Love, and Moving Forward: Reflecting on a Year of Loss

    As the year draws to a close, it’s natural to reflect on the moments and milestones that shaped us—both the joys and the sorrows. For me, this season marks a year since my dear friend Kena passed away. She was an artist, a teacher, a dancer, and a warrior. Her presence in our lives was a masterpiece, and her absence remains profoundly felt.

    Grief, I’ve come to realize, is the price of deep love. It’s not something you move on from but something you learn to carry. It becomes a part of who you are, shaping your perspective and reminding you of the love and connection that once filled your world. Over time, grief evolves, softening at the edges, but it never diminishes the impact of what mattered most.

    Understanding Grief in Its Many Forms

    Grief often brings to mind the loss of a loved one, as I’ve felt this past year. But it comes in many forms. It could be the grief of a life transition—a relationship ending, a career change, or even the loss of a dream. Some grieve the loss of health, others the passing of time or missed opportunities. Each type of grief carries its unique weight, but they all share a common truth: grief is a reflection of love and attachment.

    Honoring the Journey of Grief

    Allowing yourself to feel grief fully is an act of honor and courage. It’s a way of acknowledging the significance of what was lost and creating space for healing to take root. As I remember Kena, I hold on to the lessons she taught through her artistry, her resilience, and her joy. In doing so, I keep her spirit alive within me.

    Finding Light as We Move Into a New Year

    As we step into the new year, grief reminds us that life is precious. It challenges us to live with intention, to cherish our relationships, and to celebrate the moments we have right now. It teaches us to find beauty in the pain and to carry forward the love that will always endure.

    To those navigating their own grief, know this: You are not alone. Your feelings are valid, your memories are sacred, and your journey is uniquely yours. Grief may change you, but it also deepens your capacity for empathy, resilience, and gratitude.

    As the calendar turns, let’s carry forward the love and lessons from what we’ve lost. Let’s honor our grief, not as something to overcome, but as a testament to the depth of what—and who—has shaped us.

    Here’s to stepping into the new year with open hearts, remembering those who’ve left their mark on our lives, and embracing the strength to keep moving forward.

    We all miss you, Kena.