I've gotten better at differentiating real love from the "knock offs" so to speak, and wanted to share what I've learned with you.

Love is actually really simple, but our society confuses it so much with fake look-a-likes (like codependence and enmeshment).

Oh how I love the skin that’s holding you in
It keeps you in one place
So I can find you

I love the skull that holds that mind of yours
And your ribs to cradle those lungs
Those deep breaths you take when you finally let yourself relax
When you know you’re home for the night

Your deep barrel chest, holding in your heart
Your sweet, playful, eternal puppy heart

Some of our decorations never made it out of the box, nevermind out of the closet
Some of our Christmas cards are in a pile still unopened 
Some of our cards still haven’t been sent

Some of us can only think about who isn’t here
Some of us won’t be having that first Christmas together
Some of us are returning wrapped gifts we’ll never get to give
For some of us, it’s the first Christmas we can’t pretend to have a happy family
Some of us just miss pretending
Some of us are dreading being alone
Some of us are tired of rushing from one place to another
Some of us can’t wait to be back home, alone, with nothing to do

Recently I had the opportunity to have a conversation about coaching, personal growth, relationships, and self-awareness with Alix Sandler on the Biz Wiz Podcast. Check out the recording above and the transcript below.

It’s taken me a long time to have a better relationship with my feminine side. For the majority of my life, I was convinced that it didn’t exist–that I was a tomboy who was naturally more masculine and androgynous. 

In fifth grade, long before I came out as gay, I had this burning desire to cut my hair. I’d wanted to cut it for a while, and I don’t remember specifically why.

My mom kept not letting me, probably hoping it was just a phase that I’d get over before I made a drastic decision that I couldn’t just grow back overnight. Eventually, my persistence wore her down and she agreed to let me.

I couldn’t wait, and the feeling when I finally got it cut was amazing. It was barely longer than a buzz cut.

It’s not that I wanted to be a boy. I just didn’t want my long hair. And I just didn’t like girly clothing. Or heels. Or dolls. Or makeup. Or other girly things. I just felt so much like I didn't fit anywhere. 

I’m pretty sure my DARE instructors in 5th grade couldn’t stand me.

DARE (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) is a school program where police officers come into classrooms to teach students about not doing drugs. We had workbooks with different exercises to think about the scenarios we might find ourselves in to plan in advance how we’d navigate peer pressure and different circumstances when we might be offered or pressured to use drugs. 

Our workbook had tons of space for us to write explanations of how we’d respond to the other person who was offering or pressuring us to use drugs. Most of the students wrote out detailed justifications about why drugs were bad, how they’re saying no because of all that it would cost us, and all the other reasons and ways they’d say no. 

Growing up, I don’t remember having a special friend group, or even a single close friend from school.

In second grade, I remember all the girls in my grade seemed to be friends with each other, like there was some invisible bond between them all. Some kind of secret membership that made them all feel like a group, a unit, a sisterhood. 

I was on the outside, looking in.

I always felt like I was on the outside looking in. As much as I wanted to have friends and a group of people I could be myself with, I just didn’t quite fit in.

I envied Jasmin Harris. She was smart and tall and pretty and had a personality with some self-assurance. She seemed like she was happy and comfortable in herself, and also had lots of friends. 

I have a distinct, ironic memory of myself at 5 years old, a year before my world would be turned upside down when my parents would get divorced.

One evening, my mom, my dad, my two brothers, and I were in the Dodge minivan pulling back into our driveway from a family outing. Just then, I had an awe-inspiring realization that I just needed to share with everyone that exact moment, before we got out of the car and went back inside.

“Look!” I exclaimed, outstretching my hand, counting my fingers. “I have 5 letters in my name, J–O–L–I—E, I have 5 people in my family, and that’s how old I am, 5!”

I felt the same elation and pride in finding that simple pattern that I imagine an explorer must feel upon discovering a new continent.

I had no idea that just in a matter of months, counting to 5 would never be that easy again.

When you’re 9 years old, you have no idea the moments that you’ll remember for the rest of your life. The big ones, of course, but what about the seemingly insignificant ones that will potentially end up making a mark on the trajectory of your life? 

That’s the story I want to share about Mr. Antonoff, my Physical Education teacher from about 4th-6th grade, and how in just being himself and making me feel seen in the smallest way became a highlight of my day, and a dot that I can trace back to for how I structure my life even decades later.

I have a problem with passion. Passion is the spark. The explosion. The power. 

Passion is what thrusts a plane into the sky. It’s the lift of the bird's wings. It’s an unbridled horse, running wild and free. 

But passion alone is a plane with no wheels to land, a bird that never finds a perch. It’s a horse racing towards an abounding cliff. 

Everyone here is broken. Our bodies, that is. Broken and trying to heal. But it’s okay, it’s normalized. We’re safe here. There are wide aisles for all the wheelchairs, empty spots near the chairs so able-bodied loved ones can sit near those who are wheel-bound. There’s a feeling that we’re all survivors of something. We’re all dealing with some sort of pain, and you can see it on our bodies.

In 3rd grade, Ms. Muckleman helped me find a love for fitness, for drawing circles one half at a time, and made me feel seen and like someone believed in me. And to this day, I think of Ms. Muckleman, the art teacher who taught me so much more than art. Maybe the art of passion. The art of practice and dedication and believing in myself. Thank you, Ms. Muckleman.

Hey. 

You’re about to enter what could potentially be one of the hardest times of your life. I know it was for me. There will be constant doubts of where you fit in. Where you feel safe. Paddling as fast as you can just to keep your head above water. Just wanting a place you belong. 

Rejection stings extra hard because you haven’t had much time to develop a strong sense of self yet. So you’re gonna grasp for any attachment and attention you can get. It’s normal. You’re gonna have some bright ideas about outfits and hairstyles and things to say or do that you’ll think are True Brilliance. A decade from now, you’ll probably think differently about that and about a million other things. It’s okay. It happens to the best of us.

A year ago today, my dear friend Debi passed away from ALS. I met Debi about a year before she passed—she was my girlfriend-at-the-time’s mom. Our friendship grew even when me and her daughter broke up, and I was a caregiver for her along with her widower, Steve. ALS is an incurable disease that progressively shuts down your bodily functions while your mind stays totally intact.

Here are a few things I learned from that process of caring for her in hospice:

Until just a few years ago, I wouldn’t even introduce myself with my properly pronounced name because I didn’t want to make other people uncomfortable if they said it wrong.

I stayed in friendships with people who were being just plain mean and unkind to me.

Yea, I was a pretty intense people-pleaser. And very codependent. That translated into my romantic relationships, too, until I finally woke up and realized that I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I’ll share my story along with how I got through it, and what life is like for me now on the other side. My aim in sharing this is that my story can give you some hope if you or someone you love is also struggling.

A client recommended I see the movie The Founder—the story of how McDonalds came to be an internationally known fast-food chain. 

I’m glad I watched it. It definitely prompted some thoughts worth sharing.

I came out as a lesbian when I was 19. By then, I was a year into being clean and working a program of recovery. Being sober showed me that I’d hated myself the majority of my life, largely because I believed my sexuality was wrong, sinful, and abominable, and disgusting, and that I was all those things as a person, too. More than a decade later, I’m sharing my journey in how I came to accept myself and learn that there’s nothing worth sacrificing my authentic self for. And for you, dear reader, know that you are a beautiful human being, worthy of love and respect, regardless of your sexual identity. 

Rasberri had been taking care of both her mom and dad for the past 8 years as both of their healths were slowly declining. When her father passed, she had her mom with her at the funeral. Six months later, her mom died, and this time, she didn’t have either of her parents to help her go through the loss with.

Her mom was her best friend. People would even comment and call them twins, mistaking them for sisters. 

Luca,

I feel like you deserve a better momma than me. Because I feel like you deserve the best. That’s what my head tells me some days. Today was one of those. I know today is about you, not me, but man, I’m having a hard time here. 

I wanted to write you a song for your birthday, but I only got it half done. And I wanted to bake you a cake. But I just bought something from the barkery. And I wanted to go on a hike with you. But I knew you’d be limping in pain when we got back. And I wanted to take you anyway, just so I wouldn't feel so guilty for leaving you home on your birthday. But I didn’t. 

Dear Future Partner, 

I’ve been having really heavy dreams, lately. Nightmares. Sometimes I remember them, sometimes I’m just left with this vague fog, and it feels heavy. It’s like this huge emotional weight on my back that I can’t actually see, I just know that subconsciously, shit just went down. It’s like when you walk into a room where two people were just in the middle of a fight. You can just feel the tension in the air. Only it sticks with me all day.

It does get hard. I get lonely in some of those moments. I wish there was someone there to sleep next to, just to make sure I’m okay, someone to hold me through the night. Or someone I can hold onto, in those moments when I’m afraid. So I can keep myself from floating away.

And it's okay. I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m just saying, it’d be nice if you were already here, sometimes. It’d be easier.