So life just isn’t hard enough for you these days, huh? Life gotten a bit dull, boring, predictable? Thinking you’d like a bit of a new challenge? Something to shake things up a bit? 

Well, I’ve got just the thing you need! A good, old-fashioned, homemade, mid-life crisis!

Oh, don’t worry. You can adjust the spice as you prefer. And if you want to partake, but not quite at middle age yet? No worries! Just reduce the recipe amounts and you can have your own quarter life crisis instead if that’s more your speed!

Now, there are lots of recipes out there, there’s lots of ways to make them. So I thought I’d condense my favorite ingredients. Of course, these are all interchangeable and you can skip one if it’s not your vibe. 

You know how some people skip the adding the nutmeg in their pumpkin pies? Yea, it’s like that. It’ll lose a little bit of the kick, but the essence is still there. 

So without further ado, here’s a recipe that’s been passed down by generations that you, my lovely friends, I am choosing to share with you! 

In my work as a life coach these days, I’ve seen all types of recipes. Some of which are very creative and ingenuity filled. Resourceful cooks, I must say. 

But here are some of the most common ingredients I’ve seen to give you a start in making your own mid-life crisis!

(English translation also below)

Perdon, amigo.

Me odio qué estás triste. Y te sientes que estás solo. Yo estoy aquí. Pero no puedes verme. Creo que yo estoy algunos pisos abajo de tu. Pero creo que puedes oírme cuando hablo contigo. Porque por un momento, pares llorando, y tal vez quieres comunicar conmigo.

Y tengo un perro que lo hace todo el tiempo. Es muy vocal. Creo que ella piensa que es una persona. Or, tal vez solo que yo puedo hablar y entender la lengua de perros.

Thank you for not smoothing out your corners and rough edges. Yea, they’d poke and scratch me up every now and again, but with enough distance, from all these months apart, I’m grateful you’re you. The pokes challenged me in a new way, and at the end of the day, weren’t really a big deal. 

You embraced my edges, too. 

Thanks for crying so much with me. And letting me cry. And let me hold space for you to cry. 

When you zoom out, it’s kinda funny to think that it’s entirely possible that our relationship involved more time crying together than anything else. But it was beautiful. It was healing.

I cried about you yesterday. It was the first time in a long time. I’ve needed to get it out, but I’ve been too angry. Too hurt. 

I’ve been holding on to it for a while. I’ve wanted to let it out but couldn’t get myself to.

It still hurts. I feel like I was left behind. Or used. 

But I know I can’t entirely blame you and I have to ask myself why I put myself in that position. And that’s heavy. There’s some shame in that.

But you know, it feels good to be used, sometimes. It feels good to be needed. To be useful. To have something to offer. I guess it’s easier to measure worth that way sometimes. It makes it easier to pinpoint something tangible. 

I don’t want to admit that I still miss you. I don’t want to admit that every now and then I still open that one drawer that has your shirt in it, just to see if it still smells like you. 

Because we both knew it wasn’t going to be forever. And I don’t even know what I’m really missing. Whether it was just lying next to you, or staying up late talking about the difference between being silly vs goofy. Or whether it was just knowing you were there. 

If we were still talking, I'd ask you about this tank top from Pride that’s too big. I know one tailor in town but I don’t know if tank tops are things people bring to tailors. Or I’d ask you for advice on how to do it myself. Or if you were feeling enthusiastic, I’d let you go at it.

But we’re not talking, so no, I’m not going to reach out. 

After all, I remind myself, you have a husband now. 

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: