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 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. 

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.