Imposture Syndrome

“Who do you think you are?”

“You are not smart enough.”

“Stay in your lane.”

“You are not good enough.”

“No you cannot.”

“You are NOT a writer.”

An actual recreation of the dialogue in my head during a battle of the dreaded imposture syndrome.

            As a therapist, many may think I am immune to some struggles. Maybe you think since I “know better” I do not wrestle with the questioning voice in my head as the rest of the human race. I am here today to bust that myth. I too suffer from imposture syndrome.

            If you are unfamiliar with this expression, let me give you a lesson because I bet your lack of experience with the phrase is less about not suffering from the symptoms and more about not having a term to describe it.

Imposture syndrome begins with a whisper of doubt. Many times this symptom presents itself when one is trying something new or going out on a limb with an innovative idea. The whisper may be easy to shake off at first, however the slightest acknowledgement provides the necessary energy for the whisper of doubt to grow into declarations of uncertainty. Before you know it, one can then find themselves engaged with an internal battle of constant destructive and discouraging narratives that gain enough momentum to have the power to shut down the novel innovation so that the individual remains stuck in their safe comfort zone of the same.

Strike a nerve yet?

I began writing my novel ten years ago. I wrote it because I love to write and I had a story to share. As recent as October 2024, when my novel was published on Amazon, I still struggled to claim the identity of being a writer. I continue to fight imposture syndrome.

I am a therapist (I have no problem letting that roll of my tongue or allowing my fingers to type). I have a degree in social work. I hold a license to practice therapy with multiple states. I have held jobs with title of “therapist”. Therapist is not a self-proclamation. The fact still remains, I am a therapist because I practice therapy. However, it has taken me years to accept that I am also a writer simply because I write.

When I worked nights in the emergency psychiatric unit at University Hospital, I would use downtime to work on my novel. I actually took that job so I would have more time to juggle being a mother, a wife and a social worker so I could write. I remember when one of the nurses, who happens to be the very first person to finish the very first version of my novel and remains a good friend to me today, caught me writing one night when our census was low. She asked what I was working on and I stuttered all over myself trying to come up with a feasible answer other than “I am writing a book.”

Once I professed this secret, there were no imposture police ready at the helm to call me out and no buzzer sounding off alerting everyone that I was not a “real” writer. My friend appeared genuinely excited to learn this about me and wanted to read what I had written. When I was vulnerable, the imposture syndrome symptoms were kept at bay.

Imposture Syndrome is rooted in fear. That fear can stem from fear of judgement from others to fear of failure. Unfortunately, we are all guilty of acting out of fear and the results rarely work out as we intended. Fear is no place to function from.

So what do we do? How do we begin to recover from this sinister syndrome? What is our weapon against this infectious self-doubt?

Radical self-acceptance.

That’s it.

A simple but not easy practice of fully accepting who you are in this moment. The willingness to be vulnerable and the practice of acceptance is the remedy for imposture syndrome.

Acceptance is not reserved for only the good stuff. Acceptance also allows us to acknowledge the flawed parts of us along with the shiny parts we are proud of. We are not required to like something or someone to accept them in their true form. This rule also reigns true for ourselves. 

The act of being vulnerable allows us to show up as our rawest selves. No filters. No explanations. We are fully present and fully us. Though, this does not protect us from criticism or struggle to claim who we are. This does not guarantee we will be fully accepted by anyone other than us. Vulnerability does not require validation from anyone else. (That doesn’t mean it isn’t nice to receive though).

There is no absolute cure for all the symptoms of imposture syndrome. Some may lie dormant for years, but given the right circumstances they can kick into high gear and return to wreak havoc on your thoughts. The maintenance plan of acceptance and vulnerability are the best defense to keeping your thoughts free from doubting yourself. Let’s all take a look at chatter going on in our minds and the words we use especially about ourselves.

I am who I am because I say I am (period).

Best Christmas Picture Ever

Shocking news…The Holidays are Tough

As we approach this week and kick off the holiday season, my stress levels begin to bubble and rise along with the amount of times Mariah Carey is played on the radio. The increase in extended family time with people I love but do not interact with on the regular as well as the search for gifts to simply fill a spot on my shopping list are added to my ruminating thoughts playlist that kicks off around 3am.

With so much to do, who has time to enjoy this most wonderful time of the year? NO ONE!

My unpopular opinion of the desire to fast-forward to January 2nd is on the rise. Many of us are tired of the hurry up, keep buying, smile-and-hug-people-I-haven’t-seen-since-last-year and for-the-love-of-god-take-the-picture themes of the holiday season. We shove so much into these few weeks that we begin the new year exhausted, broke and bloated.

As someone who is not a fan of winter, I am trying to embrace the hibernating bear lifestyle (turn inward and rest). The pressure of the perfect holiday shoves me right out of resting bitch face and directly into elevated anxiety bitch face. Holiday commercials suggest that throwing a bow on anything makes it all better. Well, a bow on a pile of crap is still a pile of crap.

And let’s not forget what the holidays also highlight…those who are not here with us to celebrate. For many of us, there are empty chairs at the dinner table and stockings with no owners. We have a hole in traditions that cannot be filled and that is hard to swallow along with all of the cheer.

What if we turned it down a notch? Maybe there is a little less on the calendar and a little more time to be present. Maybe it is not about the perfect gift, but maybe sharing gratitude that you get to be together. There are many reasons why families spend the holidays apart. Whether by choice or necessity, so many struggle with being present for all the presents. Let’s avoid making asses out of ourselves by assuming everyone is joyfully spending this time of year together.

So maybe this year the theme is cheerful acceptance. Acceptance for the moment and what that entails, the good and even the uncomfortable. Having 25 people in a two-bedroom condo (this was how we did the holidays with my husband’s grandmother years ago) is not comfortable, however today I think back fondly on those sweaty meals because she is gone now and I miss her. She was the happiest person there having all of her people crammed together and celebrating. It wasn’t comfortable, but it did not harm anyone and her home was full of love, good food and laughter.

Acceptance of boundaries. Maybe forcing our kids to sit on the lap of a strange man in a costume, telling him their greatest desires and smiling is not the best lesson. Maybe if they say they are uncomfortable or afraid we can try a new approach. With the same token, maybe we can speak out what we need whether it is excusing ourselves a little early from the festivities or staying home altogether. We do not have to abide by the unwritten rules of the season if those rules do not serve us. This is less about getting our way or not and more about listening to each other respecting the fact that no single person knows best of all.

I vow to be mindful this season. I will be present in the moment. I will respect the wishes and desires of others. I promise to listen to understand rather than to respond. I will ask for what I need. I will prioritize my needs so I can show up when and where I can in the way I want to.

It does not have to be the most wonderful time of the year for me to celebrate and enjoy the time of year. I can survive and advance and relish in the normalcy of today rather than the glitter of unrealistic expectations.

I wish you the holiday season you need!

My Mind’s Highway and How I Travel

I prefer anger over grief. Anger gives me the illusion of control. “I am mad and let me tell you why!”

I have been known to hang on to grudges like tiny little birds. I keep them safely tucked away in their cages preventing the process of acceptance from occurring and letting go of what hurt me.

I am a great scorekeeper. I know who did what to me along with the date and location of injury. If I am angry, you earned it. These grudges were a direct result of me being in control rather than being taken advantage of. It is my god-given right to hold on and be mad. (Unfortunately, I am not referring to a time long, long ago…I am still evolving).

Anger is much easier to feel than grief.

Grief creeps up and tackles me out of nowhere. Grief does not have to give reasons for its presence, it just shows up and takes control over me. Grief is all consuming and irrational and messy.

Try catching a glimpse of yourself after an ugly cry. It’s not my best look.

Grief comes in many forms of feelings…sadness, anger, fear, and even shock. Grief is also not limited to death. Loss produces grief. The loss of someone. The loss of a way of life. The loss of something important to us whether anyone else can understand or not.

So why does it matter which we are experiencing? Grief or Anger? It matters because unless we are honest with ourselves and acknowledge our true emotions it is more difficult to find peace and healing. To go a step further, if we cannot find peace and healing then we will continue to compound each injury and amount of pain until we are ready to unload or implode. Neither of which are great options.

Our thoughts, much like our feelings, run through our minds like a highway. One thought followed by the next with no filter of facts. That is our job. Thoughts do not equal truths. We are responsible for examining our thoughts by holding them up to the light of reality to avoid the hamster wheel of spiraling into the abyss of overthinking and drowning in emotions.

This is NOT to say we are not entitled to our individual thoughts and feelings about everything, however do we really want to walk around with just our perspective? Our way of thinking about a situation is the only way? (Not that it wouldn’t be nice for a while, but how boring for any real length of time).

Acceptance does not require us to like whatever it is. We can be sad or mad or afraid or annoyed AND still accept life on life’s terms. When we can find a place of acceptance, we are better able to trust our thoughts and feelings. It is easier to find the light of reality and hold up whatever comes through our mind’s highway. The best part is finding peace and healing becomes actual options rather than far off lands of enlightenment we believe to be unachievable.

So how do you accept life on life’s terms? Do I have to just lay down and let life happen to me?

Absolutely not!

You can, however, change the things you can and let go of those you cannot. That is accepting life on life’s terms.

If something is bothering you, find a place to take action to change it. I may not have control over the United States Supreme Court and the decisions they make about what I can and cannot do with my body (which I feel anger, sadness, and fear about). I do have control over my response and reactions to their decisions. I have the power and ability to advocate for change and protest what I disagree with. I can educate my daughters on the importance of voting and being an active member in society.

On a smaller scale, I get pissed when people I trust disappoint me. I get angry (and sad) and I do not have control over how other people treat me. I do have control over who I let in my life and who I spend time with. I can find acceptance and even peace with people who have hurt me and grieve that loss as I heal.

When you are feeling overwhelmed and unsure of your emotions and maybe even distrustful of your thoughts, stop and take a moment to examine your mind’s highway. Be honest with yourself.

I would much rather be angry with someone who hurt me and call my girlfriends and tell them all about why I am mad and how I plan to harbor this resentment from now until the end of time. Though, if I am honest about what I am feeling I can acknowledge I grieve what I thought was friendship and the person I trusted. I accept that their behavior, not their words show me who they are, and I have choices on who I let in my life. That is life on life’s terms and that is the path to peace for me. I chose to travel that way.

I’m STILL Not Fine and Neither Are You

I get to train leaders of a large company on trauma. Granted, there aren’t gobs of people lining up to teach trauma, however, I get to. My work-wife (aka colleague) and I have to prepare ourselves before getting up in front of a room of very smart and responsible people to teach them how to allow themselves and their employees to be human. We don’t share our personal traumatic histories and stories, however it takes a lot of energy to make the impact we feel is important to make.

Inevitably, there are head nods in agreement and note taking as we continue through our material making good points that deserve highlighting. However, my favorite part is when we give the group permission to not be okay. We get to see a communal sense of relief roll over the group as shoulders release with a chorus of grateful exhales. By simply giving permission for people to be human we allow people to step into their truth so they can then welcome others along with them. When we all show up a little more honestly, we have a chance to truly live rather than survive.

I said these words in the training we facilitated yesterday, “I’m not fine and neither are you. And who wants to live as fine? I don’t. I have no desire to survive life. I want to live and that requires me to show up in an honest way.”

A harmonious, concurrent head nod occurred from the group. I thought to myself ‘my work here is done.’

I’m Not Fine And Neither Are You (scarymommy.com)

I remain proud of this piece and the positive impact it had on people. It was a giant step into the light of truth and vulnerability in writing that I had not been brave enough to share before. I am so grateful I did and so grateful to continue to be on that path with you all!

Thank you for reading & supporting me!

Peace and Love,

Steph ✌️🧡

The Beauty of Being a Woman

Our ability to use delicate strength as well as brutal force when necessary.

The rainbow of colors and shapes of our hair which pulls back the curtain to tell a piece of our story.

How a trademark ring can be more than an accessory and transform into an heirloom.

When the type of shoes she wears can tell you the kind of day she is heading into – whether it requires shit-kicking boots or the clack of heels on the hallway to get the job done.

A magical kiss of a mother to heal any wound or the silent look she gives to shut down a situation without the need of threat.

The comradery acknowledged using one word between two women… ‘GIRL’…

The immeasurable energy created when a group of women gather and hum of laughter and conversation between friends of any length of time.

We are women and we celebrate each other today for all that we are.

The roles we play in our families, our workplaces, our friendship circles and our communities are vital and irreplaceable. The conventional roles of nurturers and healers for communities are not to be dismissed by but commended in addition to the innovative paths women are paving in careers and solidifying other respected roles.

Our history includes times of pain and grief to ensure our rights as human beings and not the lesser sex. Equal access to health care and even voting was not inherently bestowed to us, so we had to take those rights through whatever means necessary. Those rights were taken by women coming together in support of each other.

We spend far too much time sitting in comparison judgement of one another. Whether it’s through social media posts or carpool lines, rather than celebrating the woman next to us we tend to criticize her for the car she drives, the job she does or doesn’t have and if she is wearing the current trend. Some of these traps to keep us against one another are by design, so let’s breakthrough the smoke and mirrors to come together for one another.

I see you. I celebrate you. I am grateful for you, phenomenal women!

Death By Silence

At a wedding recently, I was at a table making small talk about work when another guest and I realized we were in similar industries. The other guest worked for a company where I knew someone. As our conversation narrowed to a specific group of people and then to the person I knew, the other guest nodded in acknowledgement of being acquainted with the person I knew. We shared a common human which connected us.

The guest leaned closer to me and whispered, “but didn’t she pass away?”

I replied, “yes, she did.”

“So young, gosh, so sad I mean I heard she was very active so I wondered if it was a tragic accident or something.”

“It was tragic. She died by suicide.”

And with that statement of truth, the entire table froze. It might as well have been the entire reception. I took the silence as an opportunity to start the conversation. Yes she was young and beautiful and successful and smiling and struggling in silence. Her social media posts looked amazing, full of love and fun and happiness, though she suffered with the pain of a chronic, invisible illness.

The entire table lowered their heads and did not engage in the conversation, not because they are assholes and don’t care, but because suicide is the death by silence. We don’t talk enough about how to prevent it because we don’t talk about it when it happens. Death by suicide is not shameful or something to shy away from having conversations about. It is a preventable cause of death, but the prevention is where the work happens.

We HAVE to normalize accessing mental health care.

We HAVE to stop calling people crazy.

We HAVE to talk about how hard life is and stop setting unrealistic expectations for ourselves.

Suicide is more preventable than heart disease, diabetes and cancer. I see ads everyday praising people for getting help to lower their risk of each of these illnesses, highlighting how easy it is to get treatment as well as the side effects from whatever treatment is being advertised.

You know what the side effect of not getting mental health treatment?

Self-harm, deteriorating relationships, sleep disturbances, digestive issues, heart problems and death by suicide.

So we think twice about taking a medication that causes skin irritation or diarrhea, but we suffer in silence with the losing connections to those we love, lack of sleep and thoughts of death?

It does not make sense, because it does not make sense.

There is no one to blame for suicide. (I will type it again) There is NO ONE to blame for suicide.

No one person can make another person end their life.

No one interaction can make another person die at their own hands.

The person who dies by suicide is equally NOT to blame.

They are ill with distorted thoughts.

The evidence in front of them when making this decision is not true.

They are literally dying because of inaccurate information that feels very real.

Feelings are not facts.

In the last two weeks of my professional life, I have come in contact with five survivors of suicide. Five people who lost a loved one in their immediate family! Mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, children who have questions that will never be answered. A void in their lives that will always be present.

I provide treatment for the effects of suicide on a daily basis. Whether it’s with someone brave enough to ask for help for their own struggles with distorted thoughts or their family member trying to make sense out of a reality that does not. It is by far, the most challenging work I do. I am a solution-focused junkie – I see a problem, I offer a solution. Many times my solution is assisting my clients in creating the solution themselves. When someone is grieving a death by suicide, there is no solution. There is no resolve. There are no answers. Only pain and time.

So I hold the space for their pain and assure them, it will not always feel this way. Grief is not something to get over. There is no end. Grief remains for a lifetime. Grief is something to get through and to learn to manage so that life has purpose – yours and the life you lost.

Did you know if you have a connection to someone who has died by suicide, your risk for suicidal ideation, distorted thoughts, increases? And with each connection, your risk goes up.

Treatment, recovery and peace are possible.

The most heartbreaking question I’ve been asked was by a parent of someone who died by suicide.

“What could I have done differently?”

The only response I have to give is “nothing”.

The answer is nothing because no action or inaction was the cause.

Silence is to blame.

Prevention is the cure. The only cure.

Okay, so we got the cure but what does prevention look like?

Prevention is education.

Prevention is access to care.

Prevention is validating that mental health matters.

Education looks like: Yes, I go to therapy because I need help with dealing with my life (period). That is not a random statement, it is fact for me. I GO TO THERAPY BECAUSE I NEED HELP DEALING WITH MY LIFE. By the way, I am also a therapist. Do you know how many clients I have shocked with this statement? The same amount that relax their shoulders and sigh with relief after I say it because I normalize accessing help for them. They are not crazy. They do not need to be fixed. They need to be validated and witnessed for. And I am their girl!

Access to care looks like: Did you know most employers offer an Employee Assistance Program (EAP) as a benefit which includes FREE therapy sessions? Did you know there are virtual services available at a low cost and even some that are covered by your health insurance provider? Did you know there are free groups and websites full of information on affordable mental health services? When in doubt, ASK about ACCESS! If you don’t know where to start, start with me. Shoot me an email. Message me on Facebook. I will help you find a place to begin. And if I am not your cup of tea, there are A LOT of licensed professionals who might be – keep reaching out until you find one that fits.

Validation looks like: Your experience matters. Your feelings are not facts, that is why we don’t function on feelings alone. However, your feelings do matter and you deserve to be heard. There is not a single thing you can tell a therapist that will shock them enough and send you away. And if that ever happens to you, tell ME and I will report them to their licensing board because they should not be in the helping profession!

Talk therapy may not be the easy-fix-it-button, because there may be more dynamics at play. Taking care of our mental health with self-care is a pie. There are many pieces at play.

Our physical health.

Our spirituality.

Our mentality.

Our activity.

Our connections.

There is not one piece that is more important than another.

We can’t take a pill to cure it.

We can’t pray it away.

We can’t think it away.

We can’t exercise it away.

We can’t love it away.

We CAN eat one piece at a time. One day at a time. And we can find peace in healing.

We have to start talking. We have to remove the mask of judgement and shame.

Share your story, because there is someone who needs to hear it. You are NEVER alone.

What box do you check, today?

I check a lot of boxes.

✅Woman

✅Mother

✅Wife

✅Daughter

✅Sister

✅Friend

✅Helper

These boxes are easy to identify roles I play daily. These are roles I am proud of.

However, there are many other boxes I check that are not so clear to the outside world – identities I own, but may not show to everyone.

✅Empathic

✅Spiritual

✅Feminist

✅Strong-willed

✅Relentless

And still, some identities I own, but am not so proud of.

✅Self-conscious

✅Controlling

✅Neurotic

✅Procrastinator

Our identities dictate how we function in the world. As a woman, the world interacts with me based on that identity. In turn, my identity as a woman shapes how I make my way through my day. People see my appearance, assume I am a woman, and act accordingly.

My identity as a wife also shapes how people interact and communicate with me. The fact I wear two bands on my left ring finger signifies I have someone I share my life with (or that I don’t want to be bothered). It identifies I am married and this identity shapes my interaction with other people and even how I interact with societal structures like government, financial institutions and organized religion.

Other pieces of my identity are not as easy to notice. You may not get the opportunity to witness my relentlessness unless you are a client of mine or working on a project with me. My family and friends can attest to pros and cons of my strong-will. You can simply have a conversation with me or see my social media posts to recognize I am a feminist, but you may wonder if I am religious or spiritual – these identities are not seen with the eye.

And as for the identities I am not so proud of, I go to great lengths to keep these embarrassing little boxes closed and out of sight. These identities are currently under construction and in process of change.

ALL of these identities are pieces of me – They make up who I am.

How I see me.

How the world sees me.

Pieces of a pie that I serve to those who come my way.

And yet, they are ALL able to be changed.

Now you may argue, a mother is always a mother. My response is, yes, but a mother can be a mother in name only. I choose to be the kind of mother I am today. That choice shapes my identity as a mother. Same as being a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend and a helper. Identities that many also lay claim to but implement differently.

I do not enjoy cooking. (Yep-I said it!) I cook so my family doesn’t starve. I have identified as a bad cook for most of my adulthood – I did try to act like I enjoyed it for a few years in my 20’s but that lie died quickly. I told anyone who would listen, and I preface any food offer I brought to a party, “I am a bad cook.” I lowered the expectation immediately. What came along with that identity was the resentment with cooking and all associated activities. The grocery shopping, the prepping, the planning are all tasks I dread, because who wants to do a task when you don’t enjoy it and you aren’t any good at it.

But what if I am an amazing cook?

What if I decide to change my identity and find purpose and peace in cooking for my family? What if I choose a different identity? I do not have to love cooking to be good enough.

Maybe changing my identity as a bad cook prompts me to ask for help with other tasks at home and improves communication at my house?

Maybe if I am not a bad cook, maybe I am more confident to make food for family get togethers and gives us more time to make memories?

Maybe identities can be changed? Maybe the more knowledge we gain we can adjust our perspective?

The challenge lies with accepting, evaluating, and learning from new information then adjusting my perception of truth to account for this knowledge. I am evolving and opening my mind to acceptance that my identities can change when I open myself up to the opportunity. Maybe adjusting my identity opens doors of opportunity that would remain closed if my mind does also.

💥Maybe I am confident, not self-conscious.

💥Maybe I am vulnerable, not sensitive.

💥Maybe I am spiritual, not religious.

Changing my identity doesn’t negate who I used to be, it validates my growth.

And I don’t grow in my comfort zone.

Maybe I am a good cook sometimes and sometimes I am not. Maybe it’s not all or nothing.

Maybe who I am, changes as I grow. Maybe I get to be whoever the hell I decide to be.💥

mommy, mommy, mommy

Don’t Let Your Message Get Lost in Your Mouth

“As you grow older you will discover that you have two hands. One for helping yourself the other for helping others.”

– Audrey Hepburn

What does your voice sound like? Do you whisper words that go unnoticed? Does your roar overpower your point? Are your words like a splattered buck-shot, difficult to find the significance in? What provokes you? What prompts you to participate in a conversation? Is there something that ignites the fire in your soul to release the power of your voice?

Our society relies on communication, though I question how much we actually value it. From a young age, we begin to teach our children how to communicate. Words like, “mom, dad, yes, no” are vital for a small child to get its needs met. Even the choice to cry or not is a lesson in the power of one’s voice. School children are taught the alphabet, vocabulary words and the how to apply the written language. The most important lesson is simple.

Your power lies in your voice. How to teach that is a little more difficult. Your voice can be used for a shield of distraction or a tool for liberation. Your voice can be used as a weapon to harm or an instrument of healing.

We have an entire generation who use their fingers as the tool for their voice. Words are thrown around the internet like hand grenades leaving unaccounted for damage. People saying and writing what they want without any thought or purpose behind their words, causing pain and provoking rage. This phenomenon may have begun with a generation, but its popularity has caught on and is spreading throughout the rest of us. We drop these bombs from behind a screen with protection from accountability and we have all become numb to the effects of the power of our words. “Say it to my face” no longer applies.

As I sit here behind my screen, sharing my voice at the ripe ole age of “no-yet-40” I wonder what my younger voice would have cared to share. The 22-year-old-me was full of piss and vinegar and thought that she would do as she damn well pleases. However, the truth was, 22-year-old me, was more concerned with how you would perceive what she told you. It was more important to her what you thought of her, than what she was saying. She didn’t realize that using her voice for gossip was her way of distracting you from her own mess. Saying she was “fine” deflected your concern for her, so no one would look harder at a young girl in a woman’s body trying to figure out how to be an adult. My 22-year-old-voice roared like a lion, and my words had a bite. My shield of distraction was a powerful weapon used with little thought of the ramifications of its actions. 22-year-old-me was not a villain, but a confused, damaged, angry, sad young woman who had friends and a family that loved her. Yet still, her voice was not yet hers. She wasn’t fully aware of the power it held.

We have an obligation to teach our kids how to respect the power of their words, so we need to practice what we preach. Just because they hide behind a screen and a keyboard doesn’t give them free reign to share their every unfiltered thought. We would do well to remember that for ourselves. For every thought, there is a consequence or reward to follow. Reaction does not have to be the protocol.

Let’s take a minute and think.

Yes.

Take a minute.

Take a breath.

Think.

Once you put something out into the universe, there is no rewind. No do-over. No shoving it back in. Sleeping on it is an appropriate response. If you don’t know, it’s okay. Just wait before you react.

College and professional football referees have the ability to review the previous play before making a call. They literally get a rewind button, time to review the play, discuss amongst themselves and decide what happens next. Once they do, the head ref turns on his microphone, the crowd quiets and he announces, “upon further review.” Whatever he says, it pissed off about half of the fans watching while the other half cheers. However, before he clicks the mic to live, he takes a minute. He breathes and then responds.

As a social worker, I had the opportunity to advocate for families who were involved with the family court system. This brought many highs and lows. Family court impacts the most important aspects of one’s life, their children, their relationships, their finances and sometimes their freedom. Emotions were always running at the highest level. While sitting with many mothers before entering the court room for a multitude of reasons, we would many times have a similar conversation. She would voice her frustrations, her pain and her fears. I would be the sounding board for her every thought and feeling, learning her story so I could support her when we went before the judge. My only advice for these warrior women as we entered into the legal arena was “don’t let your message get lost in your mouth.” Translation: As right as you are. As hard as you’ve fought. Don’t react to your emotions. Keep your head up. Be prepared for the consequences and the rewards that come from using your voice. I never had to explain that to a single woman I worked with. They just knew.

Not everyone is going to agree with you (thank the good Lord). You will feel compelled to react to things that push your buttons and get under your tough, thick skin. You have a right to feel your feelings, you just don’t have to react to them immediately. The choice is yours. But when you do use that quick tongue, be vulnerable enough to admit when you are wrong. There is power in accountability. Let your voice be heard!

Photo Credit: Photography by Angela Gross

colorful clouds

Finding the Words

Do you have trouble finding the words sometimes? It’s a funny question, because we aren’t actually searching for words. We have the words, what we are searching for are is how to insert the words into the conversation at the exact right moment to convey our message in the exact way we feel it needs to be articulated. That’s exhausting!

On the flipside of that coin, when we are careless with our insertion of words, we run the risk of getting lost in translation. An emotional response can cause the recipient to put earmuffs on, change the focus of the conversation and our message is entirely lost. Getting your point across is almost impossible! You can’t win for losing, right?

Or what if there is a different, less exhausting way to communicate? What if we pause, take a breath, pull the words together, and present them to another without fear of rejection or reaction? How, you ask? Let’s take a look.

Ruby was up all night waiting for her seventeen-year-old daughter to come home after she could not reach her daughter on the phone. For added fun, her daughter came home drunk. Take a minute to imagine the whirlwind of emotions swirling around. As much as she would have loved to scream out the list of thoughts running through her mind, Ruby decided to send her daughter to bed. She decided to take a breath and take a minute.

The next morning, Ruby peacefully watched the sunrise on her back porch and with no yelling involved she had a conversation with her daughter. A conversation being one of listening and sharing. A conversation is not sharing then drafting your next response. They ended with a hug and a threat of violence if the behavior continued. Bottom line, each part was heard, love was shared and boundaries were identified. A winning combination!

Ruby did a lot of good things here – she took a minute, not reacting immediately. She took a breath and focused her thoughts. She meditated sitting in nature, interacting with her higher power. She used “I statements” when expressing herself. And most important, she LISTENED.

Communication does not have to be exhausting, though it should be thoughtful. Be mindful of your words, but there is no perfect way to say it. There is no perfect time to express it. You cannot control how others receive you, because they too have a whole process and agenda going on in their mind when you are trying to get them to see it your way. Take a breath. Use your words. Then toss out your message and be ready to listen. Imperfect practitioners of self-care are effective communicators (full circle moment). Have a great day!

Ruby Dives In

Sitting upright with my legs crossed, attempting to watch the next episode of Grey’s Anatomy Season 2, which I have seen 15,000 times, because I can’t focus on any new information right now. This may be my favorite season because they are all so young. Meredith and McDreamy are still flirty and new. There lives are not laid out in front of them. They may be cardio gods, or neuro geniuses or pedis heroes, the opportunities are endless. They are only responsible for themselves and only answer to the “Nazi” (AKA Dr. Bailey). They get to walk around and say “seriously” all the time without anyone blinking an eye.

Well, I am no brain surgeon, though I’m sure I could play one of TV. This parenting gig, has me up all hours of the day and night, I’m in pajamas which could double as scrubs, walking around screaming “seriously” constantly and I may turn into Dr. Bailey by the time I get my hands on my first born. In the most uncomfortable chair in our home, I watch season 2 episode 17, which has the infamous “code black”, and I think to myself, this is the only excuse she has right now. There must be a bomb in a body cavity at the hospital she was brought to tonight because she was attacked by a pack of werewolves or vampires and she is cannot use her phone or any phone in sight to call me because the bomb squad forbid it. That must be the explanation.

While Izzy and Cristina wash the blood off Meredith after the bomb explodes in bomb-squad-guys hands, I decide now is the time to begin to call hospitals. I hit my home button to request Siri’s assistance with searching phone numbers, when there is a thump at the front door. I hop to my feet like I am ready to receive a trauma case coming in and I think to myself, oh good she is alive, now I can kill her myself. The front door falls open to reveal my baby girl stumbling around like a stampede of buffalo, believing she is scurrying like a tiny undetected mouse. She is drunk. Paging Dr. Bailey!

“Miranda. Rae. Errore.” I spit out each syllable of her given name.

She freezes. I watch her mind turn as the internal debate ensues. She can’t decide if she should begin spilling the ridiculous explanation she concocted to fight with me or retreat to her room and flee the situation. Though, it appears she is choosing door number three while she remains frozen in this moment waiting for further action from me.

I too am still. Inside I feel this red rage of emotions flowing through my veins. I have the urge to scream out, but I cannot find the words to express all the feelings running through my mind. I struggle to pinpoint where to begin my motherly assault. Do I commence with my anger at her lack of respect for me by rolling in at this hour? Or should I start by telling her how disappointed I am with her choices? I could list the possible outcomes of this evening ending with her on the operating table with Chief Webber calling her time of death.

However, I remain frozen. We look at each other, speechless. Then my mouth involuntarily moves and releases, “go to bed, Andi. We will talk in the morning.” Without a word she quietly withdraws to her room.

I fall onto the couch and lay my head in my hands. I softly release the emotional tidal wave that has ravaged through my body waiting until I laid my eyes on her again.

Yes, I am angry!

Yes, I am disappointed!

Yes, I am relieved. However, as the flood of emotions roll from my mind, fear is strongest of all. I am afraid of what I saw tonight. I was afraid of what could have happened to my child. I actually thought she could have been dead. That is unthinkable, but I invited the thought in like a vampire and let it attack my mind. The tears washed me clean of these infectious thoughts. Andi is home and she is alive. I can exhale.

I sit on the back porch and watch the sunrise. I thank the higher power I bargained with earlier this morning for delivering her home to me.

I ask that power for one more favor – the words to say to her. I hear the back door open behind me. I do not move. I stay wrapped in my blanket on the swing. She quietly approaches, head down, and sits next to me on the swing. I want to shake the shit out of her and squeeze her at the same time, but instead I offer her part of my blanket. I feel the space between us shrink and I take her hand the collapse the rest.

“Mom, I am so sorry.” Miranda almost whispers in my direction.

I hope that higher power starts speaking through me and I chose my words carefully. “What exactly are you sorry for, Andi?”

She turns my way and I see the shameful pain in her face. “All of it.”

I have a choice. I can just say okay and move on without diving into this sea of uncomfortableness leaving so much unspoken and closing the door on my daughter letting me in. Instead, I suit-up and take a running start. I dive in head-first.

“Andi, I was afraid. I couldn’t get you on the phone and I was so scared at what could have happened to you.” I am turned and looking at the side of her face. “And I am sorry too.” She looks up from the floor for the first time. “I should have done a better job of talking to you about this already, so we are going to do it now.”

Miranda nods her head with acceptance.

I tell her about my deepest, darkest fears of her being sexually assaulted, not because she asked for it or deserved it but because there are bad people in this world that I cannot protect her from. With tears falling down my face, I express the pain I had already imagined if she were killed in drunk driving accident. I decided to share with her stories of my mistakes as young girl who’s mother never said anything accept “do as I say not as I do.”

Miranda shares with me the stress of being seventeen. And a girl. And an honor roll student. And a swimmer. And the oldest of four. Her tears shared a story of the pressure she had bottled up and stuffed down so deep she thought a little alcohol couldn’t hurt in the fight to keep it all together. I watched her pour out her soul to me and I saw my baby girl image of Andi fade away and the young woman, Miranda take form. She was no longer a child who’s hand I could smack to stop her from touching the electric sockets. Right before my eyes, she had turned into a woman and my job had transformed into consultant instead of manager. That morning we talked. I didn’t preach (much). She didn’t roll her eyes (except twice).

We had a discussion and we both listened. Instead of holding on to the illusion of control with both hands on the reins, I loosened my grip and let go just a little and Miranda showed me how great of a mom I am. I (with the help of her dad) raised this miraculous female sitting in front of me. I am transitioning into a new roll with her, and I am going to try to show a little freaking grace as I do it.

We stand up and I squeeze this girl who stole my heart, seventeen years ago. The first person to call me “Mommy” and the first one who will send out into the world as an adult, theoretically.

“I love you more than you know, Miranda Rae.”

“I love you too, Momma.”

“But if you ever come in this house like that again I will beat the hell out of you like a grown woman. Got it?”