Me, talk funny.

Me, talk funny. Does that make sense?

I know this to be true but I couldn’t understand why. 


For my first full year of college I suffered from the inability to string together a sentence. It nearly happened overnight. When someone spoke to me I’d zero in on what they were saying- studying the way their mouth formed each letter, thinking maybe if I just really, really, focused I could figure out what they were telling me and then I could come up with an adequate response. Something that said, “Yes, I’m here with you. I understand you. I am understood.”

I took this information to a therapist and she decided to medicate me. During the golden days of Vyvanse (a medication served to individuals with ADD/ADHD and, sometimes, Binge Eating Disorder) I’d find myself sitting at the local coffee shop, studiously completing tasks, and turning to strangers saying, “Is this what life is like for you all the time?” Sometimes I’d recognize a familiar sweaty armpit stain on them (profuse sweating is a side effect of the medication), and I’d know that they didn’t know what being neurotypical was like, either. While we enjoyed the come up and rode out productivity during its peak, we’d both be a victim to the come-down. The inevitable crash that follows when you lean into more of the symptoms, like a lack of appetite. Unfortunately, it’s incredibly simple to abuse amphetamines, a trap I’d unwillingly fell into, but we’ll explore more of that in my next post. 


I grew up with a subconscious belief that I was stupid. I mean, I had to be. Spelling was impossible, numbers would jumble on the page, and following orally given direction was incredibly difficult. I don’t recall myself to be a particularly troublesome kid, especially in a public school system in the south- where privilege ranged from wealthy multi-million dollar homes to families in trailers on welfare. I grew up in the forgettable middle. I never failed a class but set the standard quite low in the avenues I never excelled- like math. Whereas classes like English, where I could put words to play and flex creativity, I’d have a lesser issue understanding. I’d accepted that maybe I wasn’t very smart- but people liked me for reasons embedded in my personality. I could inspire attention through self-depreciative humor, crass language, and quirky style. I was kind, inclusive, and most of all, on a quest to be liked- despite all that I lacked. In an effort to mask my academic shortcomings I applied my natural ability to evoke humor and flair drama.  While other kids collected extracurriculars, volunteered, ran track and field, or experimented with meth, I expanded my deep infatuation in theatre. Acting was both a great savior and a radical distraction from what I needed.


I’ve been seeing a new therapist and it’s confirmed that I most definitely have ADHD. ADHD is an immediately recognized term. I know that I don’t have to break it down because either you have it, someone close to you has it, or you know that you lack it. Confirming that I have ADHD didn’t really expand my understanding of self, but realizing that I have APD, or Auditory Processing Disorder, did.

Central Auditory Processing Disorder affects anything to do with oral language, written language, and communication. It can cause difficulties in musicality, language learning, or even picking up social cues- like sarcasm or sincerity. (I’ve always had difficulty understanding why things I’m expressing with deep sincerity can be read with a deep degree of sarcasm!)

Orally given instructions are difficult to follow and lectures are lost without the ability to record notes. One of the symptoms that fueled my major depressive disorder in college was the inability to recite words as spelled. I had one professor who was incessantly aggressive with my inability to pronounce certain words correctly. The harder I pressed myself to not fuck it up, the more frustrated I would become, like a fan to a flame- continuing to illuminate a big banner stretched across my brain. “I’m Stupid!” But somehow it took until this first year of college, when I was assigned a specifically academic professor, to notice how I have a knack of flipping sounds in a word. Something that I’d notice my mother also did.

APD affects 3 out of 5 people and can hereditary or developed through trauma. Like a significant bonk to a toddler’s temple or even head injuries sustained later in life. Auditory Processing Disorder takes place when the central nervous system takes a sound, like a series of sentences, but once it transfers to the brain it becomes a jumbled message. There lies Auditory Discrimination which is when similar sounds become difficult to discern, and also Poor Auditory Memory which causes verbal instruction, or even just an interesting fact heard on NPR, difficult to absorb. While APD has shown to be misdiagnosed as ADD/ADHD, it also can be a symptom of ADHD. There is no medication for APD, but medications like Ritalin have been seen successful, though this is allocated to subjects with underlying conditions like the aforementioned ADHD. When a child shows positive for APD they can practice language forming skills to encourage the neuroplasticity in their brain.

Four years ago, in what I would consider the trenches of my depressive suffering, I wasn’t able to accept nor process this information if someone served it to me. But after years of self-esteem improvement I’ve reached a place where I can take in this diagnosis (slowly, processing in my own time) and begin researching on my own behalf. The first step to a solution is by discerning the problem. Discerning, accepting, relearning, actualizing, and beginning a whole new life with brand new tactics. And slowly the big ol’ banner across my mind dismantles. I believe that through meditation, patience, and self-compassion adults can gain a greater acceptance of their diagnoses and begin to live life more aware of their unique style of processing. Dan Siegel, clinical professor of psychiatry at the UCLA School of Medicine and executive director of the Mindsight Institute, says “Where attention goes, neural firing flows and neural connection grows.” And I hear that loud and clear. 

When I accept my reality for what it is I can begin re-writing my story. Most people with auditory processing disorder find that writing is a great difficulty; I become wedged in between two crossing paths. Writing and communication for me can be incredibly difficult. But communication is, simply, what I do. My days are filled with thoughts, journaling, conversations, and attempting to engage my insatiable curiosity. Clarity provides a sigh of relief and a cry of lamentation. Had someone discovered this in my youth, where would I be today? How many years of suffering could have been wiped from my experience in exchange for years of goal setting, self-actualizing, and optimal living? But alas, that’s what life is about. My therapist constantly reminds me that we all have our own setbacks and challenges, childhood traumas, and things we’d like to better understand about ourselves. The human experience is perfectly flawed, and maybe that can be the fun part, unraveling the tangled up questions to reveal an imperfect answer. And that, to me, is starting to make sense.


Open Bar Policy

Lately, I’ve been seeking refuge in my musical past.I’ve found myself pulling out old sheet music and lamenting over YEARS of voice lessons and causing me to mourn lost voice memos  (thanks for nothing, Apple). Back in my Musical Theatre(tm) Days, I was working on this song called, “How to Return Home” by Kerrigan & Lowdermilk. I was just about to leave for college, so my voice teacher thought I’d connect with it when I came home from winter break. Only when I went to sing it again it didn’t strike me emotionally. In fact, it never really struck me at all. 

I came back from my trip just about two weeks ago. It was a hectic return to say the least; there were issues in my apartment, from technical to relational to straight up buggy junk. Nearly everything in my room demanded a hot wash and fresh sheets (and pillows and comforter). It was Thanksgiving and then Black Friday so nothing of use to me was open. My car needed an oil change. I was/am basically unemployed. And still…I was feeling really, really good. Even though there were unfavorable circumstances, I carried this new attitude through and took things day by day by day. My energy felt entirely different! It was almost…eery .

And then, for a minute there, I thought I could have been pregnant. Sorry, mom. Travel, especially when it’s more than two weeks, can seriously fuck with your cycle. Logically, I knew that chances were oh so slim but I know one too many friends who have “done it all right” but still were on the other side of a Planned Parenthood counter. Fortunately, that wasn’t my case! However, with the return of my period, came a storm of doubts and anxiety. It was as if everything I learned about myself while traveling was out the door. My return home ushered in  old, dormant energies that I had hoped I left behind somewhere between Amsterdam and Berlin.

 I have to remind myself that 30 days is both a lot and a little time. It’s easy to kick cigarettes for a month then return to a pack a day by the next. You can leave your ex for a month and then see them at a bar and think “Oh yeah, this is fate a fated meeting we’re totally meant to feel this all over again”. Following a diet (not an advocate) is easy in the beginning but then you realize pizza is off the table for the rest…of…your life? (Again- I’m not an advocate for dieting and pizza should always be an option. Damn- I love pizza.) 

Reunions with friends kicked off and hey, it’s the holidays. We’ve got parties and open bars; Plenty of excuses and reasons to drink. And after three consistent nights of really going for it I started to observe a decline in my attitude. The gym had been visited once and the grocery multiple times. In response to the stress of re-entering a static routine, I relapsed into binge-eating behavior. Something that is mostly behind me when I’m traveling but I’m continuously confronted with when I have a pantry to stock. I should probably go to a meeting. 

 I warned the blissful, Elizabeth Gilbert-like voice in my head that I would maybe stop hearing it so clearly and consistently. I knew that I was riding a high that had the potential to crash. I hadn’t felt so uniquely myself in years. I liked this new version of myself so very much but couldn’t help feeling like it was a jacket adorned. Seriously, whose skin was this? I asked her, without desperation, to please, please, please, stick around.

On Tuesday I received a text that said, “Tonight is the night! Are you coming?” It was an invitation to a holiday party at an institution where I used to work and take classes. I hadn’t been back in that environment since right before my trip. Actually, I sacrificed the performance level in order to take my trip. A lot of my social anxieties had taken root on those grounds. A lot of really beautiful blossoming happened in those rooms. Friendships were founded. Skills grew. Those… weird relationships based solely on proximity where you don’t exactly know how you stand, but they remember your name and you call them theirs, so you take it as it comes. I decided to go.

It was a particularly frigid evening and my ankles were exposed. My heels clacked along the concrete to the beat of my irregularly beating heart. I’ve gotten pretty good at refusing to recognize my screaming anxiety by going completely numb and the weather helped immensely with that little coping mechanism. It had only been a month away. Yet, I felt like a stranger to this bustling community I had spent a year establishing myself in. Within these walls, it feels like the efforts you make are only equal to the creative pursuits you mount. I can’t blame them. That’s why people join together in this space- to create. 

I grabbed a cup of Pinot Noir from the open bar (tip your bartender), reminding myself that even if it’s free I don’t need to drink a whole bottle. (I probably still did) I began scanning the room for familiar faces that would also recognize mine. That’s the thing about this type of environment- there are so many people that you know because you’ve been watching them perform for a year but the recognition is not exactly a two way street. I approached someone at the bar that I  recognized but I knew it wasn’t from improv- it was something different. And why not say hello, make an introduction? It’s a PARTY, goddamnit! I swooped in at the same moment the bartender’s attention was peaked; in a clunky motion I shouted, “No! No! Please order!” 

Do you know that moment when you can feel an interaction’s impending disconnect? 

AfterlightImage (3)
i mean- i can talk to just about anyone. (krakow, poland)

I’m good in social situations. I’m great at meeting new people. But I was really fucking weird talking to this guy. I mean… I wasn’t even trying to sleep with him like I really just wanted to have a conversation. I heard myself, as if out of body, saying things like “Yeah, I’m like part of things kind of sort of I’m on like, an indie team or whatever but you wouldn’t like, know us becau-” A spew of insecure bullshit that I thought I had rid myself of. 

Don’t get me wrong. It was good to see so many people I’ve grown to adore, to continue admiring people I admire, but at points I stood in the corner, sipping on my third cup of Pinot, wondering if I belonged in this world. I mean, I love it. It’s hilarious, smart, insightful, and infectious. But was I simply forcing myself- a circle- into a square hole? Is wanting to belong somewhere and authentically belonging somewhere two entirely different things? I’m still figuring it out.

ah yes, a reflective cup of water in the bathroom. (3 cups pinot, chicago)

The next morning I was briefly awoken with a need to pee. I popped some Ibuprofen with a respectful nod to my future self. God, I was tired. Tired of drinking to lubricate social interactions. Tired of overthinking and over-caring about situations I couldn’t change. And, mostly, tired of letting old patterns get in my way.

So that day, I got myself back to the gym. My sneakers matching the rhythm of the treadmill’s pace. Spotify on shuffle. Lizzo, techno, Maggie Rogers, The Avett Brothers… showtunes? Highly unanticipated on this shuffle. Mid-run I lifted my phone to see “How To Return Home” dance across the screen. Pumping up the incline, I slowed my pace and began to listen.

“Take a silent breath, hold in the change, tell yourself you still live here….”

Why Being Uncomfortable is the New Comfortable (and other ways to survive)

9 out of 10 people will tell me “Oh, I could never solo travel.” and a shocking amount have reported, “I would probably die“. I can assure you, as someone who has been robbed, assaulted, and lost on her solo travels- you shall not die. At least, I don’t think so. Anything can happen, I guess. I mean, we could all die at any moment. Huh. The mysteries of life. Continue reading “Why Being Uncomfortable is the New Comfortable (and other ways to survive)”

Inspiring! Feels Bad, But Not Bad Enough To Wreck Self!

I don’t quit things.

(They just softly begin to fade from my attention until evaporation, a tiny speckle of dust left from my previously inspired actions. People will marvel at the watermark and shake their heads with pity. “If only her attention span stretched beyond the boundaries of her own limitations.”)

Image result for hang in there baby

But, recently, I did quit something. Hard quit. Backing out. Goodbye.

My life has been in radical flux lately. I left one of my many jobs and an opportunity filled in it’s place, which I regretfully had to abandon within a tight timeframe. It’s a long story, useless to recap, except to note that I’ve never done something like that before. I additionally feel like it’s valid to express that those of us involved with the project were handed a very short timeline, minimal-to-no organization, and no guidance or support. We thought we knew what we were getting into but it turned out to be far more demanding than we imagined. (+ In my work to find my replacement I discovered that there was a party who offered to train and direct but that person was never aligned with those of us on the project.)

Okay, see-

I’ve always been the person to accept an opportunity, a favor, and see it all the way through- no matter how fucking miserable and stressed and coffee-fueled I am as a result. “Someone needed me! I had no CHOICE but to accept!” But after a lifetime of blind acceptance I finally recognized that I actually do have a choice. My moral compass always compels me to ask what is right. What is the right thing to do? Typically, I’d frame this question in the light of the other. What is right by them?

It’s a celebrated day when both what is right for an other and what is right for yourself aligns, but in a tough situation that’s hardly the case. This time, for truly the first time, I asked myself what would be right by me. And I made the difficult, adult choice (AKA shitty-shitty-fucking-shit choice) that I had to make. While I don’t feel like, a hero for it… I feel victorious in my own right. I expected to feel guiltier, and don’t get me wrong- the guilt is there, but it’s not debilitating. It’s not empowering. But it’s not debilitating.

Bob Carter (and my mom) said, “Poor planning on your part does not necessitate an emergency on mine.” I wanted to be the person to come in and save the day, but sometimes it’s just not feasible. Note that I didn’t say possible. Because that’s the third lesson I learned in all this mess. Nothing is literally impossible. I truly believe that. I believe that I can get anything, within my wheelhouse, accomplished. There is a massive difference between what one CAN DO and what one is WILLING TO DO. That comes down to boundaries… and sometimes you don’t know where your boundaries lie until they’re crossed.

The main takeaway I gained from this experience is about trusting my intuition. In the few days I had to mull over my options, figure out if I could move enough of my life around, and weigh out the pros and cons, I kept thinking “I should do this! How fun! How aligned for me!” while continuously feeling “Something is wrong here. I shouldn’t be part of this.” As someone still learning what it actually means to trust my intuition, I pushed past this gut feeling because there wasn’t any tactile evidence supporting my reasons to decline the position. Intuition is massively based on previous experience. Our brain is hardwired to recognize patterns. I even found myself saying, “You know, I’ve done stuff like this before. It’s super fucking hard to get done.”

Empathy also plays a major role. I thought I was being empathetic by accepting something that was really difficult to make work, but because I’m incredible, I could figure it out. But truly being empathic would have consisted of examining the workload, my time, and my accessible availability. Empathy would have been saying “No, thank you” earlier on and giving them a longer frame of time to find someone in my place.

Reflecting on all of this before announcing my resignation, effective immediately, forced me to question who I was being in that moment. I can’t think of a single time that I’ve backed out on a project. But I can think of many times that I’ve stayed involved in something to my own detriment.

I’ll end this post with a quote that popped up for me yesterday after I had asked for a message of comfort.

“We have all hurt someone tremendously. Whether by intent or accident. We have all loved someone tremendously. Whether by intent or accident. It is an intrinsic human trait. And a deep responsibility. I think. To be an organ and a blade. but. Learning to forgive ourselves and others because we have not chosen wisely is what makes us most human. We made horrible mistakes. It’s how we learn. We breathe love. It’s how we learn. And it’s inevitable.
– Nayyirah Waheed

Shocking! Local Gemini Withstands the Urge to Create a Personality Purely Comprised of Astrological Traits!

Yesterday I went to the library to check out a book. It would have lived in the self help section and, perhaps ironically enough, books on palmistry and astrology lived in the adjacent shelf. Old, old text on the matter- dated and spine rotted. With curiosity I pulled the textbooks and plopped on the floor.

A haunting feeling of regret began to pit in my stomach. When I was in college I would spend literal hours in the decks of our massive library, tweaking out on vyvanse (prescribed, okay?), and manically flipping through astrology books and clicking through websites while simultaneously balancing books on behavioral issues. My depression and anxiety completely clouded my judgement and stripped my personality, I was completely lost, had no boundaries, and was desperate to find myself again. When astrology popped into the picture I was relieved to have something fill in the gap. Like, before 2013 I thought that Gemini was an earth sign.
I cultivated endless knowledge on the subject, categorized all of my friends, professors, peers, and celebrities by birthday, and could rattle off what someone’s “purpose” was based on their date of birth. But here’s the catch. All of my birth chart information was ruthless and ruuuude. The stars spelt out simply toxic definitions of my cosmic makeup. I had literally no self worth and then this predictive text came in and affirmed my negative self beliefs, so, I believed it (ps- this is a practical example of realistic manifestation but we’ll break that down on another day).

This was a massive complex in my life that only added to my displacement in the world. And seriously… blessed be my friends who stood by the mess I had become. (But as I reflect upon this questionable phase of my life, I do recognize the entertainment value it possessed, for that you’re all welcome.) I’m also forced to reflect upon this pattern of behavior from my childhood. I had grown up independently religious- no one was responsible for dragging me to church or for speaking the fear of God into me. I was just into it. Like, I bought my own self a purity ring. It was the fish symbol in multitudes that wrapped around my finger in silver. I’d also like to note that I consider this as a symbol of waiting until I was engaged before having sex. Because I also believed in reincarnation and failed to believe that women deserved to be stoned on their periods- so I modified to fit the modern world.

At one point, during the middle of 7th grade, I was woken up in the morning by a startling conundrum. I didn’t believe in God anymore. I didn’t believe in God anymore and I was totally fucked and going to hell because of it. Shit! I spent many a nights weeping in bed wondering where the fuck Godwent. I was beginning to relate with my friends who’s Fatherabandoned their families. Although their’s did it for sin, sodomy, and second lives. Wasn’t that what Godwas supposed to be AROUND FOR?! I was confused. So I recruited the strongest Christians in my circle (excluding the one’s who were “cooler” than me and, as it would be, also in my church small group). Lunch periods were spent discussing the possibilities I had left.
“Okay, but, like…”
I took a bite of my pizza boat (the popular public school special, a french loaf cut in half with the finest mild cheddar garnished on top).
“If I die today… God knows that I want to believe. But I just…” My pizza boat dove into the styrofoam cup filled with marinara, like in the end of Titanic, I imagined the stray hairs of cheese to be Rose and Jack clinging to the railing. “I don’t. He‘s got to be understanding, right? If anything it’s kind of on Him. I said Hecould have my free will. I’ve gotta be like, saved? ” Damn, Titanic was a great movie. I was starting to understand it far more as I desperately clung to the crumbling of my religion.
“Hm… it doesn’t work like that.” Diana shrugged her shoulders while adjusting the cross on her necklace. The kind set with real diamonds. You could tell because her parent’s packed her a lunch with organics. “Sorry.” Her watered down Russian accent couldn’t hide the distinct Orthodox Christian judgement she was passing onto me. In fact, it radically accentuated it. I, a once Non-denominational Christian turned Unwilling Atheist, should have known better than to seek her empathy.

This memory is one of my strongest from middle school. That and the time I ran to the bathroom crying during our 8th grade formal because everyone was grinding on each other, healthily exploring their bodies in space, and my dress wouldn’t zip up all of the way. An instant emotional recall every time I hear 50 Cent’s ’07 hit, Candy Shop.

hang in there, baby!

I suppose I have a habit of looking for guidance in the omnipotent. For my childhood self that was in Patriarchal Dad-God. For my college-aged personhood it was chaotically written in the stars. Oh, with what great force I believed in it. “Yes, I believe in Astrology but I totally wish that I didn’t.” Therapy didn’t even help decode this programming I’d willingly tuned into. My college therapist would speak to me in hushed tones about us both being Numerology life path number 6.

So, here I am, in 2019, originally reaching for The Power of Intention and cupping Everything Astrology instead. It took a few turns of the pages before noticing that my breathing had shallowed and heart rate quickened.

Pisces in Rising: one who will fail to grasp a sturdy understanding in self. Career opportunities are not favorable in this positioning nor is the potential of leadership. Try as one might, the individual paces in circles, caught in a dream, and anchored to nothing.”

My lips gradually rounded over each sentence as I read breathlessly, as if not to speak the text into existence, but to taste the texture of the word’s meaning. I swallowed as if dry-forcing a nasty pill. There was a bitter coating in my mouth. My tongue was dry. Jaw clenched. I could feel the dampness of my shirt clinging to bare skin underneath, still recovering from a 75 minute yoga sculpting class. I stood up and felt the earthy crunch of decade old carpeting beneath my sneakers and hoisted the heavy book above my head and back to the shelf. My shoulder popping with a satisfying tick as my arm returned to the side of my hip. As if my body was signifying something had finally clicked within the folds of my memory. This wasn’t, isn’t, who I am. My body made way to the exit and, for the first time, my mind wasn’t abandoned between the folds of pages. The librarian called to me as I passed,
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes.” And I turned away, needing not a book on reclaiming my power today.

Confession! I started a blog because my chiropractor told me to take a crack at it.

Despite continual support and words of affirmation from friends and family, local woman doesn’t find inspiration to get started until prompted by complete stranger!

Darek pressed deeply into my rhomboid as he offered a suggestion that struck more like instruction. “Why don’t you have a blog? I can see it. You’re making money, fulfilled, helping others. You’re a great storyteller and are very smart about what you’re going through. Also, Miss Cassandra, your lower back is very tight.”

So, in early February I met this guy at a bar. It was 2:00am and I was just above stumbling out before I took a seat next to him and began inquiring why he was wearing a single leather glove inside. He uncurled his covered fingers from the width of his Long Island Ice Tea. To make a long story short (a story I’ll reserve for another day), we hooked up, I went home the next day, and proceeded to recognize all of my energy was drained and I was on the brink of a depressive episode. So I took the week to recover and, as expected, my interest in dating had faded. On Valentine’s Day he sent me a groupon for a massage. This is the kind of support I need in my life. Sorry that I ghosted, Eric.

A little over two months later I cashed in. I’ve been deeply dedicated to my yoga practice and was starting to feel tension and tightness, I had just completed level two of improv classes at iO, and my sweet pal was hit by a car (help support Weston’s recovery here!) so I decided to honor my body.

I expected to come in for a normal massage. One where I would joyfully escape my ravenous calling to speak and, in exchange, fall into an aware silence. Yet Darek and I launched into conversation about the Polish heritage on my paternal side (Darek is from Poland), how I should go to the Poland Consulate and do some investigation, and how I dream about living abroad. Not even 3 minutes into the session we began talking about the work of Dr. Wayne Dyer and his book, “The Power of Intention”. Now, I don’t want to speak for him, because I owe him a link to this blog, but I think it’s safe to say that Darek really believes in helping people, in manifestation through intention, and the unlimited possibilities of our desires. I do, too. We both believe that we’re aligned with people and opportunity on purpose. And I’ll speak for myself by saying that magic doesn’t exist singularly in the world: we are vessels that carry the spark.

Many people tell me to blog. To make a youtube channel. To log what I have to say in some definable and sharable format. But I had spun this impossible web of limiting beliefs that, honestly, I don’t even think is vital to unpack right now. Because that isn’t what this space is about. It’s about a single mission that I’ve been executing for just over a year now. Intentional expansion.

Expansion takes a lot of work. It’s multilayered and never linear. It makes me think of a giant ladder that scales boundlessly into the sky. The only way to get where you’re going is up- but you don’t know what is up there, past the clouding, you just know that you’re empowered to get there. But you’re also afraid of heights so, like, this shit takes time. You don’t even know how much time it’s going to take, maybe it doesn’t end, it probably doesn’t, but you’re already on the ladder. Oh, also, it spirals. And there are all of these platforms every so often. Places to get off the ladder and explore. It’s cool and exciting and sometimes tempting to get comfortable. And that’s both okay and not okay because you have this steady-humming motor generating inside of you that is anxiously urging to continue climbing. It also really wants to figure out where this metaphor is going.

Okay okay okay, let’s put the ladder away.

So, listen. I suffered with debilitating depression for over four years. I put my dreams on hold while I blindly leap into the unknown of who I was in order to rediscover myself. And guess the fuck what.

I fucking did that shit and I’m doing that shit every single day. I can humbly and confidently say that I never knew if I would get here. But through the effective power of storytelling, of transparent vulnerability, risk taking, infallible determination, good friends, and a keen eye observing the messages that mystically unfold in unlikely places—- I’ve come back. I’m standing on a new foundation where I truly believe in my Power. It’s not easy- I don’t think anyone could categorize true mental, emotional, and physical expansion as such. It takes tools, time (“good” times and “bad” times), perspective that you can only cultivate through varied experience, and massive realignment. It’s questioning and clarity, belief and doubt, saying Yes! and No!, discovery and deprogramming. I certainly don’t have it all figured out but I’m certainly on my path of expansion. Join me in my space of storytelling, exploration, and discovery.

Let’s see where this flows.

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