My husband’s been out of town for the last four days for work, so it’s just been me and the kiddos here at home. Five or six years ago, this long of a solo-parenting stretch would have stressed me out immeasurably. But the kids are older now, and much more self-sufficient, so it’s entirely manageable. That doesn’t mean it’s without its challenges, though.

Old Me would have been incredibly triggered by not achieving something that I was working so hard for. All of my deep-seated fears and insecurities would be rearing their ugly heads. “If I didn’t get promoted, it means I’m not good enough. I let someone down. I didn’t meet my CEO’s expectations. I’m a disappointment. Why am I even doing this? I failed, which means I am a failure.” But New Me knows that’s all bullshit.

We actually had a pretty lovely day yesterday, until about 7pm. The kids were restless during morning services, but we did our best best to let them be, as long as they weren’t disturbing anyone else. Last night, though, Noah asked if he could sleep-in this morning. I lovingly reminded him that we have to go to Shul again for the second day of Rosh Hashanah, and you would have thought I told him that we were going to get all of his teeth extracted, one by one, without novocaine, by a murderous clown.

Rosh Hashanah has always been extra special for me. I’m not sure if it’s because there have been many years when my birthday and RH coincided (more cake and people to sing for me!), or if it’s because it signals the official start of Fall (at least in my mind, since Fall doesn’t exist when you grow up in Florida). But regardless of why, I’ve always felt like there’s a little bit more magic in this particular holiday than any others. And us Jewish folks have some good ones, like Chanukah (8 nights of gifts!), Purim (dress up, parade around in your costumes, and eat cookies!), and Simchat Torah (dance and get drunk!).

When “things are good,” it’s not because I’m in a state where the outside world, and everyone in it, is behaving exactly the way I want it to. We all know that’s some impossible BS that Instagram influencers and Tony Robbins like to constantly pitch for their own capital gain. When “things are good,” it’s because I’m in a state where my inner world is less tumultuous, less tied to expectations, and I’m less afraid of what I feel.

There are about 35 other women in this workshop with us, all of whom came to work on themselves. To figure out why they feel stuck, what’s holding them back, and how they can move forward with more self-love and self-confidence. I’m not just assuming these things—it’s what they’ve shared with the group throughout our time together so far. They want to reclaim their time, their hearts, their voices, their spirit. To release self-doubt, shame, obligation, and fear. To learn how to remember who they really are, and were, before life made them believe them otherwise.

Yesterday, when we were gathered from our living rooms at the cemetery to honor the 3 years since my dad passed away, my mom shared how hard it is for her to believe that it’s been that long. Of course, I understand. And yet there’s a sense of separation between us, because I’ve been able to let go of the replaying. I’ve accepted that whether or not it feels like three years, the calendar tells me that it is. I miss my dad. But I know that my suffering won’t change what’s real.

I cannot make you anyone different than who you are, nor can you make me anyone different than who I am. I can’t rearrange your path so you can learn the same things I’ve learned over these past few years. Those lessons have to come on their own. What I can do, though, is take everything I’ve learned and use it to be more open to our differences, rather than to close against them.

I’m re-reading one of the books that was most influential at the beginning of my meditation/mindfulness/spirituality journey a few years back: The Untethered Soul, by Michael A. Singer. If you’ve never picked it up, I highly recommend it. At the core of the book is this: you are not your thoughts, you are the seer of your thoughts. And if you are only the seer, then you don’t have to believe everything or anything you see/think.

Lately I’ve been thinking about a phrase that some people throw around as casually as popcorn: “I’m just dead inside.” I’ve been trying it on like impulse buys at Target, looking in the mirror and saying “neh, that’s not me,” but then wondering if maybe it could be me because it’s only $10 and I’d really like something new.

It’s not surprising that wanting to change (read: control) my physical appearance is the first place I go when I feel like other things are spiraling. I can’t make other people do things, believe things, see things in a different perspective. But I know from experience that if I try hard enough, I can make my body do things. Even if they’re unhealthy. Even if they’re the exact opposite of what it actually needs.

I was so beautifully overwhelmed and inspired by Untamed that I was afraid to know the full truth of what brought her there. I only wanted to move forward with her to new discoveries, not go backwards in an archeological dig to reconstruct the past. Of course, it wasn’t that I was afraid of understanding her past, but more so of mine.

I think my antsiness is the bottled-up energy of keeping these longings in check. They’re like well-oiled popcorn kernels in a pot on the stove, their pace of eruption getting faster and faster, hotter and hotter…but with the lid firmly shut. I’m trying my damndest to keep that lid locked firmly in place, trying to prevent the astounding mess it would make if things boil over. But the steam and the pressure are bound to bust through at some point.

(This photo is the real view from the deck at our mountain house.)

I cherish time alone with the reverence and awe of a diamond (an ethically sourced one, of course): rare, beautiful, sparkling, multifaceted. Time alone in the mountains is even more precious to me. Even if I don’t step foot outside (which I didn’t yesterday), just being here, sitting in my bed, watching the early morning fog drift through the valley, falling asleep to the cicadas at night…it’s magic for my soul.

Last night, while we were playing We’re Not Really Strangers, my husband pulled a card that asked me, “What’s your one happiest memory from this past year?” I couldn’t answer it.

I laid there, scrolling through my mental archives like an IG feed, trying to think of all of the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done, the people I’ve spent time with.

Belief is a tightrope, and it feels like I’m stuck in the middle of it—wanting to move forward, taking one cautious step at a time, but afraid of being disappointed again, constantly looking over my shoulder at the path back to where I’ve already been. Maybe the real courageous act isn’t to force myself to move in either direction, but to just stand right here, where I am, at the uncomfortable balancing point?

On Day 14, I drastically changed my script. It was too long. So many words and visions that I was having trouble sticking to my daily writing practice. In the course of trying to make it shorter, I ended up pivoting the narrative entirely. It went from being about where I want to live, how I want to live, and how I want to feel—to who I want to be. How I want to show up.

I stand by my belief that I need to follow my knowing. And maybe all of this is the path to figuring out what my knowing is actually trying to tell me.

There are times when I think I can hear it and see it clearly. Like the universe is sending me signs—a podcast about finding yourself in a better place after a hard breakup; a song I’ve known the lyrics to for years, but only recently really heard its message about realizing you can’t change someone who doesn’t want to be changed; an inner acceptance that I will be fine no matter what happens.

We talked yesterday. For once, REALLY talked.

He pulled back his emotional curtains, just a few inches.

I got a peek into what might be behind them.

Maybe it was more than I expected?

It’s tough to describe, but I’ve been experiencing a lack of emotion these past couple of weeks. Maybe it’s been longer than that. Maybe I’ve been caught in a string of so many heightened emotions, for such a long period of time, that my circuits have overloaded? Maybe I was feeling so much, that as a self-defense mechanism, I now can’t feel anything at all?