How do you know when you’re truly done with something? Or someone?

It can’t be when the thought of having a face-to-face conversation with that person fills you with dread, because I’ve been navigating that for years.

It can’t be when that person makes you feel small, like nothing you ever do is good enough, because I’ve managed to withstand the weight of that, too.

Is it when the emotions are so strong that they’re no longer living only in your mind, but also in your body?

I am one of those people, who, when someone puts me in a cage, it only makes me push against the bars that much harder.

Tell me I can’t do something? Watch me.

Ask me to explain myself 22 times? I stop answering.

…To not have to people-please to keep the peace. To bring my full self to every moment. To remember that it’s not my job to fix other people….

I want to be able to make my yoga practice stick. When I actually do it, I like the sense of ease, of flow, the focus on breathing. But there's a voice in my head that still says "it's not exercise unless you push it. Unless you sweat. Unless you're out of breath." I don't know if that's the voice that's keeping me from making yoga, or weights, or pushups, a routine, but there's a blocker somewhere.

I am not a patient human. I know this about myself, and will freely admit it to anyone who asks (as well as those who don’t). When I want something done, I want it done now. Why waste time hemming-and-hawing when you can take immediate action and move on to the next thing?

I’ve been doing a lot of questioning in last few years since your grandpa died. I have turned myself inside out, both literally and figuratively, wrestling with the ghosts and scars of my own childhood. Trying to unravel how they’ve shaped who I am today. And what I want to do differently with you.

The funny thing about scars, though—even the ones you’ve forgotten still exist—is that if something picks at them in just the right way, they can still re-open. Their pink, toughened edges can still separate and allow the red-hot pain back in.

I have been inching closer to a very big, yet ultimately inconsequential, event in my life:

Going grey.

As in, not just letting my roots grow out, which I already started doing back in October. But going grey, as in, full-head transformation. Arriving at the salon as mostly a brunette (except for about 3 inches near my scalp), and leaving six hours later with some kind of silvery dimensional mane that hopefully won’t age me 10 years.

I decided to speak this one instead of typing it. <3

What if “doing more” is what’s slowly killing all of us? How do we bring humanity back to our jobs?

I spend so much of my working time being counted, and counting others. How many hours did I log? How many clients did we win? How profitable are we? What’s our sentiment score? Did we hit our targets?

They’re all symptoms of a capitalistic society that I can’t even begin to unravel, but I have to wonder if they’re working in such opposition to our true nature that all of this measurement is actually making us less human, instead of more “whatever” it is we’re trying to measure in the first place.

Admitting to yourself that you have an eating disorder (or a few, whichever) is a little bit like being on The Truman Show, and finding out your entire life is not what you thought it was. Your pride over being small enough to fit into carry-on luggage? Disordered thinking. Your 6-days-a-week workout discipline? Disordered thinking. Your clean-eating-at-all-times superiority complex? Well, that one was easy—disordered thinking all over the place. Everything I had come to embrace as part of my identity wasn’t me. It was my my disordered mind trying to control my already perfectly ordered body.

There are some mornings where I'll catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror after I get out of the shower, legs freshly shaved but hair freshly unwashed (who doesn't love a double-lined shower cap to save some prep time?), and as I pass the reflection, I'll think: “Huh, this isn’t that bad. I'm doing ok for 40.” But then…there are the other mornings, too.

As I flipped from page to page, it was like going through a time warp…except it was more of an embodiment warp. I was instantly transported back to a period of time where I was deeply entrenched in self-discovery. The pages were heavy with emotions but light with promise. I had spent hours contemplating feelings and words, desires and dreams. I had connected with my senses. Reading my own writing was like looking in the mirror and seeing a different reflection, one that reminded me of how good it can feel when I actually come back to myself.

I don’t have anything profound to say lately, and it’s super unsettling. I’ve been flitting from thing to thing, rather than diving deep in any one area. I can’t put my finger on exactly why.

If I’m being honest, not many things these days make me feel “excited,” at least not in the standard definition of the word. I remember having a distinct sensation of excitement many times when I was younger—I’d get that butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling before big life events, or trips, or even pitches at work. There was almost a stage-play happening inside my body and mind, where I’d try to imagine what it would feel like once the big moment came.

• Taking 10 minute catnaps on the couch at work between meetings because whew, 2pm is hard (ok, fine, it was just once)

• Actually meditating during my Monday and Friday sangha sits instead of just pretending to, but really catching up on emails (it’s hard but worth it)

• Not loving what I see when I look at my body in the full-length mirror, but actively practicing appreciating it anyway (my body is good)

Growing up Jewish, we’re taught that God is an entity who is merciful, kind, just, forgiving, generous, and omnipresent. And while I believe in all of those characteristics, I have to admit, I don’t know if I believe in a single being called “God.” I’m not alone in this line of questioning—even one of my Rabbis recently shared that he holds the same skepticism.

This will be short, because I am currently getting nauseous looking at my computer screen, and am having to focus incredibly hard to type without falling over. The brain zaps that feel like tiny electrical shocks and make my vision feel like squiggly old-school TV signal lines aren’t helping much, either.

My daughter. My kiddo. I love you, and I am eternally proud of you. I know you are a deeply feeling person, because I am, too. It’s not easy holding everything so tightly, is it, Babe? I’m here to hold some of it with you, if you’ll let me.