emotional capacity, a.d.

I’ve always been a sensitive person; crying at commercials, emotional, full of my own feelings with room to carry others, too. In the last year, though, my cup o’sadness has been overflowing.

My dad died, and so did my emotional capacity. There was no room for other sad shit, nothing that cut too deep, no space for things that made me wallow in my deep well of emotion.

Surface level stuff was the best I could handle – yes, no, let’s ride it out. This has been protective in a lot of ways, and in my recent self-reflection, I wonder if it’s been detrimental in some ways, too.

In the months after my fathers death I ended my long term relationship, living alone for the first time, ever.

I reached peak burn out at a job I had loved for a long while.
I had a whirlwind summer romance.
I drank entirely too much tequila.

I quit the job.
I decorated an apartment for just me.
I took another job that was a mess.
I started a private practice.
I withdrew my PhD program application.

Most of these things were valid, I know that. I can identify a lot of the “why” when I think about them.

The most detrimental thing is, I guess, not knowing what was what.

Was I making decisions? Choosing what was best for me, what felt good and made sense? Or was I skating … just skimming the surface of things and sorting them so they could move to a complete pile.

I still don’t know.

I spent months after my last birthday unable to focus, unable to engage in anything that required my sustained attention. I couldn’t force myself to do anything, exhausted all the time, losing my train of thought. More weight gain, less movement. A lot of lazy couching and subsequent body aches.

A little more therapy, an intake with a psychiatrist, talk of depressive episodes, a new medication and it finally feels like the sun is coming up again. It’s not likely to dry all my tears, but hopefully it will shine on the bright spots and keep the good things growing.

happy new year?

A few days ago, I jokingly referred to tonight as New Year’s Eve. If you don’t know, my father unexpectedly passed away last year and tomorrow is the one year anniversary of that date.

2021 wasn’t half bad, well only half of it was good so I guess it was half bad. Sure the year had a promotion and a passing score on the licensing exam, an awesome camping trip full of hikes and waterfalls, plenty of good food, nice drives and tasty cocktails. It also had my dad in a nursing facility for the better part of the summer recovering from a stroke, the same facility where they had a Covid outbreak the week I was supposed to be visiting him. Then, it had the heartbreaking, days long dying and death of my cute, funny and oh so sassy dad. Oh yea, two weeks before my birthday.

Okay, so, 2021 was half bad.

I was happy for the year to end, I tried my hardest to embrace healing, going to therapy, stop binge drinking tequila in my underwear, eat more vegetables, try to losing the 20 depression pounds, crying less, making more dead dad jokes, and finally moving into a new apartment. Hello, 2022!


2022 started out on an okay path but it got bumpy just weeks after we signed the lease on our new place. There were days then weeks and then months of crying, talking, arguing – all while I was getting my independent license and then – a breakup. Just starting to feel like a human again, trying to remind myself that I could survive the death of my dad, and then being faced with having to survive the death of my relationship. Sure, therapy helps, more tequila helped, sleep, crying, eating my feelings, it all helped. I started to style the apartment that we never got around to decorating. I started hanging out with people from work, created an office in my apartment, spent time with a new guy for the first time in over a dozen years and again finally started to feel like I was gonna be all right after all.

Oh, wait!

Weird ethical shit and policy and procedure infractions at my job? Causing me frustration, for sure, but also concern for that license I worked so hard for, the fear that staying in that role could negatively impact my carer moving forward and so, you guessed it …. resignation.

So here we are, on the eve of the night that started what I don’t think is an exaggeration to call the worst year of my life … and while I don’t see tomorrow as a happy day, though I plan to celebrate my best guy by making his favorite dinner and using it as an excuse to overdose on black and white cookies … I truly hope the day is the start of a better year.

happy new year, to me.

makin’ moves

I feel like it’s a common sentiment that a woman shouldn’t ever move for a guy. I don’t know where I picked up that impression but in different circles over the years it seems to be shared advice.

Twice in my life I have moved “for a guy”. The first time was in 2002, the second in 2011. Neither of these guys, for different reasons, are part of my daily life now, but I have no regrets.

In 2002, my father was transitioning to a new position that would be relocating him (+ mom & 2 brothers) almost a thousand miles away. I was old enough to not live with them never mind need to move with them. I considered that I wouldn’t. I’d get an apartment with a friend or two, keep waitressing, keep dating my boyfriend and just figure it all out. That narrative changed one morning as my father drove me to pick up my car. I can still picture us driving down route 1, near the Mexican restaurant where I worked, to the car dealership where the repairs were being done. He never said “you should …” rather, he told me all the things that I could be or do in a new place, without putting down what I wasn’t doing or being in that one. I remember when I got out of the car he told me to “just think about it” and in true me fashion, that’s all I did. Think it over, think it under, think it sideways, think it inside out. Every green light where a driver hesitated too long, I thought about Wisconsin. Every customer who answered my “Hi how are you guys?” With “diet coke” or “don’t we get chips and salsa?” I thought about packing my car full of the things I needed and following my family west-ish. Every time my then boyfriend didn’t call when he said he would “I could be doing this same shit in Wisconsin” – so I did.

I spent almost ten years living in Americas Dairyland. I met a lot of great people, finished my bachelors degree, got my first masters degree, dated and broke up a few times with a handful of guys, and eventually rekindled an old connection that turned romantic and had me back at my waitressing job thinking “I could be doing this same shit in Massachusetts” – so I did.

In 2011, I moved myself from Wisconsin to Massachusetts to share my long distance boyfriends apartment with him. We talked about it as a trial of sorts (even though we already trialed the summer before!) and gave each other permission to call it quits. We didn’t. I met a lot of great people, waitressed a bit, worked as a nanny, had weight loss surgery, some cosmetic procedures, learned how to manage my money better, got another masters degree, went on many outdoor adventures, learned about myself, started a career and learned, both unfortunately and fortunately, how to live alone.

Both of these men, and the overall experiences raised me; helped me get to the next trajectory for my life and I wouldn’t change a single thing about those moves.

If anyone ever tells you not to do something, consider the benefit of it to you in the long run and recognize that the persons reservations are likely about them, not you. Hell, I’m hoping to meet another guy to move for and find my next home soon! (kidding!)


Today is the birthday of one of my long time friends. He turned 43 and in our text convo that started with my happy birthday message, he said 43 is the worst birthday, the most mundane and I should write one of my “blog things” about how awful it is. Dude, remember my dad died two weeks before I turned 43? Dumpster fire of a year.

He was just being snarky, but he’s right. 43 isn’t anything special. It’s the weird birthday between going “over the hill” and hitting 45 – which just seems cooler since there are so many cards and gifts for it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a “Happy 43rd birthday” or “Yay, you’re 43” which makes sense because of its bore factor. Mundane middle aged stuff. The cards, in order to be accurate would have to say “Woah, you made it!” Or “This card is good for one free chiropractic adjustment” even “Sorry about your divorce but hey you’re alive, happy 43rd” Please. No.

This isn’t to say that a persons 43rd year can’t be their best – I mean, mine hasn’t been, but if we did a survey I’m sure it’s a fair split of good and bad for people. Life is what you make it blah, blah, blah …

43 for me, rolled in while I was standing on a hot airplane, bent between my seat and the overhead compartment waiting for my chance to escape. I was puffy eyed and borderline disheveled having just spent a week with my family after my dads unexpected passing. After not enough sleep, my then boyfriend took me to a boozy brunch, that I made more booze than brunch and then for pastries on the way home, where I had to sit in the car with a buzz and a grief hangover while he picked some treats.

I feel like the rest of the year was spent in that hazy grieving buzz. I gained twenty-ish pounds, learned about said boyfriends sexting hobby, didn’t drink enough water, cried a lot, worked too much, ended up living alone in a newly leased apartment draining my savings to pay the high for two people, never mind for one person rent, ended up quitting my job because of some sketchy and unethical stuff… cried a lot …. I mean, it’s been a year. But take out those big hits – mostly a snore fest – minus the independent licensure and meeting my current boyfriend.

My own birthday is approaching soon and I don’t know that I have ever been happier to see a year go. Looking very forward to the day I can kick in the door and wave in the 4 4.


I’m almost 44 years old and I am standing in my kitchen, on the phone with my mother, I am sobbing. My head firmly pressed against a cabinet, she asks what’s wrong. “I’m fucking tiiiiiiiiired” like a toddler short on naps, I bellow “I am so fucking tired of my life getting fucked up because of things that are out of my control” ….. she’s sympathetic and I feel almost guilty to say that to a woman who lost her husband after days of being told not to worry.

In September, which I honestly can’t believe is coming up on a year ago, my father died pretty unexpectedly. Had a little procedure on a Friday and did not wake up. Just like that. I lost my mind for a minute, I made a lot of comments about hurling myself off the roof of a building, I drank tequila out of the bottle in my underwear. I cried, I yelled, I wanted to trade people around me for him. I went back to therapy. I grieved (still do) and worked on healing (still am) …. I crawled out of that dark place, faced the weight gain from what I referred to as my ‘dead dad depression’, I refilled the Xanax and I took a lot, and I mean A LOT of deep breaths …. I finally started feeling like I might feel good again. I felt almost whole and was excited for the next step in my career which was a promotion and my independent licensure …. should be happening in May or June.

March came first though, and that’s when I saw a text message that I shouldn’t have seen.

I was unplugging my then boyfriend’s phone, well, boyfriend sounds like a small word, he wasn’t just some boyfriend, he had been my partner, and what I thought was my greatest love, for 13 years. Anyway, I’m unplugging his charging phone to plug in the toaster as part of a breakfast feast I’m making us when I see the text not meant for my eyes. It wasn’t anything earth shattering, but scandalous for sure. There was crying and talking and arguing and tequila out of the bottle and crying phone calls to my mom and brother and friends from the car, from the porch. There were weeks of rehashing, text messages during work hours, badgering during home hours … that turned into months … and eventually we broke up … and I was, devastated. My heart was shattered and now all the dead dad depression was resurfacing, too.

Hey, at least it was June, something good would be coming.

My licensure application was approved and I was officially an LMHC in mid-June, which also meant I would be promoted at work and given a pretty hefty raise. Someone who had to authorize that was on vacation though, maybe next week. Oh wait, not that week either, actually nobody will be around can you do this and that, too? We hit July and the program where I worked felt less stable than it ever had in the two years I was there. I was witnessing behaviors that shouldn’t be, I had my name put on a report that was inaccurate, I was concerned about the safety and security of the clients, of my licensure that I had worked so hard to earn. My concerns were brushed off, seen as negative and while I loved my job I had to shine a light on the problems before clients fell through the cracks. Resignation.

They say bad things happen in threes:

Dead dad.

Dead relationship.

Dead job.

Three grand events.

A trifecta?

Try fucked up.

confessions of a concession

I’ve talked, and written, a lot about how I made myself small over the years. How I would literally crouch my big body in photos or in groups to not be the largest person, to not call extra attention to myself. I have skipped events and not spoken up, for fear of taking up too much space, too much room.

I don’t do that anymore. Not in what feels like years. Now I fill up any space I am in, I embrace others, I invite discussion, attention, I sprawl myself out wherever it is I feel like I can. I am my authentic self and I push everyone to be. I spend almost every day encouraging adolescent girls to stand tall, to not take the shit, to not be ashamed about their body, to not be dependent on a man, to not make decisions for their lives based on the expectations of those men, to not make themselves small, ever, for anyone.

Imagine my surprise one April morning when I heard my own words to one of these girls, I heard myself saying things that were true, they were honest and heartfelt, and she believed me and hung on every sentence. What a fraud, I remember thinking about myself later in the afternoon. I am talking this talk and not exactly walking the walk, I think that I should be saying these things to myself.

When I met Steve, I was, small internally, but a whole lotta girl on the outside. I had a big mouth and a strong personality but my self-esteem was in the toilet. I didn’t like my body, I had no career prospects, I was financially unattractive and overall just floating (or sinking!) through life. Years before we were together, we first met and spent a few days across a summer hanging out and then we lost touch. He was the one who got away, I searched for him on the internet in it’s clunky early days, I wrote emails to his last known email, I called the old number I had for him.

When he resurfaced in my life, it was like coming up for air. I loved him instantly.

I don’t know what my thought process was like; this is 13 years, eighty pounds, a bankruptcy, a second masters degree, a dead dad and a professional license ago. I didn’t know who I was. We didn’t know who we were.

There were, I know now, things that I expected to have or experience in my life that did not coincide with the things he wanted or expected. I conceded. Unknowingly, unwittingly, but just the same, I moved as an us. I doted, I did the things that would keep us an us. I went along with most things, not out of pressure, honestly, but because why not, why not do XYZ, this is what a relationship is. We called ourselves ‘team awesome’, the ones who didn’t care about petty things, silly things, we went against the grain, non-traditional, cool kids. It was perfect. Until I was sitting across from my therapist processing yet another series of dead dad emotions. I was talking about how I wished my father had the opportunity to have done more these last few years, how life is short, how I hope he didn’t die with regrets … how I don’t want to die with regrets.

I spiraled, briefly.

Who am I? Outside of my relationship? I know what I have accomplished and what I’ve done, but this has been the last dozen years of my life, am I living and loving this life or am I going through the motions? Was I truly anti-things, did my statements reflect my own beliefs, or was I operating as part of a unit, what happened to my loud-mouthed autonomy? When people would ask about our relationship, about marriage or a baby …. we don’t want those things I’d say, or we don’t care about that. Did I care about those things? Did I numb things about myself for acceptance and love? Am I a fraud? Did I force it? Do I swallow it? Do I put it all out there?

What. The. Fuck.

I unraveled, briefly.

I am shining a light on all these parts of myself now, and of my relationship, our relationship. I have begun examining my role in my own disappointment and how that has impacted the relationship, and the person I care so deeply for. I started with one small concession, let’s say, not celebrating a hallmark holiday. I gradually let myself slip through the cracks and I share this not because I am proud, but because in an effort to have what I wanted, keep who I wanted, I made concessions – and they are not the same as compromises. In a relationship, they can be life-altering for both parties, so I guess it’s a cautionary tale of sorts as my deep dive into self-reflection has caused some waves and now we are both holding a flashlight.

Choose yourself first, every time. Not because you’re selfish. Not because you don’t care about another person. Not because you are the only one who matters. But because if you lose yourself, you can’t fully connect with another person, you can’t be authentic. Choose yourself before you give away the pieces, so you aren’t trying to fit them together years later.

You can’t be half of “team awesome” while you’re wearing the “team who the fuck am I?” jersey.

winds of change

I’m in my pajamas and a pair of boots I stepped out of in the hall when i came in from work. I slid them back a few minutes ago to carry an empty pizza box to the dumpster. It snowed a few days ago, was 12 degrees a day ago and now its 56 and breezy. In mid-February.

It’s weird. Is it spring? Late summer? Early fall?

As I was walking back up the driveway I remembered walking up and down this driveway and around this neighborhood for hours on the phone … with my boss, my brothers, my cousin, an aunt or two, my mom …. in pajamas, with a lump in my throat and the same weird kind of breeze swirling around me, waiting for my dad to wake up.

Ya know when the air just feels different – like something is going to happen? You can’t know if its a good something or bad something … just that something is coming … changing.

I stayed out there for a few minutes, letting the breeze blow my hair into my face and tug at the hem of my pajama top. I just let it wash over me because honestly, a change might do me good.

crying over pea soup

Every now and then I forget that I had weight loss surgery. I mean, I obviously don’t forget, but its been almost eight years now so it isn’t something that I talk about or even think about on a daily basis. What I have never forgotten is the support that I got from the few people who knew I was taking that leap. In fact, I vividly remember it.

Standing in the dusty elevator of my new primary doctors office, detailing the outcome of my first visit to my cousin via texts. Wearing my uniform of snug jeans, flats and a black blouse. Sharing with her, before anyone, that he had referred me to the Weight & Wellness program for a surgery consult. She followed up with kind words and heart emojis.

I remember driving home overwhelmed; Steve waiting at home to hear how things had gone since it was a new doctor and I went with a laundry list of things on top of struggling to lose weight. I remember feeling embarrassed that this seemingly shameful thing I might be embarking on also felt like such a relief. I can practically picture his face, from across the room, looking at me like an idiot about to squander an opportunity. In fact, part of his reaction after a chronological list of weight loss attempts and restrictions and diets that he had witnessed in the time we’d been together was “….you’d be stupid not to do it”

I have a memory of calling my parents and them maybe not fully being on board at first – but I can’t remember the details because before the end of the day, I was walking into the grocery store and my mom called back. We talked about all the ways our weights, or the perceptions we had or thought others had about our weights impacted so many small things in our lives and how exciting things might be on the other end. I remember driving in my dented and rusting car, home from work and talking about it with my dad. I will never not remember him saying “What? Why? You don’t need that, we just saw you, you look good” and me replying about how I felt and him saying “If that’s what you want to do” …. and then booking a flight for my mom to be there with me when it was scheduled. And then when it was postponed a few weeks before over some insurance timelines, he rebooked her flight and he came, too. He slept on an air mattress in our living room, the needles of the Christmas tree inches from his face. He treated me to my last “food funeral” – a meal of poutine and wings at the back corner table of Stones. He even came in the grocery store with me afterward to peruse the selection of Pepperidge Farm cakes in the freezer – and helped me eat one with nothing but forks back in the crowded living room. In the days following, when I could only have liquids, he offered to forgo some local eateries he and mom wanted to try – so I didn’t feel bad, or left out, or… hungry. He bought me an overpriced bowl of pea soup that I sipped.

I scrolled by this picture in my phone tonight. It was in the scads of photos I saved and took screen shots of the week he died. It’s always been a favorite photo of mine – his smile, knowing how happy he was to be there. It’s from the pea soup day, so maybe this memory and this support was part of why I’ve always loved this photo. And if it wasn’t, it certainly is now.


My dad died.

Unexpectedly. Almost three weeks ago. Not even three weeks ago.

There’s been crying, cursing and yelling. There’s been tequila in my underwear on the couch and comments about people I would trade for my dad. I have been fine; I am good in a crisis, I am a professional. But maybe not for myself. There is a constant underlying swirl of feelings, so many mixed, odd feelings. They are not on the surface, but they are there. Buzzing in my chest .. fluttering in my belly.

I’m waiting for the explosion. I’m waiting to lose my shit on some unsuspecting person, to cry so hard for so long that I don’t think I will be able to recover from it, to fall to my knees in a Target when my distracted brain zaps me with the memory that my dad is dead and not just 1000 miles away at his place. I don’t want it to happen, but also, why hasn’t it happened? Why am I not limp and one with my bed; how am I waking up and putting clothes on (barely showering, sure), I made a pot of soup, I bought paper towels and went to the post office. It’s just a deep churning feeling, like anxiety in high gear, but no release. Just the low whirring of emotions within me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I took a class on grief and loss, what do I remember, what can I recall … maybe I am doing grieving wrong…

Or maybe my grief is a sound machine like I keep in my office. A low hum that protects me. A quiet flutter that keeps the world from distracting me from my memories with my dad, blocks out their voices so I can remember his, keeps me calm in my sadness. Maybe it’s the soft noise that protects me from the sadness when I have to function, when I need to put one foot in front of the other and carry on. Maybe there is no explosion coming, maybe it’s just me and a soothing vibration that keeps me even – let’s me be sad if I need to, but reminds me to live.

My dad died and my grief is a sound machine.

fart party

This is never going to be a professional blog (see: title) or solid resource for mental health information; but as a person with mental health, who works in mental health, you can expect some overlap. There has been a lot of talk about physical space and social distancing lately, which has got me thinking about emotional space and the idea of privacy.

I was talking to someone today and we were talking about how someone in her family asked about her kids and some decision she made. She admitted to being sort of taken aback by it, and responded to avoid conflict but something about it irked her. Was she the topic of conversation? We talked about how her family always held what I called ‘fart parties’. Someone in the family would do something, anything – as insignificant as fart and immediately the news spread. Quickly the family would decide on a meet up spot, who would bring what food and drink and desserts and then they would sit and discuss the fart, and of course, the farter (farter need not be present). These people were so enmeshed in each others lives and business that the idea of privacy or omission was foreign. If the farter didn’t want to disclose what they ate prior to the incident, the group would be incredulous. How could you not tell us? We need to know every detail about the fart, we’re family! If the details weren’t disclosed, the family might talk about the fart for weeks separately and then reference it for months or years to come. She acknowledged my point and countered it that all families are like this. I was hesitant to agree, but couldn’t fully disagree because I vividly remember a game of telephone my mother played with her mom and sisters (both blood and in-law) when I confessed that I had gotten my period in the school bathroom in sixth or seventh grade. Not a fart party, but an overshare for sure.

I have always been an open book, but have joked that you need to come to the library. I am willing to share almost anything about my life from crapping my pants while simultaneously barfing on the church altar in 5th grade to the experience of weight loss surgery, moving 1000 miles away from your family and (finally) deciding on a career path at the tail end of your thirties. The information is available but the way it is dispersed is in my control. Usually. That’s not to say there haven’t been times when something is repeated or shared by someone other than me, but I’ve learned to be more selective with my sharing, considering the potential spread. I’m not ashamed of any of my choices or behaviors, though I know who may use them as ammo, or throw a fart party – it’s important to be clear about what in your life is open for discussion, and what isn’t.

My favorite thing to talk about with clients, and in leading groups, is boundaries. It has become a favorite thing to talk about with friends, too. Boundaries are, simply put: the rules that you make for yourself in terms of how you will let other treat you, what access you will allow them to have to you and your life and how you will respond if these rules aren’t followed. Boundaries can be hard to put in place.  A lot of the time it’s because what we have to say or do to set a boundary, is counter to what we have been doing, or been taught to do. Boundaries limit our obligations, in the sense that they keep us from doing and allowing things because “that’s the way it’s always been” or “that’s how we do it”. That we can be a partner, parents, extended family, siblings, friend, neighbor …. anyone who has an attachment to a situation.

It isn’t always family that we need boundaries with, but that seems to be a big one. There may be familial traditions or expectations that, when you distance yourself, make you an outsider or cause a vague bullying. This is typically true when your behavior is counter to the behavior of the group. When people change something, those around them may want to deflect the attention from their own needs, or self examination. A lot of people don’t like the idea, or don’t want the responsibility of self-exploration. The pushback on boundaries is often from people who don’t want to self-examine or don’t like change. That’s not hard and fast; there are plenty of reasons people might push back, but they are not your reasons.

The most important way (I think) to set a boundary is to be direct. As a recovering people-pleaser, I know that this is as harder than it sounds. We want to say yes to people who need something for us, we want to make others happy, we want to avoid conflict, we want to keep things status quo. That’s admirable, but not if it makes you want to die inside. (dramatic) I spent many years saying yes to things out loud and then regretting it and feigning illness, other plans, or following through while being angry about it because I didn’t feel like it was okay to say no. I felt like that might rock the boat or break tradition or disappoint someone else. Know what? It might have … and so what? Why is our sense of obligation often tied to others responses and reactions and not our own? That’s a question for another time, honestly. A few other key ways to approach boundaries are knowing your limits, prioritizing self-care, considering the audience, exploring your feelings and giving yourself permission to alter the boundaries you set when it seems reasonable.

Boundaries can be set for all sorts of life areas; personal space, time and energy,  sexuality, belongings, cultural or ethical beliefs. Boundaries are super personal and cannot be decided for us, they are rules that we make up about our own lives and our own needs. There’s no checklist for setting boundaries – only to not be too rigid, or too loose with them. The more rigid your boundaries are you may miss out on experiences or relationships that are beneficial. the more loose your boundaries are you may not feel capable or able of making decisions for your self, or you may feel pressure to give and do for others without hesitation.

The bottom line is we get one life and we have to live it in the way that works best for us – EVEN if it’s different than what your family wants or what your friends expect. You know how when you are on an airplane and they talk about putting your oxygen mask on first, before helping others? We need to get our head out of the clouds and think this way on the ground, too.