The Foe be a..

As you glance away,
I take the opportunity
To cup my hands
And scoop up the entity
of pain
You left in front of me.
Bending my elbows
I draw it into me
And slow.
Here it sits
Encased in the
Of my palms: Fluttering

As you return your gaze
Words continuing
to slide off your teeth,
I’m only half listening,
Catching cues that tell me
When to nod or
murmer agreement.

Worry has traveled up my legs
And is now
tickling my spine
The concern tells me
the longer I
hold on,
The more likely
I am
to release this being

You haven’t noticed this
My primary focus
on getting
outside the present,
Where I can
this pain that resists
the confines
Of my skin,
And study it in the light.

You haven’t noticed,
Because I don’t want you too.
And you don’t want to either.

New Maternal Verses


I entered this world

Into the arms of a


To whom

I was equal parts




Addicted and ill,

The thrill of a child’s love

Could only break the wall

At the right time.

I, too little

To care for myself,

Was another let down in her

World of resentment-filled-giving.

Through her reactions,

I learned that love was

Only earned

Through tears spilled

Voice strained

into silence

from crying




While she muttered

Through drunken breath

About how she hated

Her existence;

Alternatively I learned

through the effort

Of lightening this burden,

Her burden of being

Little hands attempting

To wipe windows

Without streaks,

To keep being the best of 3,

Living her dreams,

To make her laugh endlessly.

It didn’t matter though,

Because she still left,

Despite my best efforts.

11 years old

And she never came home.

And when I reunited with her,

She was still gone.


More old fiction

Sharing some more old fiction, as I begin to revisit my writing and wonder about its possibilities. Some friends and myself are doing a weekly writing group now, and I’m using it as an opportunity to commit to myself and my passion for words. (Sometimes I have trouble sticking with new things.) Curious to see where it will lead me! Anywho, here’s the beginning of a story I didn’t get too far into. The discipline of writing in the same style can be a stretch for me, and keeping up with the lyrical quality of this opening daunted me.

Bitter taste of memories

Your words sent shivers down my spine. And no, not the good kind. I don’t get threatened by words alone. But the words your mouth possessed scared me.
I don’t know how it came to this. It is all my fault. You said it’s not. You said: It’s not.
But how can I believe you, especially now? What was going on in your head that I couldn’t fix? Why couldn’t I help?
Maybe there was nothing wrong with you.
There’s something wrong with me.

That’s what it feels like at least.
I brush the dirt off my pants as I stand up, and spit onto the pavement. What do I care if it’s not lady like? I used to care. I did. But you showed me a reality. Who am I anyway? Just another body?

My eyes squint as I look up and over towards the road. The cars are passing by, carelessly breaking the limit for speed on the suburban street.
Guess it doesn’t matter that some kid got hit last year. Reality is what you choose to exist.
My jeans have started to slide off my hips, creating an uncomfortable friction against the sweat on my skin. Tugging on the belt loops with my thumbs, I start walking over to my damaged car.

Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I had called the cops. See that big dent in the car? That’s where I smashed into a tree, rushing to get to your house. I distracted the paramedics who should have been with you.
Before the tears can brim, I slide in, grabbing my I-pod, hitting shuffle and turning the keys in my ignition. My car is still resounding with an irritating beep because I’ve left the door open.

I turn and look outside at the yard, peaceful. So much unlike the cluttered chaos of my vehicle.
Once, I used to lay there in silence. The crickets could create music. Now they create a reminder. Cold nights climbing the roof of the local elementary school.
A muscle tugs on a smile at the edge of my lips. I let it linger, remembering those nights, before I switch the song and shut the door, savoring the metallic sound that closes me in.

When your anxiety gives you anxiety

Anxiety is a fickle beast. It bows its head to you in an aggressive posture, reminding you of the dangers that curl around its horns, but then it waits. 

I’m a perfectionist by nature. Everything I do, I want to do as best as possible. But I can often forget that in that quest, I haven’t always read all the instruction manuals. I skip levels without completing the challenges that I’ll need to complete a task later on. I’m in a constant back and forth between years, worlds, and self accomplishment. What I can do is dependent not on my stubbornness, but my experience.

Recently, I have been navigating different relationships. Trying to understand them. Trying not to isolate them. Trying to see the bigger picture surrounding me. I don’t understand how romantic love can tangle itself into the web of my heart, crisscrossing strings with anxiety.

I need to take a step back from it to see. And ironically, it was while at the gas station today, that I began to think about it and gain clarity. At one point in my life, I felt terribly alone. Isolated, depressed, I believed that I couldn’t be understood. It left me feeling anxious all the time, and it immobilized me in many of my relationships, both to people and to places or events.

Buddhist philosophy busted through that one day, in the way it so ordinarily does. All Life Is Suffering. We all suffer. Yes, this was the simplest concept, but the book I was reading at the time broke it down further. It went on to remind me that it is impossible for us to be alone, and that the more time we spend trying to be “individual”, the more time we spend in conflict and isolation. Once we melt those fictional barriers, we begin to find harmony.

In my recent relationships, I have been working on the concept of Relationship Anarchy. (I will link to a more in depth a blog post about this concept soon.) Essentially, I am trying to rewire society’s idea of conditional love, and how the best thing we can do is find “The One”, our mate, our spouse, our soulmate. I instead, see possibility and unconditional love in all my relationships, no matter what form they take. But while navigating this, I got bumped a bit off track by this particularly intense connection. Anxiety set in.

The anxiety I was having sent me both back in time, and forwards in time. Looking back, I was recalling past connections ,and the failures that eclipsed them into unhealthy situations. Forwards, I was thinking about how I wanted to be: the best at communicating, completely secure, and totally self aware. Black and white, dark and light, I found my current anxieties effected by past anxieties, and anxieties that I imagined I would need to battle in the future.

I forgot where I was.

I am loved. I have lovers, friends, and family that care for me and support me. I have stability in my home, my dog, and my work environment. I have battled demons or dragons,  or whatever you want to call them, and I have always landed on my feet. People see me as someone who is well put together. While I am not always sure of that, I can understand the perception.

I am not the best communicator in the world, and a big part of me knows I need to remember to be more still, more quiet. But I do know how to take space for myself. I do know how to feed myself, and I am learning to ask for help. I do know how to recognize when something doesn’t feel right, and I do know that good things come out of difficult conversations.

The rush of this new fire set me off my feet a bit. It was exhilarating, yes. But I began to isolate it, and compare it to the past and to concepts of what a “future” looks like, and that’s when my anxieties kicked in. Instead I had to go back to the concept of oneness, of recognizing the energy as something that was shared.

I would rather be here and be present with what is, rather than what was or may be. I am not a perfect friend, perfect lover, perfect partner, perfect person. But I have to remember, I’m kinda rad, and for my imperfections, I have a much greater web of love, trust, and compassion around me to fill in the blanks. I cannot focus on fixing the future, I just need to be okay messing up here and now, learning, and moving on. I need to have patience. That is what will set me free from these anxieties, and allow me to enjoy what I am currently so fortunate to receive.





Feeling fictional

Am I ready to break back into the realms of fictional writing? I think I may be inching closer in that direction, though my fantasy realms are often still heavily tied into reality. Here’s something I wrote recently, and shared in an open reading. It was written on a plane sometime in June, and it needs some work, but its still to be determined whether it will develop into anything bigger. It was mostly just fun to play.


She paused as the power down screen glossed over her phone. Was there anyone who would want to know that she was about to take off? The answer was as firm as the pad of her finger on the screen, and just as undramatic:


There was a dry kind of sadness tinged in her afterthoughts, but the sense of relief was more apparent. The last person to whom she felt she owed an update never seemed to care much.

This void left space for her to write, and to process. It was in moments like these that she could conjure up the creativity that kept her flying, traveling across the globe. It wasn’t extra-ordinary.. just the luck of the times (she supposed).

The pale, slightly dirty gray of the airplane window gave way only to a more pale day outside, but she enjoyed watching the intricacies of the airport employees as they got ready for departure.

Put your mask on first, before assisting someone else.” The generic safety instructions echoed through the cabin.

She nodded, with a slight smirk. Yes, she had learned that lesson during her last major crash.

She had found a new purpose-getting things accomplished as efficiently as possible. What she could set her mind too, she could control, in a sense. It was a change from the control she had been under before.

..She still had his letter; the envelope worn on all corners, and the fold rubbed so much that the glue threatened to let go of its bond. But to her, the contents had never been revealed.

Instead, they served as a reminder of why she couldn’t turn back, and allow anyone to have that kind of access again.


Digesting My Shame (My struggles with Food)

This week is National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, and that means a lot to many of my friends. Many more than it should, I feel in my heart, because so often eating disorders are related to trauma and abuse, or the destructive social effects in the way that people interact or experience media portrayals.

However, I am proud of these friends and so many more, and often feel appreciative of their ability to verbalize their struggles and share them with others. Food is such an intimate and necessary part of our daily lives, and thus it attracts a multitude of shame and stigma that can be hard to overcome.

So in this post today, I wanted to bring light to a new kind of eating disorder which has been rising rapidly, though it is still not a clinically recognized diagnosis just yet. It is called Orthorexia Nervosa. 

As described by the National Eating Disorder Association:  “Those who have an “unhealthy obsession” with otherwise healthy eating may be suffering from “orthorexia nervosa,” a term which literally means “fixation on righteous eating.” Orthorexia starts out as an innocent attempt to eat more healthfully, but orthorexics become fixated on food quality and purity. They become consumed with what and how much to eat, and how to deal with “slip-ups.”.. Every day is a chance to eat right, be “good,” rise above others in dietary prowess, and self-punish if temptation wins (usually through stricter eating, fasts and exercise)..Eventually food choices become so restrictive, in both variety and calories, that health suffers – an ironic twist for a person so completely dedicated to healthy eating.”

Do you know anyone who might struggle with this, or do you yourself? Please reach out to the hotline number at the bottom of this post, or comment below to share your own experiences.

My experiences:

I have worked with a counselor for childhood related trauma and conditions for about 5 years now, and she knows more about me than most anyone else. However, I remember the day that I admitted to her that I thought I had a problem with eating, and how it was one of the hardest things I ever had to say outloud.

I know am lucky, because I am fortunate to have access to resources that many do not, including counseling, healthcare, income (though still quite limited), internet, and community.

Despite all of this, however, my struggles with food have still made me feel completely isolated among my friends and family, never quite able to describe how most days I skip food for the stress of eating something “wrong”. This “wrongness” was nurtured by many things including:

anxiety around access to food and attitudes towards food growing up

-the bombardment of healthy eating pressures in society and media

-the control over my food choices experienced while in a toxic relationship

But more than anything, it has grown out of one of my weakest abilities, which is that of self care. Self compassion is not something that I had ever focused on until the last few years, and while I’ve gotten immensely better at it in many way, I overlooked this particular element. Its strange even to me, because I’ve always fed my animals the best I possibly could, and I used to love cooking for others. And if I host someone, I always make sure that they eat 3 meals. Unfortunately, that did not translate onto the self, and for me food became so stressful not only to prepare, but simply to consume, that I just stopped.

I’ll explain: Up until recently, despite the fact that I work an extremely physical job, most weeks I  would eat what might equate to 1 meal (though definitely not a healthy or wholesome one at that). This would occur at least 5 out of the 7 days in a week, and had been going on for the better part of 2+ years. Between external and internal pressures to eat well, I just ended up skipping meals, and would be left with such little energy and time that I would resort to eating something high in calories, sugar, or fat (“its better than nothing”, “you worked hard today you’ll burn it off anyway”.)

Recognizing that my relationship with food was becoming toxic, and admitting that I had gotten myself into a bad situation with my health, was really the biggest challenge for me. I am still working with my counselor on it, waiting to see how my changes will effect my blood work, and I am still populating the hang outs with close friends with more dialogue about food than I would like too, but I’m getting somewhere.

I know I am fortunate that my struggles with eating, whether or not they are technically considered a disorder, are still manageable and reversible at this point. Because I also suffer from Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, I am putting all of my extra money towards a functional doctor, who has a nutrionist on staff, and that makes it even easier for me (Diet is a large part of healing the chronic condition).

Overall, I can rationalize that I have a lot of support and that there are easy ways to get back into eating well. But despite that and the fact that I like to make light of it most of the time because I know its rooted in irrational thought and behavior..every day is still an enormous effort for me.

It is easy to feel fatigued, isolated, and drained from struggles regarding food (physically, emotionally, and mentally). That is real, and that is okay. You just do your best everyday.

Please take this week, and some time every week, to consider those in your life that might also have struggles around food and weight, and to be kind. Remember that commenting on someone’s weight, no matter their size, crosses a very personal line, no matter how close you are to them. Wait for them to bring it up if they feel comfortable, or find a different way to approach it. Help out by following the links on the “Get Involved”  page of the NEDA. Also, remember that not every person who has had an eating disorder wants it to be part of their identity, to be viewed as “in recovery” for the rest of their life. (Here is a great article that talks about why: “It’s National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, and once again, I’m not participating” )

Thank you for reading this, and making space to think a little bit more about people’s personal struggles. There is a lot of stress to carry with politics in the US changing rapidly, but it is important to make space for basic individual struggles as well.

If you, or you suspect a loved one might have an eating disorder, please..


What crawls beneath the rock

The soil of life is fertile for conflict, growth, and expansion. When we stop to feel the vibration of the earth beneath our feet, or the warmth of the sun up above, we can hear those whispers that remind us that we are ever moving and adapting to each moment and element of our lives.

Staying grounded has been a weary challenge for me these last few weeks, stretching out muscles for organizing I forgot that I had, and exercising the voice I often quiet in order to listen better.

I love being the rock. In the midst of storm, I like to seem still. On the sunniest days, I love to absorb and reflect the heat. Whether its night or day, I love to remain singular, constant, reliable. I’m comfortable with the weight of my being, which is sometimes quite heavy: a giver and nurturer by choice.

But I am more than my surface, because what effects me extends beyond my physical barriers. What crawls beneath and around these surfaces has the ability to distill my grounding, and my focus at times. It has the power to isolate me in these sensations, and pull me inwards towards thoughts I’ve tried to leave in the crevices beneath.

All of this metaphorical talk feels lovely to my nervous mind, which wants desperately to express itself, and yet balks from a public forum in which to share. There is a reverent recognition inside me for stories shared, and how the power of shared experiences can affect life around oneself. Indeed, I fancy myself as brave, but in moments where I might be able to depict a feeling with exact phrases or an exact story, the words feel too limiting.

This woman, she hears your struggle. She feels it in her bones. There is a reason she brings such fierce passion to her organizing, because her life is about creating space for those to share in struggle, as much as it needs to be about understanding where her struggle has left her. A victim, not quite, perhaps a survivor, but also, vulnerable. As we all are.

One Billion Rising is coming; the day, the events. It is her voice, my voice, shouting from the rooftops to those who know not my recent struggles, that this woman still struggles. She struggles with cycles of emotions, the pains of grief and shame, and the fire of empowerment and connection. She is not missing, she is whole; and she is feeling, and she is loving, and she is asking you to look deeper. Her shouts move beyond her, because that is the only way that she knows how to be okay..sometimes.

3rd person makes it easier for her to say this. Emotional and psychological abuse is abuse. And it is not okay, by any means. Critical discussion and accountability are the only ways to really counter this, but with good intention many want to fall to the side of the wrongdoer, as she once did, to help him change. In this, he continues his cycle, where many will want to ask her point of view, but not be ready to hear it.

And that, is real.

She wasn’t ready to hear it herself.

But she read it to herself as a bedtime story for many nights; she found herself listening to it like a podcast on the car ride home; she found community in a sort of book club which discussed the plot holes, the character development, and the climax.

No, she wasn’t ready.

But she was ready to begin writing the epilogue.

Yes, dear readers, this woman recognizes that compassion has its limits in human nature. We often tend to stick ourselves to the wrong doer, either hoping we feel repentance for our own shame by helping them change, or channeling all our fears into hatred towards them. It is not easy to tend to those who have been hurt, reflections of ourselves. This exists in micro and macro situations, where we fall into a spectrum of diversity. Ranges of this ripple outward from curiosity, but sometimes we hesitate to get answers that would make life harder or less simple. This woman has compassion, if not understanding, for those stuck in this place.  We can only hold so much at a time.

But you see, this woman knows she is the one holding the pen to her story. She rises above this novel with grace, a grace she knows only by her own strength combined with those that have been there to place a warm palm comfortingly on her back, to mail her letters of love and encouragement, to sip tea and discuss the possibilities in life, or share their own struggles in reminder that we all have each other. She has risen before, but never with the support of such a beautiful, empowering community around her.

She is a rock, but her roots help hold her in place. Alone, but connected.

Beautiful and raw.




Breathing In Community

Reflections often come to me after sitting through meetings or gatherings with intention to organize around community. Even outside of comfortable parameters, these types of meetings can stir up energy, though which particular flavor it will be is dependent on how well the communication transverses between individuals.

Currently my thought streams are taking dives into all the puddles of community I have jumped into, particularly within the last 5 or 6 years. My experience as a community organizer is relatively juvenile, though I’ve tried to expose myself to different settings over time. This exposure has been with hope to gain a better awareness of where my ideologies lay, which may or may not be an exact science in the end. At the same time, I’m just stepping back into heavier organizing as I’ve had to take some time to reflect on these experiences and my life in question.

And so, this evening, as I drove home, I realized a simple concept.

I need community- much like I need water, or air. It is something that I cannot exist without, and would not chose to either. Through any ups and downs, my gratitude for my community glows. I breathe in community, and I breathe out community.

To be an effective community organizer, one must try to replicate the lungs that fill our chests and give rise to our voices. We must be able to balance breathing in, expanding, filling, and taking, as we must be able to breathe out, contracting, emptying, and giving. Sometimes, these fluctuations are grand movements, and other times, they are minor shifts. But together, they give continuous vitality to our purpose. If we stop breathing, that purpose dies. We exist, but without meaning. 

This was an incredible revelation for me, as often guilt has encompassed my desire to step outside the realm of active organizing and into the realm of passive support. My energies at time ebb and flow so dramatically between attending as many meetings as possible, or the need for self care, reading, and solitude.

It occurs in this way that is partially why we have seen such standstills in our country, the uneven exchange of air being recycled through our beings. Or why we often seem to find a frenzy of information seeking after a dramatic blow to our system- that sharp intake that kicks us into gear and forces us to exhale. Or those marathons where we find that we need those frequent little inhales to allow us to push through.

The sooner we become aware of this need, and allow ourselves to connect to it, hopefully the more empowered our communities can become. In these times, it is definitely a necessity.


Present and (Un)Accounted for

Its funny.. One of the reasons my mind bristles at writing these blog posts is because it can’t stand the idea of writing another first person monologue and exposing it to the masses as though its published presence would have an effect on someone else’s life.

And yet, I am touched by the little snippets and parts of people’s lives that I experience constantly. There is something vain about posting these things, and perhaps there is a call for validation included within their worded confines, but most of all.. writing these thoughts just gives my thoughts a place to exist.

I’ve worked as many hours as possible since around the year I turned 16, freshly licensed and able to transport myself. When not completing paying work, instead I found volunteer work, activist work, or even just friend work to keep me occupied. This is a pattern I have succeeded in recognizing several times,.. and failed to fix several times as well. All the best strategies have been at my fingertips for several years, trends that have now exploded across our capitalism consumed country: yoga, meditation, journaling, etc..

At times, my own age doesn’t even seem real to me. I will be 25 in just a couple weeks, and I’ve been acting like I’m in my 30’s since way before my time. The mortality of it all doesn’t cause me much stress, but the reality of limited time and energy does. I have BIG dreams and plans, so much to do and the desire to do all of it right now. But with the occupation I’ve chosen, business ownership included, I’ve left little space for me to explore beyond the realms of familiar.

However, coming back to this blog, I’ve realized its important to me, because in my daily life I hardly have the time for all these thoughts to work themselves out and stop tangling within their own beautiful contortions. In fact, scarce is the time to devote the energy to this passion of mine, or the fantasies that I so desperately crave.

..To really be as present as I wish to be with others, I need to be more present with myself.

So where’s that start button? Oh yeah.. I guess it would be “publish”.

Thank you for reading.

My Awkward Embrace (and Emotional One Night Stands)

(from 9/26/16)

I don’t always say the right thing or follow the right formula.

Most of my 25 years of life, in the beginnings of my relationships with friends and lovers, I’ve taken what I have and laid it out on the table from the get go. A lot of what I have to show isn’t the prettiest, the corners of past situations or experiences often stained or torn at the edges, and the present definitely a bit cluttered. But I’ll punctuate it with my own hand crafted sense of humor when the goings get too serious.. unless this new person happens to share a lack of inhibitions about opening their heart, in which case we both tumble along.

Though I’ve gathered a slightly more conservative touch to this approach in the last few years, I realize again with a different angle that I’m just not good at small talk. I earnestly want to connect, be authentic, and be myself around others. I will admit that that I still have a long way to go towards authenticity, as sometimes verbal processing lends itself to a selfishness I don’t know how to avoid. But I’ve found that instead of pouring a drink to hang out and relate to others, I pour out myself, and I’ve done this my whole life.

If you are a friend, a lover, or a family member of mine, than you have gotten used to this awkward embrace of mine. Like the thoughts I have that I feel the need to clarify through questions-feeling energy and wondering where it comes from. Analyzing where assumptions come in. I read body language, tone of voice, and other little signs that all make me curious about the person I am interacting with. I am curious, analytic, and compassionate- so I tend to end up worrying at times.  I used to think that this was a bad combination of things, given to me through anxiety and trauma. But now I recognize that they are me. 

 Of course, the way I interact with people often leads me to emotional one night stands. Many a time have I shared a deep conversation with someone, the kind of conversation that gets your gut feeling funny and your head feeling light- the vortex of their desire to connect a great energy draw. They offer to me that they don’t normally connect with people this deeply; that they’re not usually so honest or open about what they are going through.

And then, they are gone.

I used to mourn and feed negativity into these situations. After something so intimate, its easy to cultivate a sense of loss. But through reflection and growth, I now see them more as beautiful, unique gifts of time- moments and experiences I share with others that temporarily embrace the world I want there to be: one where we can speak from our hearts, share our pain, and hold space for each other.. a place of listening and empathy.

Honestly, a lot of my  self-perpetuated anxiety has subsided by embracing my awkwardness, and I do believe that my willingness to share and hold space has helped bring a bit of the light into the world that I feel it needs. Being so open, it is quite a challenge though. It comes with depression at times, and exhaustion. That’s why its so important for me to hold onto my gratitude about experiences and to allow myself to remove attachment to them.

..Easier said than done.

But no matter what I experience, I still embrace my awkwardness, my openness, and my passion to hold space. My life has been so full because of it.