Call it fear. Call it anxiety. Call it overwhelm.

It doesn’t matter what label you give it; it’s pulling me down, and it has been since the day I got home from treatment.

It hit me as soon as I stepped into my apartment.

I was home…

And my safety net was gone.

There was no one to run all my ideas by. No one to go to when I get overwhelmed. No one to teach me the coping skills I didn’t have time to learn while I was busy tearing down all my walls and learning how to let things go.

Suddenly, it was all up to me.

And, without the safety and comfort of residential treatment… I felt completely, utterly alone.

I wasn’t ready for the sheer panic that hit me in wave after wave.

I thought I’d conquered all my demons in treatment, and now, everything was supposed to turn up roses, all the time, every day, around every corner, and with every wise decision I knew I was going to make, now that I was finally free of my past guilt, shame, and regret.

I didn’t know that future decisions would still feel just as painful, frightening, and overpowering. I wasn’t ready to come home and have my fear consume me…

And boy… did it consume me.

= = = = = = =

I’m sitting on the floor, my back to the wall, listening to my “All For Love” playlist on Pandora, sobbing uncontrollably.

I’ve been having these meltdowns almost every day. I can feel the pressure building up, beforehand, so I usually know when they’re coming.

Sometimes, I can keep the panic at bay if I put on my headphones, take a CBD gummy, and start singing all my favorite songs, with all the power I can muster.

Singing is the only thing that can keep me from crying. The crying still comes, though, eventually — so singing isn’t a cure, it’s more a way to buy me time, I guess, until I feel safe enough to cry, and just keep crying, and let it all come out.

It’s scary to cry like this.

Last summer, this kind of crying was what finally pushed me over the edge, and landed me in the mental hospital. Back then, I thought these meltdowns were a sure sign that I was out of control.

I would sob in the same spot on the floor that I’m sitting in today, and I would let the fear, and the panic and the overwhelm, just completely overpower me.

I would be afraid to cry. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Worried. Convinced that something must be wrong with me, for me to be having such deep, intense emotions.

I would try to resist it. I would fight against it, and try to make the crying stop as quickly as possible.

The more I fought, the harder I cried.

It got to where all I knew anymore was panic and overwhelm.

The thing is… as much as it was hurting me, I knew I had to get all those tears out.

Even last summer, I knew it was the pain I’m holding onto, that’s holding me back — that’s preventing me from living the lifestyle I want.

I knew all those old memories, all the pain, all the shame, the judgment, the fear… all of it… they’re all mental or emotional blocks that stand in the way of me being able to think clearly, to see what’s really in front of me, and to make choices that will move me forward, in full alignment with my values and my identity.

They were like barnacles, sucking the life out of me until nothing but darkness and confusion remained.

I knew those painful old memories had to go.

But I didn’t know how to get them out.

I only knew how to sit in the corner and cry.

And, actually, that’s what I did for probably a whole year before I went to the mental hospital: I sat, every morning, with pen and paper in my hand, my back against that same wall, and journaled, and cried.

I tried to dig up as many memories as I could, thinking if I could just cry about it all, I could finally be free. And I spent 365 days — at least — crying every morning, over every painful memory that ever came up.

But just crying wasn’t enough. (That’s how I wound up in the mental hospital, after all… so, for real: don’t try this at home. You won’t like the outcome.)

Every day, I cried, more and more, trying to get all those memories and all the pain and everything out of my body. And every time I cried, it was like walking in quicksand. With each tear, my heart sank deeper and deeper into the abyss.

In time, I came to believe I could never be free of my past, and the only way to escape the pain was suicide. (I’ll write more about that later… much later… I’m not ready for that deep dive just yet.)

Suffice it to say, in the mental hospital, I learned a safer way to cry.

Or, rather, I learned that it is safe to cry — but to get the full effect, you have to get everything out. Not just bits and pieces, here and there.

You have to cry all of it out, all the way down to the roots, or else it’ll just build back up again and you’ll get stuck in a perpetual cycle of crying enough to relieve the immediate pressure, but never enough to find real and lasting peace.

Mind you, I am not a doctor, and this is not psychiatric advice. This is just my experience.

But my experience in the mental hospital — after days and days of crying just enough to relieve the immediate pressure…

My experience in the mental hospital was if everyone would just leave me be… and I could go sit and sob in the quiet of my room… away from all the other patients…

If I could just cry and cry until I finally cried every bit of it out…

Eventually… the crying would subside.

Not once, but every time I cried.

Now, in the mental hospital, I felt safe to cry everything out.

In my apartment, before going to the mental hospital, that hadn’t been the case.

I was afraid to cry. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Convinced it meant there was something wrong with me.

But in the mental hospital, somehow, I intuitively knew that I was in a safe, controlled environment, where if my crying ever did get out of hand, somebody could step in and help me through it, and help me get back in control.

And somehow, just knowing I was safe to fully let loose… that gave me the freedom I needed to finally cry things out all the way down to the roots… and to cry out all the pain, fear, embarrassment, shame, guilt, judgment, all of it, every heavy emotion attached to every painful memory…

And leave it all on my pillow, and never have to pick it back up again.

I learned that skill while in the mental hospital — but then they sent me home, long before I had time to master the skill (let alone time to cry out a whole lifetime of pent-up emotions).

After the mental hospital, I knew I could cry everything out, any time, all the way down to the roots, and I could be completely free from all that pain — but only in the safety of a hospital setting.

And, admittedly, that’s more than half the reason I sought residential treatment, after leaving the mental hospital. I knew I still had more tears to cry, and I knew my shame and my guilt was still enough to pose a real risk… so I had to go back in, to finish what the mental hospital had started.

In residential treatment, I found the safety and comfort I was looking for. It took about a week or ten days for my mind to fully realize that I was safe, once again, to let everything out. But once I was safe, it all came spilling out of me.

I cried uncontrollably in group therapy, alone in my shower, lying in bed, early in the morning, late at night — once, I cried through lunch, sitting in the cafeteria, watching other patients walk by, not sure if they should approach me, or leave me be.

My walls were down, and I was determined to keep it that way! So as painful and frightening as it was to cry in front of other people, I made myself do it, until it was no longer frightening, and no longer something I had to force myself to do, but rather, something that just happened organically, in the middle of group, or in small circles during our down time.

It took weeks, but I finally learned that I was safe to cry, in residential treatment, in individual therapy, in group therapy, and in other social settings in the hospital, with other patients or staff.

And once I knew I was safe, it became easy to let the tears flow, and to show fear, pain, shame, remorse, sorrow, all of it. I could safely express any emotion and know I was fully supported in doing so.

And that was amazing. I’ve never felt that safe, or that free, in my entire life.

Then I came home and didn’t have any support.

I still “know” I’m safe to cry, even in the solitude of my apartment. Actually, now that I’m back in the real world, I think I feel safer and more comfortable crying in my apartment than I would feel crying in front of other people, out and about.

But it doesn’t feel the same as when I was in the hospital. That extra layer of safety and support is missing. I’m all on my own now… and if I start to cry and get in over my head, I have to rely on myself to guide me through it…

And I don’t know if I know how to do it all by myself.

But I am.

Because I came home, and immediately got overwhelmed, and felt myself freeze, and panic, and feel like everything is wrong and there’s no hope for me at all…

And I can’t go through one more day feeling that way.

I won’t.

It’s a horrible way to feel.

I’ve already served my sentence feeling that way about life. I will not allow that feeling to become my guiding force, now that I’ve had success in treatment, and in the mental hospital, and know that, as painful as my emotions can be, they are temporary, and eventually, they will go away.

But they don’t go away on their own. Maybe someone else knows more about this than I do, but in my experience, emotions tend to linger until I allow myself to feel them, to process them, and then let them go.

So…

I don’t have to be a slave to the fear, and the panic, and the overwhelm.

But I still have to swim through it all to reach the shore of happiness, and possibility, and hope.

There’s no other way around it.

I have to let myself cry this all out. It hurts, but in the end, it’s the only way I can free myself from all the feelings I don’t want to feel.

I had to learn that I was safe in the mental hospital — and then I had to learn to become comfortable crying the way I do.

Then I left the mental hospital, and I had to learn to be safe and comfortable in residential treatment.

Now, today, I suppose I already know it is “safe” for me to cry… and plus, if I did get out of hand in my apartment, I can always call and go back to the hospital, if I really need to.

So I guess now, the only thing to do is to allow myself to cry in my apartment, as much and as often as I need to…

And learn to become comfortable with crying when I’m alone, when there’s not anyone within arm’s reach for me to go to and ask for help.

Cyring today is easier than it was a week ago… so I’m moving in the right direction.

But man, does it hurt.

I suppose it always will, no matter how good I get at it.

But I can tell you this: crying everything out hurts a lot less than holding everything in.

Holding everything in led me to suicide.

Crying it out is leading me to emotional health — and relative happiness.

When I was afraid to let myself cry, last year, I always thought I was doing something wrong.

Now that I’m getting comfortable with letting it out, I finally feel like I’m getting something right.

Maybe if I can make friends with all my heavy emotions, and release the shame and the guilt and the judgment…

Maybe I can learn to like myself, after all.

And if I can do that, that’s worth all the tears I will ever cry in my life.

Intensive outpatient treatment might be more challenging than straight-out hospitalization.

Certainly, it presents its own, unique challenges, separate from the ones I already went through when I was in the hospital.

Like, what to do with all the time throughout the week when I’m not in the hospital… and not surrounded by other patients and staff, whose mere presence is enough to remind me that I’m not actually alone.

When I’m done with outpatient each day, I go home, to my empty apartment, and I am alone… every minute, every hour, every day, that I’m not in treatment.

And somehow, being alone now hits harder than it did before I was hospitalized.

I think it’s because I know, now, that I don’t have to be alone, if I don’t want to. In the hospital, I made friends. Both times. I barely even had to try. As soon as I knew I was safe, and comfortable, in the hospital setting, making friends was almost effortless.

But I haven’t figured out, yet, that I’m just as safe in outpatient treatment — or that I’m safe in my apartment.

I don’t feel safe when I’m alone; not the way I felt safe in the hospital. In the hospital, I knew that if I ever got overwhelmed, or if things started to spiral out of control, there was always somebody I could turn to who could help me through.

Now that I’m home, I feel like I’m on my own again, to sort all that out and to keep myself safe from my own dark thoughts and overpowering emotions. Although, I’m getting pretty good at just allowing the dark thoughts to come and go, without getting too hung up.

But my emotions are still killing me.

The pain and the intensity makes every emotion feel like it’s the end of the world.

Even happy feelings are overwhelming, right now.

The part of my brain that processes feelings can’t tell the difference between good and bad, positive and negative, helpful and harmful. It only knows that the feelings are too much for me to handle on my own.

Which makes it really hard to be alone, in my apartment…

But even harder to think about what if I go somewhere new, and meet people and start to have a good time, and then feel overwhelmed and have an emotional meltdown, in public, in front of people I barely know?

That thought keeps me from even trying to go outside, and try something new.

I still go on my walk every day, but that’s totally different. That’s me, walking alone, around my own neighborhood, on the same route I walk every day, where I know I’m safe and no one is going to bother me because I’ve got my headphones on and I’m singing along to all my favorite songs, so…

Yeah…

No one can touch me while I’m walking.

But going somewhere new? Somewhere outside my established routine?

No, thank you. I’ll pass.

I like the people in outpatient, though. I like seeing them three days a week, for three hours each day, and hearing their stories, and sharing mine, and feeling connected.

I’m terrified of what’s going to happen in another nine or ten weeks, when the staff decides I’m done with outpatient, and I’ve gotten all I can out of it, and it’s time for me to move on.

What happens when I’m done with IOP, and back to spending all of my time alone in my apartment, with nobody to ever talk to and no friends to go hang out with?

I don’t have a job.

I’m not in school.

I don’t have any hobbies that require hanging out with other people. I mean, I do love to sing, and play my harmonica, and yeah, it might be nice to do that with other people… but then again, other people might just tell me I’m no good, and to go home and not come back until I have skills worth putting on display.

And maybe other people wouldn’t even do that. Maybe I’m just imagining scenarios that make it easier for me to justify my self-isolation…

But if there are people who would treat me that way… I don’t know if I can handle that.

I think it’s safer not to take any chances.

I tried to share all that in group last Friday, in ways that are relevant to outpatient treatment and the group setting. I told everyone I’m enjoying the groups, and that, even though I’m just in my first week, I’m already afraid of what will happen when my 10-12 weeks is over, and I’m back to being alone all the time.

I explained how I was able to feel safe in the hospital, and so I know now, that once I feel safe, it’s easy for me to make new friends… and that I don’t feel that safe in my apartment, or out and about in Lubbock, and I don’t know, yet, how to feel safe…

And I started to cry.

It was uncomfortable, crying for the first time, in front of some people I’d just met that day.

So I didn’t let it go on for very long; just a minute or two, then I reeled it in, and once I was calm I got up and went outside to do some deep breathing and try and refocus.

I was terrified at the thought of being alone again, after IOP ends. I still am terrified of always being alone.

Alone is the scariest word in the English language, as far as I’m concerned.

I don’t know, yet, that I won’t be alone anymore. All I can see right now is all the past evidence that proves, over and over again, that even when I have the opportunity to really connect with someone, I’d still rather choose to remain alone. So, I’d say this is a pretty big fear I’m facing.

Here’s the ugly, awkward plot twist:

When I came back inside, the woman sitting next to me had left me a sticky note, on top of my papers, that read, simply, “You’re not alone.”

In that initial moment when I read her note, I was grateful. I felt like that was validation that I am on the right track, and that I’m making choices that ultimately will lead to me not being alone.

But in the moment after the initial moment — and in every moment since — I’ve been obsessed with thoughts of wanting to make this woman fall for me, and make me happy.

I hardly know her name, and I already think she holds the key to my happiness, to my healing. In my mind, I’m ready to turn my whole life upside down so I can be with her.

I’m not even attracted to her. Not really.

And yet, I’m ready to hand her all of my power.

I’ve spent all weekend thinking about her. Daydreaming. Fantasizing. Imagining what it would be like to get to know her… to go on dates with her… to hold her… to kiss her… to feel her love and to make room in my life — and my heart — for somebody new…

I don’t want her. Well, I don’t know her well enough, to have any idea whether I want her, or not. But I can’t stop obsessing over how badly I need her to want me.

I want to change groups so I can permanently be in her group.

I want to show her my wounds and feel her loving me in spite of all the reasons I can give why she shouldn’t — why I don’t deserve to be loved, by her, or by anyone.

I want her to be my girlfriend, and I want to get lost in our relationship, and make that my identity, so I don’t have to spend another moment trapped inside the identity I already have, and despise.

I regret that I didn’t ask for her phone number… or at least, give her mine.

We could probably be together right now, kissing, talking, holding hands, falling in love… fixing each other… saving each other from a lifetime of loneliness.

We could be laughing together. I could be looking into her eyes, and seeing my future.

I don’t want her, though. I’m not interested in her. I don’t feel an attraction to her.

But even so… even temporary togetherness… even if it’s with the wrong woman… or maybe it’s just the wrong time… either way… it would still have to be better than no togetherness… and no woman.

But these are the exact thoughts, feelings, and desires, that I had for Sara Jones, before I went into the hospital. And they weren’t healthy thoughts, feelings, or desires, with her.

And I know they’re not healthy thoughts, feelings, and desires, with this new woman.

Yet, I feel them all so intensely.

It feels like she could be the answer to all of my life’s greatest problems!

The only difference is this time, I know I only want a temporary girlfriend. I thought I had to make Sara Jones love me forever… and this new woman… I just wanna love for a little while… just long enough to show me that I don’t have to be alone… but nowhere near long enough to where I’d be expected to commit to her.

I want her to love me to the point I can know I’m still lovable — and then I want to move on, in search of the woman who I will love for the rest of my life.

As if I know how to truly love a woman…

I mean, maybe I can learn, someday. But today? Not a chance.

Any woman I would fall in love with today, is only going to get her heart broke in two when I ruin the relationship with all my codependent behavior. And I know, now, that’s what this is.

I know because I’ve been codependent ever since I met Carrie, when I was 16 years old. I think a lot of people probably run into codependent love, at least once in their life. But I feel like most other people probably outgrow that behavior once they reach adulthood.

I feel like I should have outgrown it, 33 years ago. But I didn’t. I haven’t. And sometimes, I don’t think I ever will.

I’ve ruined every relationship I was ever in — I might even be the main reason Carrie left me; I don’t really know, anymore. It doesn’t matter all that much, after a whole lifetime of not being together.

Except that, until now I’ve never felt safe enough to emotionally let her go, and to examine what’s left of our love, and see if there are any lessons in it that I’m finally ready to learn. But that’s for another letter.

I am obsessed with trying to figure out how I can get this new woman to want me… to pursue me… to choose me… to finally be the one who will heal my heartache, and show me how to live again…

And I’m ready to ask myself why? Why am I obsessed? Why do I want her to save me? Why do I think she can save me?

(Do I really think she can save me? Or do I just want something to distract me from having to take a long look at myself?)

Part of me — the same part of me that wanted Sara Jones so badly — wishes I could let this new woman be the answer.

I guess, a bigger part of me knows she never will be.

But I’m still hurting so much from all my past relationships, I’m not ready — yet — to take that look within, and to ask myself what I really need… and who I need it from.

I know the answer is “me.” I know I am the only one who can heal what’s broken inside me. But in this moment… possibly for the last time… I wish the answer could be somebody else.

Because in this moment… I’m still afraid to be alone with myself.

I’m afraid I’ll find out that I’m not as strong as I want to be.

I’m afraid I won’t know how to take care of myself, after spending so many years longing for somebody else to take care of me.

But I know she won’t fix me. I know she can’t.

I don’t know if I can — but I know I can’t put it on anyone else to do it for me. It wouldn’t be fair… and besides that, it just wouldn’t work.

She didn’t put me in this mindset in the first place.

I did.

And I’m the only one who can get myself out.

I don’t know but I guess it’s finally time for me to face the pain I’ve been hiding from? That might be the only way it ever really goes away, after all.

I wish this woman could be the answer. But I know I’ll be better off leaving her alone, and looking within. It’s all I can do.

I sincerely hope it’s all it takes, for me to finally give myself the love that can only come from within. The love that I really need. The love that will set me free, to someday give my heart to somebody new.

After I’ve learned to take care of myself, the way that I need to.

Until then, it’s probably best that I avoid romance altogether. I really don’t want to be codependent anymore.

I just never knew, before, that I could be any other way.

I’m watching Cameo sing “Candy” on YouTube, and it’s making me cry.

I need the release; I’ve been holding onto some of these emotions for far too long, and I need to get it out so I can start to move forward with my life.

“Candy” is one of the songs I put on when my mind is out of sorts, and I wanna get pumped up. Something about the song, the lyrics, the music, the outfits, the beat, the expressions on everyone’s faces… somehow it manages to pull me out of my funk every time I watch it.

I wanna call it magic — because that’s what it feels like when my mood shifts so suddenly! — but sadly, I’m pretty sure it can all be explained in very dry, clinical terms, in modern science.

I’m still gonna act like it’s magic, though, because magic is way more fun…

I’ve been home for over a month now, and today is the first day I finally feel like doing something productive.

I wish I could gloss over the difficult parts.

The fear.

The anxiety.

The way I’ve been avoiding my responsibilities.

The fact that I came home from treatment, and temporarily fell apart.

The fact that I came home from treatment… and started drinking every day.

I’m tempted to hide that part from everybody, because why embarrass myself if I don’t have to?

But I am embarrassed.

And if I continue to hide it, it only increases the odds that I’ll go back to some kind of irresponsible, fearful, avoidant behavior… that may not be drinking… but will still interfere with my plans, goals, and dreams for my life, now that I’m (more or less) mentally stable.

I spent 59 days in a treatment center in San Antonio, learning how to get my mind right. And the day I got home from treatment, I started drinking.

I also started popping CBD gummies a couple times a day… and occasionally, taking an extra Trazadone in hopes that it would help me sleep longer.

(Occasionally, hoping I would fall asleep and not wake up, if I’m being completely honest.)

I don’t understand it. Treatment was a huge success! But I came home to more problems than I was anticipating, and I got overwhelmed, and I didn’t know what to do.

I crumbled on day one.

You see, I’m not a drinker. I used to be, back in the Navy, twenty-five years ago. But I gave it up when I got out, because I was afraid of what might happen if I didn’t. A couple of times here and there, I’ve had a few drinks, but the last time I did, I didn’t like it at all.

And yet, last month when I left treatment, it was the first thing I did as soon as I was safely back home in my apartment.

The second thing I did was to cut my arm. Fortunately, I only did that the one time, and then decided it’s too risky, and not something I want to continue.

The third thing I did was to lie down in bed, and cry myself to sleep.

I came home feeling like I was finally free from all my past trauma, and all the pent-up emotion I’d been holding inside since I was fifteen years old — and now I was afraid again, and I didn’t know what to do.

I spent the first three weeks home, getting drunk, getting stoned, or trying to sleep as many hours as I can in a day, or all three.

I finally quit drinking, and quit sleeping all day. I’m still getting stoned a couple times a week though, off CBD gummies. And I don’t like that… but I guess I like it better than being alone with all my fears.

See, even though I’m better, mentally, I still want to avoid pain.

And living life, in today’s society, is painful. It is frightening. It is overwhelming, and risky, and uncertain.

And I despise uncertainty.

I need to know that I’m going to get the outcome I want, or I will freeze up and get stuck in indecision… and I’ll stay in that place where avoiding responsibility for my decisions seems more appealing than making a choice… and finding out I chose wrong.

Even though I honestly am better than when I went into treatment — even though suicide is no longer the only thing I think about every day — I still don’t know how to handle painful emotions or events on my own.

And maybe I never will.

I can’t even watch “Candy” on YouTube, without getting emotionally overwhelmed.

And maybe, that’s the point.

Maybe I’m not supposed to handle it all on my own. I don’t know. I mean, that is the reason I sought treatment: because I knew I couldn’t stop myself from making another suicide attempt, without professional intervention.

I knew I needed help, in order to turn my mind around, and want to live…

And yet, I came home, and on day one, I thought I had to figure everything out now on my own… and I don’t know how to do that.

So, yeah, I crumbled. I got paralyzed. I felt crushed under the weight of not-knowing-ness… I felt like I know what I need to do to move forward… and yet… I’m powerless to actually take the next step.

I felt like if I made one wrong move, all the progress I’ve just made would collapse... and going to treatment will have been for nothing.

I’m not saying that’s necessarily true; but it is how I felt, in that moment when I decided what I really need to do is just drink, and not worry about my life at all.

I don’t really want to drink though. And, I don’t really want to avoid responsibility, either.

But I don’t want people to be disappointed in me, and if I make the wrong choice, they will be.

I don’t want to feel like a failure, and if I make the wrong choice, I will.

I don’t want to be ashamed of what happened — or how I chose to respond. But I came home, and I made the wrong choice.

I should know better than to drink, but in the face of this overwhelming helplessness… it seemed safer to drink, than not. (Believe me, I know what that sounds like.)

I think what’s really keeping me stuck here is shame.

I “should” know what three weeks of day drinking typically leads to.

I “should” have reached out before I took the second drink.

(I was gonna have that first one, regardless… but I really didn’t expect to keep drinking, day after day, and to want to keep drinking, day after day… I really believed it was going to be one and done.)

I “should” be smart enough not to start drinking in the first place.

Especially right after leaving a treatment center that deals with both mental health, and substance abuse.

I “should” know enough real alcoholics already, to know I don’t ever want to be one!

But the drinking isn’t the real problem.

The real problem is the challenges ahead of me, that I still don’t know if I’m equipped to handle.

You see, since coming home from treatment, I’ve known that I can’t go back to my old way of life. The old patterns of negative self-talk, doubt, withdrawal, isolation, self-harm…

No matter how much past trauma I’ve worked through… if I go back to those old negative patterns, it’s only a matter of time before I’m overwhelmed again, and facing the reality of another suicide attempt.

And I don’t want to die, anymore.

I want to live.

But living is scary.

Like… drive me to drink, scary.

I’m still terrified of my future! Even if I now believe it’s possible for me to have a good one.

I’m convinced that, now that I’m better… I somehow only get one chance to make the next right choice, and the next one after that, and so on and so on… and if I make one wrong choice, it’ll take away every chance for future success and happiness.

Not just the one chance that choice represents, but every chance, every day, for the rest of my life.

I’m convinced that once I make one wrong decision, it’s game over, and there’s no coming back now from the shame of it all.

And I don’t want to live in shame anymore.

I want to thrive. I want to build a lifestyle and a future that will give my life meaning, and give me purpose and direction (and hopefully, some happiness mixed in here and there).

I want to be alive.

But I still don’t want to be wrong. I’m terrified that other people are going to know I’m doing everything wrong.

I know I need help. But society tells me if I ask for help, I’ll bring shame on me and my family… and shame makes me want to be dead. To be invisible.

To disappear.

Shame has always kept me stuck in past moments and memories, torturing me for all the things I know I’ve done wrong, and that I know other people will judge me for. Shame haunted my thoughts for years… until the only way I could see out of it was suicide.

Shame tells me you’re not going to read my newsletter now, because I’ve just told you about things I’m doing wrong, and now you know that I make mistakes. And some of those mistakes feel downright catastrophic…

But some things help me to shake shame loose!

Like “Candy.” Even if it’s a temporary fix, at least today, I got 4 minutes and 21 seconds of not having to feel shame. Actually, I left YouTube on autoplay so I’ve been listening to 80s funk and R&B in the background for nearly 45 minutes now…

And it’s such a mood stabilizer for me. I’ve been unable to feel shame that whole time. The music magically makes my shame disappear!

It will come back, though.

I know it will come back.

It always does.

I feel like I don’t know how to handle shame, and fear, and anxiety.

And maybe I don’t.

Or maybe I learned, while I was in treatment, and my mind just hasn’t caught up yet.

Because if I was still a slave to my shame…

I wouldn’t be writing about it.

I wouldn’t be looking for ways to get out from under it.

I would be telling myself that, yes, of course, I deserve it… and if you only knew all the things I’ve done wrong in my life, you’d know I deserve it, too.

And I don’t deserve it.

I just don’t know — yet — how to address it head-on.

I don’t like feeling emotionally overwhelmed, frightened, confused, embarrassed, ashamed, uncertain… exposed…

But really, once I face those feelings, and allow them to just happen… without shame… without guilt… without judgment…

They actually don’t last that long.

I just don’t like going through it all.

But I don’t think there’s any other way for me to get the lifestyle I want.

I think when a person wants more out of life, I think they have to make new choices… and I think, by default, most of those choices are probably going to be wrong.

The worst thing I can do — if I want to get out of this mess, and live a life that’s worth living — is to avoid making choices because I’m afraid of doing it wrong.

If life has taught me anything, it’s that of course I’m going to do it wrong, at first.

I always do.

And that’s not anything to be ashamed of. It’s just something to recognize, and to learn how to deal with.

I am going to do things wrong — and that’s okay. That’s how I learn.

As long as I can learn from my wrong choices, I can, someday, make better ones… ones that are more in line with my values… my identity… my goals and dreams.

And someday… I can stop being ashamed, and just do whatever it is that I want to do… for no other reason than I want to do it.

And I don’t know about you…

But for me…

That is the definition of success: to do what I want to do, simply because I want to do it… and to be able to do it without shame, guilt, or judgment, from myself.

I feel like that would be worth living for.

I feel like that would be a real accomplishment.

And I feel like, as long as I’m willing to remain open and honest…

That kind of lifestyle is finally within my reach.

My life is a mess.

It has been, for a long time. I just haven’t been healthy enough to see it.

I don’t know why anybody would want to listen to me — I don’t know anything. That’s not me being down on myself; it’s just facts.

I have an Associate of Arts degree that took me seven years to complete, and really was just an excuse for me to take a bunch of music classes that I’ve done nothing with… and spend a bunch of years hanging around cute college girls that, I also did nothing with.

My memory is horrible.

Reading comprehension is virtually nil.

I have to read the same page over and over again, only to realize I still don’t know what it’s talking about. I try to rewrite what I’m reading into my own words, and sometimes it helps… but I almost never apply what I’m reading to real life… so…

I’ve been hospitalized twice in the last year for suicidal ideation. That’s two times in the span of 12 months that I’ve needed the highest-level professional help available, in order to keep myself from taking my own life. (Actually the two hospital stays were only about six months apart, but still.)

I’ve officially attempted suicide once. I don’t think I intend to ever try it again. I think the hospitalization helped.

But I still go into a panic attack just sending a text to make an appointment to see my bishop.

I still order DoorDash multiple times a week because the thought of cooking my own meals every day sends me into a spiral.

I’m still too afraid to step outside of my routine and take chances, and maybe try something new.

I’m convinced I’m going to do everything, catastrophically wrong.

And, the truth is…

I probably will. At first, at least.

But, knowing me, I’ll probably still be doing it wrong, the second, third, and fourth time around. Heck, there are probably some things I’ve been doing for 20 or 30 years, that I’m still doing wrong.

It’s kind of how I roll.

I’m probably doing this whole newsletter thing wrong… but I’m doing it, regardless.

And maybe that’s the point of this letter today:

It doesn’t matter how many times you get something wrong. What matters is whether or not you’re brave enough to do what you really want to do.

For a long time, I wasn’t brave enough. I see that now, so, so clearly.

(To my credit, mismanaged mental health can turn anybody into a full-fledged coward, for a time. My hospital stays seem to have helped with that, too… just not as much as the suicidal ideation. I guess that’s alright, though; of the two, suicide is the bigger immediate threat.)

I’m realizing, though, now that I’m home: my struggle has never been, “Am I smart enough?” Or am I strong enough; determined enough; kind enough; popular enough; generous enough; disciplined enough. I’ve got all that stuff inside.

But for decades, what I didn’t have enough of, was bravery.

Real, raw, unwavering, unflinching courage.

The pure willingness to live the lifestyle I really want to live… to be vulnerable… to be open to new experiences… to be able to admit when I’m doing something wrong, or when I’m afraid, or nervous, or anxious, or shy.

There have been moments, in recent years, that I have been very brave.

Moving to Lubbock. Going to Florida for a copywriter’s convention. Volunteering at the Buddy Holly Hall. Starting this newsletter. Taking solo road trips across the great state of Texas, never knowing where the day will take me, and having more fun than a person should be capable of having in such a short smount of time.

Calling the National Suicide Hotline, and allowing myself to receive the help I need.

But now, after two hospital stays… after working through decades of trauma, and pent-up emotion… after releasing a lifetime of shame, guilt, fear, judgment, and regret…

After finding the right combination of medications, therapies, and coping skills, for where I’m at in this phase of my life…

I come home and on Day One, I’m overwhelmed, and back to my old habits and routines.

I’m so afraid of the next step, all I wanna do is stay locked in my apartment, binging Netflix, ordering DoorDash, avoiding people, avoiding reality, avoiding taking responsibility for my future because I am one hundred percent convinced I’m going to do my future wrong, and I won’t know how to recover from the wrongness of it all.

My mind is clearer than it’s been since I was probably 16 years old.

I’ve unloaded more than 30 years’ worth of pent-up emotion: guilt, anger, shame, rejection, loneliness, fear, regret.

I’ve separated my identity from my mental illness — and I finally believe that I am greater than the sum of my parts, and that my life can have purpose and meaning.

And still, I’m afraid to take the next step.

Like, overwhelmingly, lock myself in my room, cry in the shower, hours long panic attacks, don’t let anybody see me in this mental state, afraid.

And I still have no idea why.

I’m not willing to move forward — but I’m not satisfied with giving up.

I’m stuck.

Paralyzed by fear of the unknown.

For thirty years, at least, the unknown has been dangerous and frightening to me. Especially since I got PTSD, twenty-three years ago.

The only time in my adult life I have felt safe and comfortable, has been in mental hospitals. I’m relatively safe in my apartment — but even here, my own dark thoughts still tend to consume me. Only in the security of a hospital setting, have I felt safe enough to peel back all the layers and get honest with myself and with others.

And I can’t spend the rest of my life, living in mental hospitals. I don’t think they even do that anymore. And, honestly, even if they did, I don’t think I’d be satisfied to spend the rest of my life in that setting. It clearly is what I needed, to get out from under my suicidal thoughts and my deep, dark depression.

But now that my mind is clear, I want more out of life than “just” a mental patient, or “just” a suicide survivor, or “just” a guy living a quiet life in Lubbock, Texas, just trying to escape the pain of living with such strong, overwhelming emotions, day after day after day.

I’m tired of feeling like I’m a slave to my own fear… my own anxiety… my own inability to cope with my emotions.

But it’s true.

Even after two hospital stays — even after learning to understand my suicidal tendencies, and hopefully rise above the desire to make another attempt — I still don’t know how to manage my emotions and my fear and anxiety in real time.

I’m no longer haunted by my past — but I’m still deathly afraid I’m going to ruin my future.

And I don’t know if there will ever be a time that I won’t feel the fear this intensely.

So, fear in and of itself, is not a sufficient reason for me not to pursue the life of my dreams… but I still don’t know how to navigate these fearful moments, in ways that lead to me making the right choice, and acting on that choice, to move closer to the lifestyle I really desire.

I don’t know how to do that. I’ve never learned. Nobody has ever taught me. That’s not an excuse, but maybe it can be an explanation?

Like… I legitimately don’t know any other way but the one way I’ve always known… and maybe that’s why, even after two hospital stays, I still don’t feel like I know what I’m doing? Maybe that’s why the fear is still so powerful, and so overwhelming, because even though I’ve released a lifetime of guilt, and shame, and jealousy, and anger, and regret, and remorse… maybe fear is not something that you can just let go of.

Maybe fear is something you have to go through… every time it rears its head.

Maybe there is no wishing away, or outgrowing, outsmarting, outmaneuvering, out-thinking, out-feeling, outplanning… avoiding… fear.

Maybe facing our fears is how we prove we’re willing to do what it takes to have the life we really want.

Maybe it’s not about smarts, or money, or skills, or discipline, or popularity, or any of it.

Maybe it all boils down to our willingness to confront our own fears.

And maybe that’s what I’m failing at.

Not the ability to face my fears — because the hospital has shown me that once I’m willing, I typically am able.

But maybe it all begins and ends, not with what we’re able to do… but with what we’re willing to do.

I’m not willing, in this moment, to make a phone call (or text, or email) to let the right people know that I’m really struggling and I need more help.

I just came home from the hospital a month ago! And I want everyone to think I’m doing well, now.

I want everyone to think I’m doing better.

I don’t want them to think I’m still not strong enough (or, in this case, brave enough) to handle life’s problems.

If people knew that I came home from the hospital and fell apart… I’d be so embarrassed.

I’d rather stay locked in my apartment, avoiding people, avoiding reality, avoiding my responsibilities, than let people know I don’t think I’m handling things correctly.

I don’t want other people to judge me. (And here I thought I’d released all of that, too.)

So…

I’m probably doing this all wrong.

And I’ll probably continue to do it all wrong — maybe for as long as I live. (Hopefully I’ll learn some things, at least, and maybe someday I’ll only get parts of it wrong.)

But I’m still doing it.

I’m not satisfied with the life I have… and I’m not willing to remain in a life that’s not satisfying… that’s not fulfilling… that’s not giving me meaning, purpose, and direction.

So I have to change. I have to try.

I have to be willing to really do something different.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know where to begin.

I don’t know who to talk to, to get me to that next step.

But, maybe, somewhere, hopefully, buried underneath the fear, and the anxiety, and the self-isolating behavior, and the daily panic attacks…

Maybe…

Just maybe…

If I dig really deep into my soul…

I’m finally willing to try.

In two days, I’m going back into inpatient treatment.

I’m afraid. Very afraid.

I don’t know exactly what I’m going to be walking into. I know I’m going to a facility in San Antonio… so… road trip. 😎 I know it’s a 30 to 45-day residential program… so… from the get-go, I can plan on being hospitalized for at least a month. (Last time, I expected to be in the hospital just a few days, maybe a week at the most… and I was there for seven weeks, so, at least this time I know I’ll be there for a while…)

I know the facility I’m going to works with veterans and civilians — and that appeals to me, because my goal is to reintegrate into society, and in order to do that I’m gonna have to learn how to get along with both types. (I don’t know but I have this idea that veteran-only hospitals might have a bit of an echo chamber effect, and if they do, that’s something I personally want to avoid…)

I know that it’s going to be intense… and that I’m going to come out with a different worldview — and hopefully, some better coping skills.

But also, I know that in order to gain that new worldview, and the coping skills I’m after, I’m going to have to face a lot of things I don’t want to look at… things that I would rather die than ever have to explore.

Things that have kept me afraid, in some cases, for more than thirty years.

Things I’ve never talked about, save for a few really frightening therapy sessions.

Things I’ve maybe only told one or two people, ever… that now, I’m going to have to talk about openly, candidly, objectively…

And I don’t know if I’m ready to do it.

I’m so afraid of what I’ll have to uncover.

My mind is urging me to avoid it at all costs.

Which is not a surprise, really; my mind has been avoiding it all this whole time, certain that if I ever do look at these moments from my past, the pain and the fear will be so strong — so all-consuming — it’ll send me into a tailspin I can never recover from.

These moments are why I’ve been running my whole life… so, yeah, I’m terrified.

I know the staff at the facility will tell me (I know any mental health professional will tell me) it’s normal for me to be afraid. And that the treatment plan they’re developing for me is designed to help me navigate all of this safely and securely. And that once we’re done, I will be mentally and emotionally better.

I know it’s what has to be done, if I ever want to escape the pain and the anguish I already live with, every day.

I know these moments still have power over me because I have yet to deal with them.

I want to believe that once I have dealt with them, the power they hold will be less… like, significantly less…

I want to believe that.

But right now, I really don’t.

I’m still convinced that walking into this facility is the most dangerous thing I could ever do. Just thinking about it makes my stomach hurt. My whole body aches, actually. Typing these words is making me tense up. My eyes hurt, and I’m starting to get a headache.

My mind is in full-on panic mode.

I’ve kept every mistake, every heartache, every failure, every disappointment, every wrong choice I’ve ever made — I’ve kept them all secret this whole time. Some of my secrets go all the way back to middle school, to my first clumsy attempts to “get with girls” to the first time I ever truly felt so depressed and insecure that I actually contemplated suicide.

My mind is a prison, filled with all the things I never want anybody to find out about me… and it’s so full, so cluttered, so devoid of meaning… so dark and lonely…

I don’t believe I can ever find my way out.

Suicide looks safer than trying to untangle the mess inside — the mess that is me.

I don’t know any other way to say it. I feel like I would rather die than face the things I’m afraid of. Because some of those things feel so heavy… and because I still feel so alone…

I don’t want people to know I even have secrets.

I don’t want to think about what people will do when they find out.

I’m afraid even my closest friends and family will disown me. I’m afraid strangers will laugh at me, and use my pain and my insecurities to take advantage of me. I’m afraid I will allow people to take advantage of me, because I’m not strong enough to stand up to them — and because even if they’re using me… at least they’re finally paying attention to me.

And I need attention right now the same way I need water.

Probably the biggest reason I have for wanting to commit suicide is that I still feel alone, all of the time, and I don’t know yet how to change this feeling… how to build real friendships, real connections, how to engage with other people and feel like I finally belong.

I hate who I am… and at the end of the day, I’m convinced everybody else must hate me, too. Why else does everybody leave me all the time? Why else do I not get texts, and phone calls, and emails, asking me how I’m doing, or if I need help with anything… or if I’d like anybody to come check on me… spend time with me… take me to the mall, or to lunch, or a movie…

But nobody calls. Nobody visits. Nobody thinks about me enough to think I’m worth reaching out to.

And it’s most likely my fault.

I’ve spent decades shutting everyone out. Withdrawing even from my friends and family. Self-isolating because I’m too afraid of what people will say if they know what a mess I truly am. Hiding behind humor and sarcasm. Learning to make people see the side of me that I want them to see — and pushing away anybody who starts to see through the facade, to the person I actually am underneath it all.

I came home from the war, and I shut people out. I learned to run from everything. I made it my mission to stay numb. To avoid conflict. Avoid pain. Avoid anything that reminded me of how cold, and uncaring, and unfair, this life really is. Because it’s not fair that I survived my deployment, and now have to live with the aftereffects.

I don’t know how to face this all.

I don’t know how to talk about it.

I don’t even know if I’m supposed to talk about it — or if I’m expected to just suck it all up and get on with life, the way everyone else does. (But spoiler: not everyone does get on with life. Some of us live with these challenges every day, and sometimes it just gets to be so exhausting.)

I want connection.

But I want to be able to control the connection.

I want it to go the way I want it to — the way that will make me feel accepted, but still keep me from having to deal with conflict or with people or circumstances that I know won’t always go my way.

I want freedom for me, but compliance from everyone around me. I don’t want people to be able to choose not to be around me… because then who will ever choose me? Who will ever want to be my friend, if they’re allowed to actually see me for who I really am? I’ve ruined far too many relationships to believe that anyone would choose to inject themselves into my life… to subject themselves to the nightmare that is “being friends with Michael Glenn.”

I don’t know how I got here. I wasn’t like this growing up. I mean, yeah, I’ve always wanted other people to adore me… but it wasn’t the end of the world if they didn’t.

I wasn’t afraid of always being alone, unloved, and unwanted. I was hardly even insecure, up until high school… and even then, I didn’t go around pushing people away, isolating and withdrawing from everyone. I had friends — I had a lot of friends! And I enjoyed having them around.

But now, I don’t even trust my friends (the few that I still have…).

I don’t trust anybody with my pain.

I don’t believe these feelings are ever going to go away. It doesn’t matter how much therapy I receive, how many hospital stays I’m approved for, or how many weeks I pour my heart out into this newsletter — I don’t believe I can get rid of the thoughts and feelings that make me think suicide is safer than opening up.

And yet… I’m going into treatment.

I’m committed to at least showing up at the facility. (Which, that in itself is honestly a huge step for me to commit to, considering I’ve been running from everything for literally as long as I can remember!)

And I’m still scared. My mind is still telling me that opening up is dangerous… that it could in fact make things worse for me.

Because right now, and ever since I came home from my last hospital stay… all these moments from my past are already coming back into my awareness. And I can’t just bury them again, and hope they never resurface.

One way or another, I have to face my past. I have to spill my secrets. I have to bring every insecurity out into the light of day.

Because the only thing that scares me more right now than dealing with my mental health… is refusing to deal with my mental health.

I’m terrified of what I’ll be asked to endure, once I enter this facility. I’m terrified that I won’t be strong enough to do my part… that I’ll come out the other end and still feel lost and alone… that my mental health is already so bad, that I’ll never find peace or happiness in this life.

I don’t think I can do the work they’re going to ask me to do.

But I have to find out.

I have to go in.

I’ll never live with myself if I don’t stop running.

I have to try.

The breakdown

I spent 49 days in a mental hospital this summer.

In August, my whole world came tumbling down.

I was fighting with Sara Jones (not her real name by the way, but it doesn’t matter anymore, because I’m pretty sure she’s gone for good).

I wasn’t getting the help I needed from the VA – and the help I was receiving, wasn’t helping.

I reached out to the Lubbock Vet Center (a separate branch of the VA dedicated to helping combat veterans with their mental health), only to find out that they won’t help me because even though I deployed to the Arabian Gulf for the start of Operation Iraqi Freedom, I’m not technically a combat veteran – which I told them when I called!

But they said they’d see what they can do… only to call me back two weeks later and tell me they can do nothing.

Never mind the fact that deploying in Operation Iraqi Freedom is what caused me the mental and emotional anguish that ultimately led to the VA awarding me disability for life. I wasn’t “in the war” like the men and women on the front lines… and they only work with veterans who were…

Which is fine, but I mean… I was in the Arabian Gulf… and I still don’t qualify for their support?

Cool. Thanks for absolutely nothing.

Meanwhile, I’ve been writing this newsletter for almost two years now… with the explicit goal of reaching 100,000 subscribers and converting 1% to paid… at $8/month per subscriber… or $8,000/month total.

And after two years of pouring my heart into this, I have two paying subscribers, and after processing fees, they bring in about $12.50 each month.

I love writing this newsletter though!

And I’m happy if each issue gets read by one person, honestly. So the fact that there are two people who like it enough that they’re willing to pay me for it – that really is pretty exciting. It’s just… my goal was $8,000, not $12.50… and I guess I was just naive enough to believe that $8,000 really was possible.

So of course, now I hate myself for not reaching an impossible goal (and for not even recognizing that it was an impossible goal, in the first place).

And if that’s not enough to drive a man mad…

I also launched my own veterans support group back in March, and got to about 24 members… and then completely stalled because I don’t know how to build that kind of community in the first place!

And now I’m beating myself up for losing my nerve and basically walking away from the whole project… after spending in total, probably five or six thousand dollars on it…

Oh, and I spent 49 days in a psychiatric hospital, crying every day, journaling, writing down all the events from my entire life that led up to the night I called the Crisis Line, ready to commit suicide. (I probably should’ve led with that…)

The hospital stay that changed everything

The night I called the Crisis Line, I was admitted into a psychiatric hospital for the first time in my life.

I was there for forty-four days. It was frightening, and difficult, and overwhelming… but it was also safe, and comfortable, and secure. I felt like I was finally free to let my guard down, and to start dealing with things I’ve been running from for thirty years.

I started to write about all the things I’ve kept bottled up since I was fifteen. I cried a lot. I wrote about things that I didn’t even know were still bothering me. I worked through years of pent-up emotion.

Every day I was in the hospital, I felt more alive than the day before. I knew I was finally making progress – finally facing my problems, instead of just running away.

Then they sent me home before I was ready… and I spiraled so badly, I started cutting my arm. I didn’t sleep for two days. I felt hopeless… abandoned… lost… I didn’t feel safe in my apartment – and I did feel safe in the hospital. So I did what I had to do, to be let back in.

And I realized pretty quickly, once I was back inside, that they’d already given me everything they could. What I really needed now was therapy – and that’s the one thing that this hospital didn’t have to offer.

So I left, after only about five additional days. I enrolled in outpatient treatment at a private hospital in Lubbock, only to have the VA deny my treatment because they “didn’t get the right referral letter from the hospital.”

Which, kind of put me all the way back at square one, because I mean… my hospital stay opened up a lot of emotional wounds… but I was really counting on outpatient to show me how to heal those wounds, and now that’s been taken away from me… just like everything else.

Two and a half months after the fact…

I still haven’t got the VA to approve me for outpatient treatment. So, I’m in Seattle for the holidays, visiting Mom and Dad, and waiting instead to get approved for more inpatient treatment, only this time at a long-term facility that includes therapy.

Which no doubt will cost them more than sending me to outpatient…

But which, honestly, might be the better option anyway…

Because even today, when I’m alone for too long, I still feel suicidal.

Not enough to act on those thoughts — not while I’m safe at Mom and Dad’s. But enough to remind me that I’m probably not safe to just go back to my apartment and carry on as if nothing bad ever happened.

Which is pretty much all I’ve ever known how to do, when it comes to mental health. Well, really, when it comes to any problem at all. I just… ignore it… and hope it goes away… and if it doesn’t, then I just try to bury it deep inside, and put as much distance between me and the situation as I can.

Which probably has something to do with why it’s so hard for me to leave my apartment, explore Lubbock, meet new people and make new friends. I want those things – I really, truly do – but I also want to stay safe and in control.

A life I want but can’t reach

The truth is… I want an active lifestyle, filled with friends, and fun, and laughter.

I want new experiences.

I want to feel comfortable getting in the back of an Uber, going to see a play or a concert, or going to dinner, or to a friend’s house.

I am comfortable renting a car for three days, and taking a road trip by myself, and driving through miles of open countryside in Texas, Colorado, and New Mexico (or spending three days driving from Austin to Lubbock and stopping to see all the wacky roadside attractions along the way, and eating a cheeseburger at a cafe on the Route 66 midpoint, also all by myself).

But I’m terrified of having genuine, shared experiences, with other people.

I’m afraid if I open up, no one will want to be around me.

I’m afraid I’ll chase everyone away, and I’ll end up alone again, only this time I’ll be alone alone… and I’ll know that people really don’t want me around, and there really is no hope, and I’ll never fit in anywhere and there’s no reason to keep trying because if I do chase everyone away, even one time, then I have real empirical evidence that the only safe place for me in this world is for me to be alone…

And alone is the worst word in the English language.

Alone is why I kept chasing Sara Jones, even when I knew it would never lead anywhere.

Alone is why I kept going back to the VA, asking for help, even when they kept denying me the help I need.

Alone is why I reached out to the Vet Center, even though I knew from the beginning that they wouldn’t take me since I’m not a combat veteran.

Which, by the way, I just want to be clear: I’m glad I’m not a combat veteran… I’m proud of my service and for the most part I loved being in the Navy… but no way could I handle combat. If I’d been foolish enough to try and go that route, I probably would’ve got somebody killed. Just saying.

Alone is why I moved to Lubbock in the first place: so I could overcome the challenges in my path, put the past behind me, learn new skills, make new friends, and build the kind of life that I think would finally be worth sticking around for.

And I’ve overcome a lot of challenges in the last three years — on purpose.

I intentionally put myself in an environment when I moved to Lubbock where I would be alone, at first, so that I could learn how to not be alone, ever again.

And I failed.

I failed to the point that I called the Crisis Line because I couldn’t stop my suicidal thoughts… and then after 44 days in the hospital… thinking I was getting better… I came home and tried to kill myself and wound up back in the hospital for a few more days…

And then I came home on Day 49, and really believed I was on a path towards finally getting the lifestyle I want…

And the VA took it away from me, after only one day of outpatient treatment…

And now I’m alone, again… and feeling like this is just going to be the rest of my life…

The fear that follows me everywhere

No matter what I do, I’m terrified that I’m always going to feel alone, afraid, and abandoned.

I’m never gonna get married, never gonna have my own family, never gonna have a career, never be brave enough to step outside my front door and face the outside world…

And I honestly don’t know; I might feel this way for the rest of my life. And at some point in the future, I might give in to the darkness, once and for all.

I. Don’t. Know.

And that’s the scary part of mental illness.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next.

I don’t know if I’ll ever overcome these thoughts.

I don’t know if I can change my lifestyle.

I don’t know if I’ll eat the bear, or if the bear will eat me.

But I do know that I’m not going to give up, today.

The part I hate admitting

I honestly don’t know how to change.

It’s not just a matter of “you need to try harder!”

My mind honestly won’t allow me to do anything other than what it knows… and all it knows, after all these years, is desperate, anxious, fearful self-preservation.

All I know how to do is run and hide.

I don’t know how to face reality. Like, for real; I just don’t.

I don’t know if that makes me sound immature, or irresponsible, or possibly just lazy? I don’t know. And, at this stage, I really don’t care anymore.

I’m forty-nine years old, and I feel like I have nothing to show for it.

I legit feel like the biggest impostor on planet Earth. I feel like I’ve been lying to everyone, my whole life, trying to impress people with how brave and smart I am…

I feel like it’s all been one big show, and everyone can see right through me but no one knows how to get through to me and tell me that it’s okay to stop trying to impress everybody, and it’s okay to just be me, and nothing more.

I feel like the only person that ever did get through to me… is now gone… and it’s my own fault for pushing her away and then blaming her for abandoning me.

I feel like I’m buried under a mountain of problems that I’ll never dig myself out from… and like the easy solution is to give up… and to end my life now, before it has a chance to get any worse…

But I’m not ready to give up

Not today.

Not even if I know I’m going to lose.

I still want to give it at least one more try.

I know: there’s no promises. Nothing that says I’m going to succeed this time.

In fact, I’ll probably continue to fail, for awhile, just because my mind is used to going in that direction, and it’ll take time to rewire my neural pathways.

Which, probably means, that the fight ahead of me is about to be harder than the fight that’s already behind me… and I honestly don’t even know if I have that much fight in me…

But I know what happens when I stop fighting. I’ve got the scars on my right arm to prove it.

And besides, even if I am meant to spend the rest of this life alone (which, I’m still not sure that’s my destiny, but we’ll see…), there are still things in this world I want to see… experiences I want to have… dreams I want to try and make come true…

I don’t know how I’m going to do the things I want to, while living with this mental illness that quite literally threatens to take my life away…

But I know I have to try.

I just don’t know where to begin.

What if I’m not doing things wrong?

What if I’m just looking at things through the wrong lens?

Seeing yourself through the wrong filter

I’ve been asking myself that question a lot, lately, trying to understand why I see things so differently than other people do, and how the way I think about those things might be getting me into trouble, unnecessarily.

It’s true I experience a lot of dark thoughts, and heavy feelings. But is it true that this makes me depressed, or negative? Or damaged, wounded, or broken?

Or does it make me anything? Does it mean anything more than, “I tend to experience a lot of dark thoughts, and heavy feelings?”

I used to think there was something wrong with me for feeling that way. But maybe I just don’t understand what those feelings really mean — or how they help me in my life, instead of hurt me.

Maybe I’ve been lied to my entire life about what emotions even are… what they mean… and what, if anything, it says about us when we experience a particular emotion.

Is an angry man actually angry? Or is he simply feeling that way, and maybe he’s stuck in the feeling because no one ever taught him how to be angry…

Why we only make room for the good feelings

I think most people will agree, it’s desirable to feel happy, as much and as often as we can. To feel like we’re winning at life. Like everything’s going just fine… and we’ve got it all under control.

But those aren’t aren’t the only feelings we’ve been given. Not by a long shot. Brene Brown lists 87 emotions in her book, Atlas of the Heart. Only one of those is called “happiness.”

Why is it wrong to feel the dark, heavy, “dreadful” emotions that typically send people into therapy? Or, if not therapy, into a downward spiral…

Do sadness, grief, anger, anxiety, shame, depression, and hate, actually destroy a person? Or is it the person’s inability to feel these emotions? To understand them? To allow them to flow freely?

Are these feelings meant to be avoided at all costs?

Or are there lessons to be learned from feeling these so-called “negative emotions?”

Is there beauty and meaning in pain and suffering? Or should these feelings be ignored? Bottled up? Overcome? Transformed? Conquered? Diminished?

Or are they simply supposed to be felt?

Should we believe the hype that humans can somehow “rise above” their negative emotions? If so, how do we do it? Because any time I’ve tried, all that happens is I wind up disconnected from my own heart… from my own ability to feel anything… good or bad… positive or negative… empowering or overwhelming.

We should 100% commit to personal growth, and to creating a culture of respect, love, kindness, generosity, wonder, excitement, passion, innovation, beauty…

We don’t want a whole society of people filled with uncontrollable anger, rage, hate, madness, destruction, jealousy, grief, and sorrow.

But that doesn’t mean we should try to eliminate those feelings from our lives completely.

Good, bad, and ugly — we need to feel them all

We need to start making space in our lives for both ends to the spectrum.

We need to feel love and hate. Compassion and anger. Hope and misery.

Darkness and light.

We can’t have one without the other. Our world won’t allow for that possibility.

You cannot have happiness at the exclusion of sorrow. If you try to block one… you end up blocking them both. Avoiding the difficult emotions leaves you unable to connect with the happy ones.

Instead of simply avoiding pain… you’re making it impossible to experience joy.

A lot of world beliefs teach that our spirits are light, and that in our pure form, light is all we know, and all we long for. So why do we even have dark and undesirable emotions?

Why shouldn’t we avoid them, and sweep them under the rug? Why shouldn’t we tell a grieving man to “cheer up” or look on the bright side of life?

Why shouldn’t we steer people away from these feelings that only bring us down? After all, it’s not healthy to be depressed all the time. Why shouldn’t we just take a pill, or learn to think happy thoughts?

But what happens when you tell a teenage girl to just cheer up? When you gloss over the dark thoughts and feelings she’s describing? When you tell her, “Things aren’t that bad, just get over it.”

When you encourage only happy thoughts, and show her by your example that her tears, and her sadness, are something she just needs to let go and pretend like it doesn’t even bother her?

Those so-called negative emotions don’t just go away, just because you decide to only focus on the positive. They don’t disappear just because you’re not looking at them.

They collect, and they gather, and grow, under the surface. They get bigger and badder, the longer you avoid them.

They seep into your subconscious.

They poison your heart and your mind. They start to take control of your reactions to life’s challenges, making you act irrationally, and not even understand why.

And nobody wants to appear irrational.

The true cost of avoiding our pain

Oftentimes, we’re encouraged to make the bad feelings go away. Only, they don’t go away. They stay right where we leave them… waiting to be noticed… waiting to be addressed… waiting to be felt so they can finally be released back into the wild.

And we try to make them go away without feeling them first… and when we can’t make them go away ourselves, we go to doctors, psychiatrists, and therapists, and ask them to make it all go away for us.

What if that’s the wrong way to address our feelings?

What if they don’t need to “go away” — what if they need to be integrated?

What if, in this life, we’re supposed to feel good and bad, at different times and in different circumstances? What if we came here to experience the full spectrum of human emotion?

What if denying the negative emotions is denying ourselves? Disconnecting from the very thing that makes us unique?

What if the darkness isn’t meant to be ignored, or made to go away?

What if it’s meant to be understood? What if it’s meant to be felt… and ultimately… to be mastered?

(Can we master our emotions though? Or are we actually attempting to master our response to them? Is there a difference?)

You can’t control the emotion itself. You can’t stop yourself from feeling angry, or sad, or guilty, or anxious, or depressed, or any of it. It comes and goes, according to its own schedule. We cannot prevent any emotion from entering into our consciousness.

We will never in this life “rise above” our negative emotions. But we’re not supposed to — so why do people even try? That’s not any way to feel the emotion that’s calling for our attention… and it’ll never let you learn what the emotion is trying to teach you…

It’ll never let you put the emotion down and stop punishing yourself for feeling something you’ve been told you’re not supposed to… but that in reality, you can’t control.

We can’t stop feelings — but we can shape the flow

We don’t control our feelings. They just come in, all on their own. We can only control our choices; how we respond to the emotion; what we do with what we’re feeling… how we allow it to guide our decisions…

When we try to deny the bad feelings… when we disconnect… when we self-medicate… when we bottle everything up and compartmentalize and just never face it all…

We end up holding those emotions in place. If we don’t give them somewhere to go, they don’t go anywhere. They stay in our bodies, in our hearts and minds, looking for an outlet and never finding one.

They just build up inside. They turn into a dam, and that dam builds up and makes room in our heart for a whole reservoir of negative emotion.

As that reservoir expands, it drowns out everything else. It destroys our ability to be happy, to feel successful, to build healthy relationships, to think and to see clearly, to hear the truth and accept it, rather than fight against it.

When we’re not allowed to “feel bad,” there’s nowhere for that reservoir to drain into. It just keeps filling up.

We surrender ourselves to merely trying to contain the damage. To limit the spread of this negativity. To focus only on the good things we want — but that, as long as the reservoir remains, we will never be able to enjoy or appreciate.

When you have not addressed the negative, the positive will never satisfy. You won’t be able to enjoy your happiness, because happiness is being constantly drowned out by the cesspool of negativity that lives inside you, that you’re trying to pretend doesn’t exist.

You can’t go on that way.

Humans aren’t supposed to live our lives that way.

Our society will crumble if we refuse to acknowledge the dark. We don’t have to embrace it (or maybe we do? I’m not really sure on this one…)

But we do have to allow it.

We have to admit that it’s there, and that it gets inside every one of us, and that there are healthy ways to feel it… and ways that are unhealthy, that are in fact, destructive. But in order for the reservoir to drain, the feelings have to be felt, one way or another.

It’s the only way to maintain real emotional health — and it’s not being taught to us, anymore.

Your feelings cannot be rationalized. They cannot be reasoned with. They can’t be justified, or explained away.

They need to be felt. They need to be experienced. They need to be allowed to run their course.

When a toddler cries, we don’t make them wrong. We hold them, and we comfort them, until they’re done crying.

Why then, do we tell our children, and our teenagers — and ourselves — that crying is something we need to avoid? Why do we allow infants to cry, and penalize everybody else for the same exact thing?

I know, we say things like, “Babies don’t know any better.” Or, “They can’t help themselves.”

But what if babies do know better than us? What if it’s right to cry? What if it’s healthy, and safe, and smart, to let the emotion out? What if the mere act of holding it inside, is what’s making us all so miserable all the time?

Teenagers aren’t wrong for feeling their emotions… they’re wrong for thinking the emotions are in control… that they have to be obeyed… because they feel everything so strongly, they think if they don’t act on it all, something really horrible will happen.

Well… what if we don’t have to “act” on every emotion, ever — but what if we do have to “allow” every emotion we ever feel to simply run its course, and to work itself out of our body?

I believe that with training, and with emotional intelligence, you can learn to let your emotions flow. I don’t think you can ever really control the emotion… but I do think you can learn to control the flow.

I think you can learn to convert your emotional reservoir into a canal.

You can build the container through which your emotions flow, and over time, you can build your emotional decision tree, so that when you feel angry, frightened, or overwhelmed, you know there are options you can choose from. You know that you don’t have to go with the first response that pops into your mind.

But even then… you still have to allow each emotion to flow through the canal, freely. You can’t stop them at the entrance, and expect them to just go away. You have to experience each one in its proper turn.

And ultimately, you have to accept that no emotion, in and of itself, is the cause of your problems. No single emotion is truly good or bad… only the way we allow the emotion to guide our choices.

Your feelings are not your enemy

It’s not wrong to cry. It’s not wrong to be angry. It’s not wrong to feel lost, or frustrated, or overwhelmed. Those are things every one of us will feel at different times.

We’re supposed to feel them. We’re not supposed to outgrow them, or meditate until we raise our consciousness to a level where we’re too good for them. We’re not supposed to hold onto them, and simultaneously refuse to even acknowledge their existence.

We need them. They’re a necessary part of our survival. Each one reveals things about human nature that we need to understand.

You’re not doing anyone any favors by “controlling” your emotions. You’re not doing any good at all, until you’re feeling them… the way they’re supposed to be felt.

And maybe that’s what emotional health really is. Not the absence of hard feelings. Not bottling them up so tightly they poison everything else. But learning to live with them.

Learning to let them move — through us, not against us.

You don’t need to be afraid of your feelings. You don’t need to conquer them. And you sure as hell don’t need to pretend they’re not there.

They’re not the enemy — they’re part of the roadmap.

And the sooner we stop fighting them… the sooner we learn how to feel them, without letting them call all the shots… the sooner we remember what it means to be whole.

Not perfectly happy. Not perfectly healed.

But whole.

That’s the real work. And it starts by giving yourself permission to feel — not just the “happy thoughts,” but all of them.

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Feeling the things you’ve been taught to fear

You don’t have to fix your emotions. You just have to make space for them.

Here’s how to begin:

1. Name what you’re feeling

When the hard emotions show up — anger, shame, sadness, grief, fear — don’t run from them. Pause.

Ask yourself: What am I feeling right now?

Name it honestly, without judgment. If all you can say is, “I feel awful” — that’s enough to start.

2. Remind yourself: feeling ≠ failure

Our culture trains us to believe that if you’re not happy, you’re doing something wrong. That’s a lie.

Feeling heavy emotions isn’t a sign you’re broken — it’s a sign you’re human.

When the dark feelings come, try telling yourself: “This isn’t wrong. This is part of being alive.”

3. Let it move through you — without acting on it

You can feel anger without punching a wall.

You can feel grief without collapsing into despair.

You can feel shame without shutting down.

Emotions aren’t meant to control you — they’re meant to move through you.

Practice noticing the feeling, breathing through it, and letting it pass, without needing to act on every urge that comes with it.

4. Find safe ways to release it

If you’ve bottled things up for years, they won’t just disappear because you finally noticed them. They need somewhere to go.

That might look like:

• Talking to a trusted friend

• Crying in the car

• Writing it out in a journal

• Moving your body — a walk, a workout, a yell into a pillow

Find your release valve. Don’t keep it all trapped inside.

Your feelings deserve to be felt — and your body deserves the relief of letting them go.

Self-reflection: making space for what you’ve been taught to fear

You don’t have to fix your emotions. You just have to feel them. Start here…

1. What difficult emotion have you been avoiding lately?

(Anger, sadness, shame, anxiety, grief… or maybe you can’t name it, but you feel heavy inside. Just describe it in your own words.)

Write your answer.

2. What story have you been telling yourself about that feeling?

(“This means I’m weak.” “I shouldn’t feel this way.” “It’ll never pass.” — Get honest about the narrative running in your head.)

Write your answer.

3. How would it feel to believe that this emotion isn’t wrong — it’s human?

(No need to force yourself to believe it yet. Just imagine… how might that soften things, even a little?)

Write your answer.

4. What small, safe way could you let this emotion move through you?

(Talking to someone? Crying? Walking? Writing? Screaming into a pillow? You don’t need a perfect plan — just one gentle outlet.)

Write your answer.

5. What would change if you stopped trying to feel better — and simply let yourself feel it all?

(There’s no right answer. Just sit with it. Let the question work on you.)

Write your answer.

Final Thought

Most of us were never really taught how to feel.

We were taught how to keep going. How to stay busy. How to hide the parts of ourselves that felt heavy, or inconvenient, or hard to explain.

We learned early on, which feelings were “acceptable”… and which ones made people uncomfortable. We learned how to tuck those hard emotions away and never look at them again.

But those feelings were never the problem. It’s the silence around them that hurts. It’s the quiet ache of holding it all in that leaves us feeling disconnected.

You were never meant to ignore the hard feelings.

You were meant to be whole. And being whole means learning that feeling isn’t failure… it’s what makes us human.

Your dark emotions don’t make you weak. They make you real.

So be gentle with yourself. You don’t have to be happy to be healthy. You just have to let yourself feel whatever emotions come to you.

The feelings you’ve been taught to fear are valuable. Let them move through you. Let them teach you. Feel them… learn from them… and then… when you’re ready… let them go.

You will feel better, once you start to let everything out.

I haven’t been giving myself enough credit lately.

The things I’ve done, and the changes I’ve made, since I started receiving disability in 2021, have taken incredible faith, vision, persistence, strength, and courage — and I have not stopped to recognize how far I’ve come, or how much I’ve accomplished, in such a short amount of time.

It’s truly remarkable what I’ve achieved.

The years when I nearly disappeared

I lived with undiagnosed PTSD, depression, and anxiety, for the better parts of 18 years leading up to the day I got disability. (I probably lived with depression and anxiety even longer than that, but my PTSD didn’t come on until my last year in the Navy, when we deployed for Operation Iraqi Freedom.)

I’d spent 12 of those 18 years, trying to give up the fight… trying to hide from all my pain… trying to fade into oblivion.

Maybe you’ve known that feeling. That slow, uncomfortable belief that there’s no way out, that there’s no hope at all. I lived there for over a decade.

Even when I applied for disability, in 2019, it wasn’t because I believed life could get better. I did it to appease my mom — and a stubborn therapist who wouldn’t shut up about how I really needed to apply, and just see what the VA would say.

I never expected them to say yes.

In fact, when I first applied, they denied my claim. I waited nine months to appeal the decision… and again, I only did it so my mom and my therapist would leave me alone. So I could tell them, “I’ve done everything I can, and look: it didn’t work.”

I’d been in therapy, off and on, since the summer of 2016. But not because I wanted to change — I just wanted someone to validate how screwed up I’d become, and tell me it’s okay to give up on myself, because clearly I’m never going to get any better, anyway.

I used to spend weeks at a time locked in my room at Mom and Dad’s, hiding from the world, watching Netflix and eating Kit Kats and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, using caffeine, nicotine, and pornography, to keep myself numb… keep myself from being able to realize what a mess my life had become… or worse, to realize that I didn’t want to do anything at all, to try and change it.

I wanted God to let me die.

I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t dead, already. Why I hadn’t died in the Gulf, like I’d wanted to.

And I didn’t know how to handle that, so I just shut down. I withdrew, and I kept withdrawing, until I couldn’t even handle having a real conversation with my own parents — the same parents who were keeping me afloat, and giving me a place to stay.

To their credit, they did everything they could to help me. They didn’t know how to handle PTSD. I didn’t either. I just thought I was broken. I didn’t suspect there was an actual condition behind it all.

But Mom and Dad kept me alive… until I was finally able to get the help I needed.

The day I stopped waiting to die

Those years at their house were some of the darkest of my life.

I felt like I was drowning every day — and instead of swimming for shore, I kept pouring more water in the pool.

For 12 years… and even a little while after… I believed there was no hope for me. No chance of improvement. No future worth fighting for.

I genuinely thought I was going to die in that room in my parents’ house, alone, withdrawn, and entirely forgotten. I lived with that fear daily, and I did nothing to try and change…

But then, in 2021, something shifted.

I can’t explain it fully… but for the first time in years, I let myself believe that maybe… just maybe… life didn’t have to end this way.

I’d been out of work since Christmas of 2008, and in a mental-emotional state where I truly was not capable of providing for myself. Now, almost 13 years later, I finally had my own income again.

A lot of income.

Enough that I could theoretically support myself, and move out of Mom and Dad’s, reclaim my independence, and reboot my entire existence.

And immediately, I began to take steps to create a better future for myself.

I told myself (and I know this is true) that God was giving me a second chance at life, and that He was guiding me to a better future. I knew He was making that future happen already… and all I needed to do was follow Him… to go where He asked me to go… and to do what He asked me to do…

And I knew (and still know today) that if I’ll simply do that — if I’ll just do what God wants me to do — everything else will take care of itself.

And it has! And it still is.

And my life today is nothing short of a miracle.

It wasn’t just God, though. And it wasn’t just me.

All of the glory obviously goes to God. He saved me, after all. He put me back on a better path.

He showed me that we’re never too far gone to find our way back to Him. And I know this, and I believe it, and I live this truth, with every fiber of my being!

I’m not the type to push my religion on others — I believe every individual has to choose their own belief. But I would be a liar if I said I did all of this without God.

He gave me the second chance.

But I’m the one who chose to act on it.

I accepted what He offered me. I implemented the steps to move to Lubbock. I found the courage — and the hope — to walk the hard road from miserable, isolated, and withdrawn… to happy, connected, and engaged in building a life I actually want to live.

I had to dig deep inside myself to find the faith to follow God’s plan for me.

It hasn’t been easy. No part of it has been easy!

But it’s all been worth it.

When I look at how far I’ve come since October 2021, when I finally started drawing disability, and striving to create a life worth living… I’m amazed at what God has done for me.

I don’t always feel worthy, if I’m honest. But I do always feel grateful… and reverent… and willing to take upon me, whatever assignment God sees fit to give. It only seems fair, after all He’s done for me, that I would turn around and dedicate this chapter of my life to Him.

Who else could’ve plucked me out of the jaws of Hell, and put me back on a path to real happiness, meaning, purpose, direction, and joy?

I never would’ve done it by myself. I couldn’t have. I didn’t know how.

Every time I tried to put the pieces back together, I wound up with more broken pieces than I started with.

Here’s what I did do right, though

Two years ago, I put myself in an environment where I would have to change, in order to survive. And I believe that making the choice to do so is why I have changed.

Had I not moved… had I chosen to remain at my parent’s house… to keep that safety net about me… even if I had still gone to therapy, learned to manage my money, worked on my diet and exercise, and otherwise tried to create a “better,” more meaningful life for myself…

I would not have grown the same way that I have by moving halfway across the country and intentionally putting myself in a situation where I have to change… where I have to keep growing… keep evolving…

Where I’m never satisfied with my current state for more than a few minutes…

Because I know deep in my soul that I’m meant for more than what I’ve settled for…

If I was still living with Mom and Dad, I never could have ignited this passion inside… this drive to succeed… this ambition to create something… to make a real impact in my community…

If I were to choose comfort over change, it would be impossible for me to thrive in Lubbock.

If I was focused on “comfortable,” I wouldn’t be willing to keep making the hard choices that make real and lasting change possible.

And here’s what only God could have done for me

Only God could have put me on the path I’m on now. And I know that, and I freely give Him all the glory, and all the recognition He deserves.

I only hope I can continue to live up to my end of it all, and to keep reaching the people He wants me to reach, and to show them, through my own messy example, what’s possible when you simply allow yourself to believe again.

Not even in Him, at first, if that’s too much of a stretch.

But in something.

In anything that gives you hope, that lifts you up, that helps you put one foot back on the right path.

You have to believe in something. We all do.

So why not believe in something good?

Why not believe that there’s still time for you to change? That there’s still a chance for you to get the lifestyle you’ve always wanted?

As long as there’s breath in your body, it’s never too late.

You can come back from anything. I know, because I did. And I’m just getting started.

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Small steps for big change

You don’t climb out of rock bottom overnight. But you can start shifting your story, one small act of courage at a time.

Here are 5 simple ways to begin:

1. Name what you’ve survived

You’ve made it this far — that matters.

“I made it through ______________.”

Say it out loud. Write it down. Let yourself see the strength you’ve carried, even in the dark.

2. Imagine your second chance

If life handed you a fresh start today, what would you do with it?

Don’t get stuck in logistics. Just let yourself picture it. Hope starts with imagination.

3. Find one small win

It doesn’t have to be flashy.

Maybe you got out of bed. Maybe you made a call you were dreading. Maybe you’re reading this newsletter — and that means you haven’t given up.

Claim it. It counts.

4. Believe in something good

It doesn’t have to be God, if that’s not for you.

But pick something to believe in this week:

• A future you want

• A tiny truth about your worth

• A quiet possibility you can’t shake

The smallest belief is a seed. Plant it.

5. Ask for the next step

Even if you don’t know where you’re headed, you can ask for the next right step.

Pray. Journal. Sit in silence.

“Show me what to do next.”

Trust that the answers you need will come, when you need them.

Small steps. Quiet hope. That’s how it starts. Soon, you’ll be back on your way.

Self-reflection: how to reclaim your story

This isn’t about fixing everything overnight. It’s about pausing… noticing… and making space for hope again.

Take your time with these. There’s no right answer — just your honest one.

1. What part of my story am I still carrying shame or hopelessness about?

We all have chapters we avoid — parts we wish didn’t happen, or that still make us feel broken or behind.

Where are you holding onto shame, regret, or the belief that “this can never get better”?

Write your answer.

2. Where have I already shown strength — even if I didn’t give myself credit?

Survival is strength. So is showing up.

Think back… Where did you push through, endure, or keep going — even when it felt impossible?

Write your answer.

3. What does my version of a second chance look like?

Forget the movies. Forget what other people say.

If life quietly handed you a second chance — right now — what would it look like?

What would change? How would you feel? What tiny thing might shift?

Write your answer.

4. What’s one small thing I can believe in this week — about myself, about life, or about the future?

You don’t have to believe the whole story yet.

But is there one thing you can lean toward?

Maybe…

• I’m still here, and that means something.

• People can change — maybe even me.

• There’s hope, even if I can’t see it clearly yet.

Pick your one small belief.

Write your answer.

Your story isn’t finished. The next chapter is still unwritten. You get a say in what happens next.

Final Thought

For a long time, I didn’t believe there was any way forward for me.

I thought the best I could hope for was survival — and even that felt impossible some days.

I used to sit in my room, convinced that life had passed me by. That God was done with me… or worse, that He’d never had a plan for me to begin with.

It’s a hard place to live — carrying that kind of hopelessness. It changes how you see yourself. It changes what you believe is possible.

It keeps you stuck.

But here’s the truth I couldn’t see back then — and maybe the truth you need to hear today: it’s never too late.

There’s no such thing as “too far gone.”

There’s no version of your story where God gives up on you, even if you’ve given up on yourself.

And there’s no deadline on healing, growth, or becoming the person you were meant to be.

I’m living proof of that. And I’m not special. I’m not stronger, wiser, or more deserving than anyone reading this right now. The only thing I did — when that second chance finally came — was say yes.

So wherever you’re standing today — whether you’re stuck in the dark, clawing your way back to the surface, or already walking your own second-chance path — I hope you’ll remember this:

It’s okay to start small. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to not have it all figured out.

Just… believe in something good. Say yes to the next quiet invitation that crosses your path. And trust that you’re not out of time.

You’re just getting started.

Sometimes, I don’t know what to write.

I put pen to paper, and my mind goes blank.

I can feel that there’s something brewing — something wanting to come out, something that needs to be said.

But I can’t quite grab a hold of it yet.

Usually when I feel this way, it’s a sign that something really big is about to come out. It’s almost like when animals know a dangerous storm is coming before it even starts. My soul knows that once this door opens… there’s no turning back.

And there’s always this moment beforehand, where I hesitate. Where I’m not sure if I want the door to open, or not. It’s in those moments that I get hit with writer’s block, almost as if the not writing can somehow prevent the truth from ever coming out.

But truth is truth. It doesn’t care if you’re ready for it or not, sometimes. It just appears, and expects you to face it.

And, like a wild animal caught in a storm, when I can sense a truth bomb about to go off, I start to panic. I start to lose control. I get frantic and frenzied. My heart closes off, and my mind goes on high alert to try and prepare for whatever’s about to happen.

My lip starts to shake, and my breathing becomes rapid and shallow.

I start withdrawing — or outright pushing people away — in order to protect my friends and family from the storm, and keep them free from any fallout.

I can feel myself becoming worried, anxious, and afraid. I know I’m no longer rational, and I don’t know how to stop.

A breakthrough is coming.

I’m right on the edge. I can almost see what’s about to hit me — and I can just barely catch a glimpse of how this challenge I’m about to take on is going to change me, hopefully for the better but I’m not always sure.

I can almost see the silver lining.

But, I am afraid. I know there will be great pain before the breakthrough. I know I’ll be required to face things I’ve purposely avoided, things I’ve buried, things I’ve forgotten are even there.

I’ll probably cry, a lot. And I’ll probably send my closest friends dozens, if not hundreds, of irrational, emotionally charged texts, detailing every moment of the storm like a tornado hunter who’s describing all the destruction and devastation as it occurs.

I know the storm is coming. I know it has to come. I’ve postponed it for as long as I can, and now it’s time to step into it and let it howl and wail all around me, and show me the things I need to learn so I can endure it all, and so I can take some of its power away, and be ready to rebuild, after it’s gone.

Storms always come. But when you’ve lived long enough, you learn that storms also always go. No storm lasts forever.

The impact — the devastation — that might leave a permanent mark, sometimes. And some storms will upend you, destroy your foundation, and force you to move halfway across the country, abandon everything you once knew, and start your life over in new and unfamiliar surroundings.

One day, maybe, you’ll encounter that once-in-a-thousand-years storm, that you don’t ever recover from, that keeps your descendants trapped in your trauma, for generations beyond you.

You may encounter a storm some day so severe, it maims you, and takes away your ability to live a normal life, to keep growing, or to recover or rebuild.

Sometimes, you might get lost in the center of a storm. You might not even realize the storm is trying to blow over, because you’re so obsessed with it, you keep moving yourself wherever the storm blows, making it impossible for you to ever break free.

If that’s you right now, I want you to know I’ve been there before, and no matter what anyone tells you, getting stuck in the storms of life is never your fault.

You haven’t done anything to “deserve” the storm you’re in. Life is not out to get you. God is not trying to punish you for not being good enough. It’s just something that happens, sometimes — to all of us.

You will get stuck, but with sufficient effort, you can always find a way to get unstuck.

And most storms, you will survive without any lasting damage… and life will go on as before (more or less).

But rain falls in everybody’s life. None of us is immune to life’s challenges. Some of us will experience earthquakes; others, hurricanes. Some will face tornadoes. Some, flooding.

Some will have to live through season after season of drought, or extreme heat, or sudden, drastic climate change that makes their home almost seem uninhabitable for a time. Some will lose power in the dead of winter, and face the real risk of hypothermia.

We all have different storms, but we all have storms in our lives.

We can’t get away from them.

But we can recognize, and maybe even learn to prepare for, some common elements among all storms:

They make us afraid. They make us irrational. They make some people buy a year’s supply of bottled water and toilet paper, while other people grab one single “go bag” and flee the city, while others still decide to shelter in place, and hope that the storm will pass quickly… and others see every storm as an opportunity to loot, and pillage, and plunder.

Some storms have the power to upheave our lives, destroy our homes, damage our relationships, deplete our life savings, and leave us alone, and destitute, with nowhere to go and no way out.

All storms have the potential to disrupt our lives.

The strongest of storms, we may not ever come back from. I mean, sometimes it’s just not possible to survive.

Storms are dangerous, and sometimes, deadly. Sometimes even when we’re prepared for the storm, it can still overwhelm us and incapacitate us.

Sometimes I still spend days in bed, lying on my side, staring at an empty wall, sobbing uncontrollably, because I don’t know how else to get everything out.

Sometimes, I weep when I pray, or when I’m journaling… or even when I’m watching a dumb feel-good movie on Netflix.

I think if lying in bed for two days unable to stop myself from crying is my hurricane… then these short outbursts when I’m praying, or writing, or watching tv (or sometimes, when I’m talking to a friend)…

These short outbursts are more like thunder or hail storms: they strike without warning, they’re loud and intense, they shake me up and make me want to run for cover — but in the end they actually haven’t hurt anything; they just let me restore balance in my life. And besides, these short outbursts are always over just as quickly as they begin.

The small storms get easier to navigate as we get older… as we learn that they really don’t do any damage, and in fact they’re actually good for our environment. The small storms help us release pain, frustration, and other emotions that maybe have built up just over a few weeks or months or something, that aren’t too heavy but still need to be released.

The short outbursts make it easy to release those lesser emotions.

But the big stuff, that we’ve let pile up over the course of years, or decades, or maybe things we’ve never dealt with at all in 40 or 50 years? That’s natural disaster territory, right there. That’s when you need the kind of hurricane that can just wash everything away and leave you with a blank canvas and a brand new start.

Every storm hurts, though. Even the small ones.

Every one is scary, and powerful, and intense.

Every one is difficult to navigate.

But as I survive each storm, I’m learning that I can endure much more than I previously imagined. I’m not immune to the storms — no one is. But as I successfully weather one after another, I’m learning that I can hold onto my goals and dreams, even as the storm is raging, and I can build a life, in spite of it all, that brings me purpose, meaning, and direction.

I don’t have to sacrifice my values just because I’m in the middle of an earthquake. I don’t have to throw out my plans, and my goals and dreams, just about my home is being flooded and I’m standing in five-foot waters.

And I don’t have to “conquer” every storm that comes my way, in order to prove my bravery, my strength, or my resilience. It’s okay to let a storm devastate me, when that’s what needs to happen.

I don’t have to come out on top, every single time.

I just have to hold onto my own integrity long enough for the storm to pass, and for me to be back in a position to rebuild, and to keep moving forward.

It’s not a question of, “Do you survive the storms life throws at you?”

It’s, “How do you survive,” that counts.

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How to survive the storm without losing yourself

This isn’t a guide for fixing your feelings or bypassing your pain. It’s for those moments when everything feels loud, raw, and overwhelming — when you know something big is moving through you, but you’re not sure how to hold it. This toolkit is here to help you stay grounded, stay honest, and stay you — even in the middle of the storm.

1. Name the weather pattern

What kind of storm is this, really?

Is it grief? Fear? Anger? Identity loss? Shame?
Naming the dominant emotion doesn’t solve it — but it grounds it.
It tells your nervous system: I see what’s happening. I’m not lost.

2. Set an internal anchor

Choose one value to hold onto, no matter what gets shaken.
It could be honesty. Kindness. Faith. Patience.
Repeat it like a mantra:

“Even in this storm, I will stay [anchored value].”

3. Create a storm circle

Who are the 1–3 people you trust to hold space for you when you’re unraveling?
Let them know: “I might not need advice — I just need to not be alone in this.”
Build that circle before the storm hits, if you can.

And if you don’t have anyone? Write letters to your future self.
You are still worth staying connected to.

4. Don’t rush the forecast

Stop looking for the silver lining too early.
Not every storm has a neat ending.
Stay present with what is — and let the meaning come later.

Some truths take time to reveal themselves.

5. Prepare to rebuild — gently

After the winds die down, don’t expect yourself to bounce back immediately.
Ask: What do I want to carry forward? What can I let go of now?

The storm isn’t the end.
It’s the clearing before something new can grow.

Self-reflection: when the storm finds you

You don’t have to make sense of the storm while it’s still raging — but when you feel safe enough to reflect, these questions can help you gently process what’s happening, and what it might be asking of you.

1. What kind of storm am I in right now — and what do I think triggered it?
(Is it emotional, spiritual, relational, physical? Is it sudden, or long-building?)

Write your answer.

2. What parts of me are trying to shut down, escape, or hide?
(How do I typically protect myself in moments like this? Is that protection still serving me?)

Write your answer.

3. What’s one value I want to hold onto through this?
(Even if everything else shakes loose, who do I still want to be?)

Write your answer.

4. What do I need most right now — and how can I ask for it (even if just from myself)?
(Rest? Silence? Reassurance? Witnessing? Comfort?)

Write your answer.

🌱 Reflective Thought:
What might this storm be clearing space for in your life?

(Sometimes storms don’t just destroy — they reveal what’s ready to be rebuilt.)

Final Thought

Not every storm is meant to be conquered. Some are meant to be endured — felt all the way through, without rushing to the lesson or the light.

Because sometimes, it’s not the storm that changes you. It’s who you choose to be in the middle of it.

You don’t have to be brave all the time. You don’t have to be wise or strong or unshakable.

You just have to stay honest. Stay anchored. Stay you — even when everything else is being torn apart.

If you’re in the storm right now, I won’t tell you it’s all going to be okay.

I don’t know what you’ll lose. I don’t know what will be asked of you.

But I do know this:

You are not the storm. You are the one walking through it. And every step you take is a declaration that you’re still here, still trying, still reaching for something more.

The truth may come in the storm. But enlightenment doesn’t come until after.

And when it does… it finds the ones who refused to give up.

Don’t you dare give up. You stay in the fight, and you hold on with whatever you’ve got, to get you safely through every storm. I guarantee, you’ll be glad you did.

The girl at church

Heather (not her real name) was one of those girls every teenage boy wants to be with.

She was smart, sexy, friendly, outgoing, cheerful, slightly sarcastic, and probably really easy.

Although, I was so shy and timid around her, I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t even find the courage to ask her on a date; not even after she sat on my lap and took the Nintendo remote out of my hand.

She was the kind of girl I could only dream about. We ran in the same circles in school — and I know what a lot of the girls in that circle were like. (They were hoes, plain and simple.) But I just couldn’t imagine Heather being that way.

I wanted to believe Heather was a good girl, despite what I knew about her, and what other guys were saying…

Maybe that’s because I first met her at church.

I’d just reached the age where I was far more interested in girls than in God, and Heather and I were in the same Sunday school class.

I’m not embarrassed to say I only went to church because I knew she would be there, and I could sit close to her every week and just… hide those thoughts I wasn’t supposed to be having.

She could’ve made me feel like I was the luckiest guy in the whole world… or so I told myself, back then. I was so awkward around her though, and I always had her up on this pedestal that I know she didn’t belong on…

I know she wasn’t a good church girl, but man, did I wanna believe she was!

I don’t know why I thought that was so important to me.

I liked Heather, and I wanted to be her boyfriend. Why couldn’t that have been all that mattered?

But it wasn’t. As much as I liked her, and as much as I wanted her… I couldn’t see myself in a relationship with a “dirty girl.” And the things Heather told me she’d done… this girl needed to repent… a lot.

I wanted her so badly though. I wanted to believe I could be happy with a girl like her… and that a girl like her could be into a guy like me… I doubt we ever could have given the other person what either of us truly wanted, though.

But good luck trying to tell that to fifteen-year-old me.

She wasn’t who I wanted her to be

If I close my eyes, I can remember exactly what she looks like. Tall, slender… stunning figure… perfect straight hair… engaging smile… eyes you can just get lost in… she was one of the sexiest girls in my high school… and just enough of a tomboy to make her the perfect girl next door.

I liked her from the first moment I met her. She was a fun person to be around, and whether she knew it or not, she always lit up the room.

I have no idea where she is now, or what she’s up to. Last I heard I think she was on her third marriage? But we haven’t talked in twenty years so… I really don’t know. Wherever she is, whoever she’s with, I do sincerely hope she’s found happiness.

I don’t think she had found it, taking her clothes off for strange men, the last time I ever saw her — but then, I don’t think once a girl starts taking her clothes off for money, that she’s really looking for happiness, anymore. I think at that point, she’s probably just looking to survive.

If she just would’ve been chaste, maybe I could’ve really wanted her. But she wasn’t, and I didn’t, so the best I could ever do was admire her from a distance.

War, Waikiki, and the champagne room

I was coming home from Operation Iraqi Freedom when we stopped for a few days in Pearl Harbor. I needed to get off the ship, get tore up, and just forget everything.

I’d made pretty good friends on the way home with a Marine, Frank (his real name… and he was an awesome friend, and I wish I knew how to get in touch with him today because he’d be cool to hang out with again).

Frank wanted to meet girls. I just wanted to get wasted.

Neither one of us was any good with girls at that point in our lives. I had been, in high school, but after breaking up with Carrie, and then having Catherine break our engagement because she was sleeping with my best friend Albert… I had some issues that I wasn’t working on… and that made it really hard for me to connect with a woman.

So me and Frank, we hit a couple of bars and nightclubs. Frank tried talking to girls on the beach in Waikiki. We started approaching random and obvious tourists in the International Marketplace, but all to no avail.

I vaguely remembered my chief had taken me to a strip club in Waikiki, on my first deployment back in 2001, and I told Frank we should go there. At least then, we could see some naked ladies before heading back to the hotel for the night.

Not five minutes inside the club, and one of the strippers approaches me and asks how I’m doing, and I’m like, “Fine.” And she stays there, standing right in front of me, looking me in the eyes, and says, “You don’t remember me? It’s Heather! From Colorado?”

And it’s like time stood still for a minute and let me catch up with what was unfolding right in front of me:

Heather, the girl of my dreams, the one I wanted all through high school but never had the courage to go for, was standing in front of me in a sexy schoolgirl costume, in a strip club in Waikiki…

Where she’d been dancing for I don’t know how long, but long enough that she was apparently perfectly comfortable standing in front of one of her best friends from high school, barely wearing anything at all, knowing that all the men in the club were staring at her body and thinking about all the horrible, dirty things they wanted to do to her…

And I realized I was one of those dirty men… and I would do anything to finally see her naked.

I was coming home from war, and I just wanted to forget everything. I wanted something that would make everything somehow make sense, and failing that, I wanted something that would at least take my mind off the atrocities I’d been part of.

Seeing Heather take her clothes off looked like a great way to take my mind off everything!

I didn’t care about right or wrong, or about how it would affect me later, or about how being a stripper must be affecting Heather. I just wanted to see her naked.

The girl of my dreams… for only $400

I’d dreamed of seeing her body since I was fifteen, and now I had my chance!

I couldn’t wait for her to get up on stage, so I could shower her with dollar bills and watch as she slowly undressed and showed me all the ways God had blessed her… but then, she told me for $400 we could go into the champagne room, and she would undress just for me… and we would have an entire hour together, for me to watch her.

I couldn’t find the ATM fast enough.

I’m not gonna tell you all the things that went through my mind in that champagne room. But I will tell you I thought I was in paradise.

I know I shouldn’t have seen her naked. Especially not under those circumstances. And yet, I was twenty-six, and on my way home from war. And Frank and I had been drinking all night.

And I’d had a crush on her for over ten years.

I told her I was on my way home, and about to process out of the Navy, and she told me she was planning on going home to see her mom around the time I was getting out. She gave me her phone number, and I called her a couple times from the ship.

And man… I tried to tell her how much I wanted her… but I just couldn’t do it.

I thought for sure we were gonna hook up though, once I got out of the Navy… and I started dreaming about finally falling in love with her… and about the two of us building a life together…

I didn’t think about the fact that she was a stripper, and what that would have to say about her mental-emotional state, or how it would affect any kind of relationship, if we did end up together.

I just thought about how much I wanted her… and how long I’d been crushing on her… and I pinned all my hopes on somehow convincing her to be mine.

All the times I almost told her

She never called me though.

And I was so hurt, I never called her again, either.

I told myself she had lied to me, that she didn’t want me at all, didn’t care one way or the other, and that she’d legitimately taken advantage of my feelings for her, just to score a quick $400.

Did you know she was the one girl from my teens I probably liked more than I liked Carrie? I mean obviously I love Carrie more, now, since she’s the one I did end up dating through high school, and she was and always will be my first true love.

But man if I could’ve been with Heather!

She moved out of Colorado though, around the time me and Carrie started dating, and I didn’t see or hear from her until a couple years later, when she randomly came to spend the summer at her dad’s house, literally across the park from me.

I went to see her, hoping to get with her, even though I was dating Catherine at the time. But as much as I wanted Heather — and as tired as I was of fighting all the time with Catherine — I was still with Catherine, and I couldn’t live with myself if I cheated. I sure thought about it, though. I’m not gonna lie about that.

Later, when me and Catherine were falling apart, I flew out to Washington state to see Heather on her 21st birthday. Again, I wanted to get with her, and again, I did nothing to try and make that happen.

When me and Catherine were finally over, I moved to Seattle for a couple of months, and Heather and I talked about moving in together — as friends, as far as she knew — and I dreamed every night about falling in love with her…

But it never happened.

I couldn’t make things work for me, in Seattle… and if I’m totally honest I’m not sure Heather really wanted to move in together, or if she just had some kind of fantasy of her own, about how fun it would be to live with her friend, and get out of her mom’s house… I don’t honestly know.

I do remember calling her, after I’d been at my aunt’s for maybe two months… and in all that time Heather and I had seen each other maybe three times… and I figured it was never gonna happen so I told her I was going back to Colorado, and I was gonna join the Navy… and that was the last time I ever talked to her until I met her in the club in Waikiki.

What I wish I’d told her

I honestly thought that night in the strip club was fate, bringing us back together.

I was so disappointed when she didn’t call me from her mom’s house. I buried all these memories… all these feelings… and it’s been so long now, I really thought it was all behind me.

But I guess there are still lessons in all of this for me to learn. I don’t think I’m ever gonna forget Heather, anyway — even if we hadn’t run into each other in Waikiki, she was still a great friend. Still someone I don’t ever want to forget.

But I think it’s time for me to finally be real about all my feelings… especially the forbidden ones…

I enjoyed watching Heather take her clothes off. I know it was so wrong, on so many levels… and I know as a Christian, I should be telling everyone I made a horrible mistake.

We never should’ve been in that champagne room, and I should’ve just left, and prayed for her, and if I was anything like Joseph, I would’ve fled the scene and left all that wickedness in my rearview mirror.

But the truth is I was a confused, lonely, messed up kid, that grew into a confused, lonely, messed up Sailor on liberty.

And I would’ve taken any opportunity to see her naked, anyway.

But if I could change one thing about my entire history with Heather…

I would’ve told her the truth.

I would’ve told her how I feel about her… and I would’ve just taken my chances, and let her say yay, or nay.

I would’ve told her how I couldn’t understand why she kept giving it away… and how I thought she was so much better than the stories people were telling about her.

Maybe that wouldn’t have changed anything… maybe we still never would’ve hooked up… and maybe today I’d still be sitting here, alone, reminiscing over what might’ve been.

I wish I could’ve loved her, though, and maybe that love would’ve been enough to change the direction of her life.

But in the end, it’s her life. Everything she ever did, was her choice. And while I may never understand those choices… I’m finally learning to respect that it was her right to choose the life she wanted.

Maybe I can’t go back, and do things differently. But maybe, if I can finally tell the truth about who I was back then… maybe I can start telling the truth about who I am now.

Maybe what I’m supposed to learn from all this is not that I wish I could’ve had Heather, but that I really need to learn how to love the right kind of girl… in the right kind of way…

So that maybe, the woman I fall in love with next… will be someone who can fall in love with me, in return.

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The pain of wanting what you never really had

This one’s for the ache that lingers — not from what ended, but from what never fully began.

It’s for the almosts. The what-ifs. The versions of love that lived mostly in your imagination… but still left real wounds behind.

Use this when you’re ready to let go — not just of a person, but of the story you wrapped around them.

1. Name the dream.

What did you believe this person could offer you?
What need or longing did they seem to answer — even if only in your mind?

2. Tell the truth about what was real.

When you remove the fantasy, what was actually there?
What did they show you, say to you, or give to you… and what did they never really offer?

3. Grieve the gap.

There’s a space between what you hoped for and what you got.
Let yourself feel that — without shame.
That’s where the real pain lives.

4. Honor the part of you that kept hoping.

You weren’t weak for wanting more.
You were trying to believe in something good.
What does that say about your capacity to love?

Self-Reflection: What were you really holding onto?

1. What made this person feel different from the rest?

Was it timing, chemistry, circumstance — or something harder to explain?

2. What version of yourself did you imagine in their presence?

Did you feel more wanted? More powerful? More alive?
What part of you felt awakened — even if it wasn’t safe or real?

3. When you think of them now, what emotion rises first?

Is it longing? Regret? Shame? Resentment? Something else?
Follow that thread. Where does it want to take you?

4. What didn’t you let yourself say — then or now?

What truths have stayed locked inside your chest, unspoken?

5. If you could give closure to your younger self, what would you say?

Not to fix it. Just to acknowledge what you carried — and how hard it was to let it go.

Final reflection:

Today, I’m ready to release the version of love I imagined — so I can make room for the love that’s real.

Final thought

Maybe this was never really about Heather.

Maybe it was about a younger version of me — the one who wanted to be wanted, but didn’t believe he was worth choosing.

The truth is, I didn’t lose her because I messed it up. I lost her because I never had the courage to say what I really felt.

And maybe that’s the regret I’ve been carrying ever since — not that she walked away, but that I stayed silent.

But silence doesn’t have to be the end of the story.

Because now… I am learning to speak. I am learning to tell the truth — about who I was, what I wanted, and why it mattered so much.

And maybe that’s how healing begins.

Not with getting back what you lost — but with finally giving voice to the part of you that never got to say goodbye.

Did I do that? (It ain’t my fault)

“What if it’s not your fault, though?”

I tried to form a response to her question, but my mind wouldn’t let me.

For years, I’d held myself accountable. I told myself if I’d been braver, or stronger, or more like everyone else, I could’ve handled that deployment without getting so messed up.

I believed the fact that I let it get to me was a reflection of my own failed moral character. I believed I had been weak, and I deserved to suffer now, for not being brave enough to face the fear head-on.

But here was my therapist, challenging my beliefs, trying to help me see it all through a different lens.

Deep down, I knew I was less than my trauma, and always would be.

But my therapist had her own ideas, and she was relentless. She asked me why I thought it was my fault, so I let her have it: I wasn’t strong enough to prevent it from happening, so clearly, I brought it upon myself.

Never mind that I was in a hostile environment, in wartime, on a ship with minimal defensive capabilities and no real offensive power at all!

Never mind that my ship had brought the Marines that were marching into Baghdad, and we knew when we left San Diego, that war with Iraq was only a month or two away, even though the rest of the world didn’t know yet.

Never mind that I’d served four years in peacetime and now, in my fifth and final year, I was sailing into who-knows-what, in a part of the world that’s already known for hating America, and whose leaders would celebrate my death, if and when.

Never mind that nobody in the military had prepared me — or anyone else on my ship, for that matter — for the reality of going to war…

I didn’t know how to respond to such a tense environment, so I shut down.

Clearly, I had done wrong.

I put up so many walls on that deployment, that nothing could get through to me. I ignored briefings and reports on the ship that talked about what was happening in Baghdad. I withdrew from conversations about what it must be like on the frontlines.

And I made damn sure that nobody on my ship knew I was afraid.

I was convinced, back then, that “fear” was the only four-letter word you’re not allowed to say in the United States Navy. I truly believed I had to bury it, and never let it show, never let anybody see that I was scared, or that I had any doubts, concerns, or reservations, about the war.

I thought if I told anybody I wasn’t one hundred percent for blowing Saddam Hussein to smithereens, they would hold me in contempt for not being “pro-America.” I didn’t think I could just say, to anybody:

“Guys, I don’t know how I feel about all this, and it’s really scaring me.”

I thought I was just weak; that I was a coward. I thought that was why I came home all messed up inside, when other sailors and Marines were hardly even affected by it all.

I was convinced I had to hide my symptoms, so nobody would suspect I didn’t belong. I told myself I wasn’t as good as my comrades in arms. They were the heroes. I was a coward… and there was nothing I could ever do to change that.

The trauma I endured would always be bigger than me, and I would always be powerless against it.

After all, it was my fault I got it in the first place.

I really believed that.

All of it.

And so much more, that I’m just not willing to get into in this letter.

I blamed myself for not being adequately prepared to sail into a potentially hostile environment.

It was because I wasn’t prepared, that I allowed myself to be overwhelmed by it all.

Or, so I believed.

I didn’t know if we were going to live or die, and honestly? That scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know what was going to happen once we entered the Gulf.

I didn’t know if we would see combat. I didn’t know if I would ever be brave enough, should it come down to it, to take another life in defense of our country. I didn’t think I would personally end up in combat — but none of us knew, what might happen.

I only knew I wasn’t prepared to serve in wartime… and even though I went… it was the last place on Earth I ever wanted to be. I was so scared, anxious, and confused, I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t think there was anybody I could talk to about it all.

So of course, I got PTSD.

But here’s where my therapist saw more of the big picture than I could:

When I got done telling her all the reasons why I couldn’t have done anything differently, and I wasn’t adequately prepared, and I didn’t know what to expect…

And I was so afraid on that ship, that I basically buried myself under all my fears, anxiety, and insecurities…

She didn’t agree with me. She didn’t tell me I was weak. She didn’t shame me for having so much difficulty just trying to survive one single day, without going to pieces…

Instead, she looked at me, with those calm, gentle eyes, and she asked me,

“Whose job was it to make sure you were prepared? Was it yours, or was it somebody else’s?”

And like that, a light came on… dimly at first, but growing brighter as our session progressed. Driving home from that session, it finally hit me…

My PTSD wasn’t my fault.

It was never my job to prepare me for the reality of going to war.

That belonged to my superior officers.

They had failed me…

They had shirked their responsibility to make sure everyone on my ship was ready to go to war… they had shown, through their example, that it wasn’t appropriate to have any doubts, or to show any fear… they had created the environment that made it possible for me and others to develop PTSD.

In essence, they had set me up to fail.

I was unprepared for serving in war…

for the stress and the fear of the unknown…

for the reality that I could die in service to my country…

Never mind that all of us on the ship were far away from the actual fighting.

I was still scared to death, every day we were in the Gulf. And rightly so: nobody knows when you leave home port, who’s going to live, and who’s never going to come home again… and the thought of that should scare you!

But I didn’t know that, at the time. I legitimately believed my fear was just failure on my part to accept the situation, and to face my own potential demise, with honor, and courage, the way the Navy expects us to, should the need ever arise.

It wasn’t until 20 years later, sitting in that therapist’s office, that I would ever challenge my own wrong thinking, my own assumptions and misconceptions, and allow for the possibility that, maybe, getting PTSD wasn’t my fault after all.

When I finally started to accept that I wasn’t responsible for giving myself PTSD… but that it’s something that happens to anybody when they’re in a high-stress situation like going to war… that realization allowed me to see it as something outside of myself… something that was brought on by external factors…

Something that was still with me, but not because “I’m not strong enough…” but simply because I didn’t know how to respond…

Because nobody in my chain of command ever taught me how to respond.

Hell, they didn’t even know how to recognize PTSD in 2003… and if they did, nine out of ten military leaders still wouldn’t acknowledge it. Because as far as the military is concerned, PTSD is weakness. And weak soldiers, sailors, and Marines, don’t belong in the United States military.

That is the truth — or at least, it was, twenty years ago.

I came home with PTSD because our military didn’t know how to spot it, didn’t believe it was their job to prepare servicemembers to deal with it, and didn’t want anything to do with anybody who got it.

It wasn’t my fault, at all.

It is the fault of those who refused to acknowledge:

1.) that PTSD is a human reaction to modern warfare, and

2.) that military men and women, despite all our training, are human, and are susceptible to fear, doubt, panic, and overwhelm, just like every other human being who’s ever lived.

Trauma is something that happens, not something we “cause”

It’s not something I did to myself. It’s something that was done to me, at a time in my life where I didn’t know how to respond… and so I did the only thing my mind and my heart did know how to do:

I froze.

And for twenty years, I punished myself because I froze. I remained frozen, unable to process any part of the war, until that moment in my therapist’s office, when I finally started to see it all for what it truly is.

Every day since I left the Gulf, I have experienced fear and panic, and become so overwhelmed, I couldn’t go through one single day without giving into it all.

And, because I never thought I could tell another soul how afraid I was, and because I thought I had brought it all upon myself in the first place… I couldn’t heal. I couldn’t face it long enough to start to let it go.

I couldn’t handle even thinking about the time in my life, when I was supposed to be brave, courageous, and strong, and instead I had given into fear, confusion, and chaos. I believed I had failed, and I had brought all this pain and suffering on myself.

And no one, save that one brilliant therapist, could have ever convinced me otherwise.

When I came home from the Navy, I was filled with guilt, fear, shame, and overwhelm. Add in anxiety, nightmares, depression, disconnection from my own inner self, and the feelings of isolation, confusion, and feeling misunderstood, that most veterans deal with when we transition back into civilian life…

I had the perfect recipe for total self-sabotage and ultimate self-annihilation.

And I stayed in that place, for nearly twenty years, because I thought it was where I belonged.

Because I thought I had failed as a sailor… and I had been part of a war, in which people much braver than I ever will be, made the ultimate sacrifice… and I just didn’t know how to reconcile my fear, with their courage.

And I didn’t have anybody who I felt safe talking to, about any of it. I honestly believed if I ever opened up, I would be condemned, criticized, and rejected, for being a coward, a weakling, and a failure.

That was what PTSD did to me. It took someone who was brave, who was friendly, kind, outgoing, ambitious… it took away every good thing I’d ever known… it left me alone, isolated, confused… withdrawn, angry, afraid… feeling like there was no way out, and no hope that I would ever go back to who I was before.

Hearing my therapist’s question, and acknowledging that my PTSD wasn’t my fault… but that it was something that just happened to me, the same way it happens to countless others, the world over… was the first step in learning to let all that go.

It was in that moment, when I accepted that it wasn’t my fault, that I was finally able to admit the truth, and start to get the help I desperately needed.

If you’re dealing with trauma — be it PTSD, addiction, abuse, neglect, abandonment… whatever it is…

You need to know:

You are not to blame.

You didn’t “fail” to handle the situation.

You were placed in an impossible situation, that you were never taught how to deal with… that you should never have had to deal with, in the first place…

But you did deal with it. You did survive it.

Even if it’s left a permanent scar on your psyche.

You’re still here.

Still alive.

You didn’t do anything to make yourself be abused, or abandoned, or to end up being addicted, or anxious, or afraid.

You’re not responsible for the terrible things you’ve had to endure.

And when you can realize that — and fully internalize it…

That’s when you can start to make room in your life, for real healing to take place.

And I promise you, when you’re ready to heal… when you’re ready to lay it all out there and start to put yourself back together, the way you’re supposed to be…

The way God made you to be…

Miracles can happen.

You don’t have to explain, or justify, or excuse, any of the things that have been done to you. But you do have to open up, to somebody who can help you put them all in the right perspective, so that your healing journey can begin.

You owe it to every version of yourself: past, present, and future.

And healing from your trauma? I’m telling you, that is the one thing you will never regret.

There’s still time… but you have to start now. You have to let one person in, and stop trying to carry it all on your own shoulders.

It doesn’t belong up there, anyway.

It never did.

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Naming the blame game

If you’ve been carrying the lie that your trauma is your fault — this is for you.

Self-blame is sneaky. It convinces you that you should have been stronger… braver… more prepared… less afraid. But here’s the truth:

Your trauma didn’t happen because you failed. It happened because human beings aren’t built to endure certain things — and when we do, it leaves scars.

This toolkit won’t fix everything. But it will help you loosen the grip of blame — and maybe, start making room for something softer to take its place.

1. Try this: a simple reframe

When the old voice says…

“This is my fault.”

Interrupt it — gently — with:

“It wasn’t my job to prevent this. It’s my job to heal from it.”

How might it feel to let yourself believe — even for a moment — that your only job now is healing, not blaming?

2. Anchor phrase (keep this nearby):

“It wasn’t my fault. It happened to me — not because of me.”

Write it. Repeat it. Breathe with it. Especially on the days when the old story feels louder than the truth.

What changes — in your body, your heart, your mind — when you say those words and actually mean them?

3. Tiny permission slip:

You don’t have to “justify” how your trauma happened.

You don’t have to “prove” you deserve healing.

You don’t have to explain it to anyone who doesn’t get it.

Your pain is valid. Your healing is allowed.

What part of you still feels like you have to explain or defend your pain? Could you offer that part some quiet reassurance instead?

4. One hard truth (to sit with, not solve):

Sometimes the systems, people, or leaders that were supposed to protect you… didn’t.
That’s not a reflection of your worth. It’s a reflection of their failure.

What would it mean to stop carrying the blame for someone else’s failure — and start carrying compassion for yourself instead?

What happens if you believe this?

If you start to believe — even just a little — that your trauma wasn’t your fault…

• The self-blame starts to crack.

• The weight you’ve carried lightens.

• Slowly, you make space for healing… without shame riding shotgun.

What might become possible — in your healing, your relationships, your sense of self — if you finally laid the blame down?

You didn’t cause this. You did survive it. And that takes courage. You are braver than you realize.

Self-reflection: it was never your fault

You don’t have to unpack this all at once. These questions are here to help you gently untangle from self-blame — at your pace, in your way.

There’s no pressure to have perfect answers. Just notice what stirs when you sit with each one.

1. What old story have you been telling yourself about why this happened to you?

(What words or beliefs have been looping in your mind — maybe for years — about how this was your fault?)

Write your answer.

2. If someone you love had lived through the same experience… would you blame them?

(What would you say to them? What would you want them to believe about themselves?)

Write your answer.

3. Whose responsibility was it — truly — to protect, guide, or prepare you?

(List any people, systems, or circumstances that were supposed to help you feel safe — and didn’t.)

Write your answer.

4. How has believing “this was my fault” shaped the way you see yourself today?

(In what ways has that belief made you smaller, quieter, more disconnected, or stuck?)

Write your answer.

5. If you could offer one small piece of grace or compassion to the version of you who lived through that… what would it sound like?

(It doesn’t have to be big or eloquent. Maybe just a sentence. Maybe just, “You didn’t deserve that.”)

Write your answer.

Take your time with these. There’s no rush.

Let whatever comes… come.

And if the old blame creeps back in? That’s okay. Just come back to the truth:

It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t cause this.

But you are allowed to heal from it.

Final Thought

It’s easy to look back and rewrite the story through a lens of blame. To zoom in on every moment where you were afraid.

Every conversation you avoided. Every instinct you ignored. Every wall you built to survive.

And in the quiet, unforgiving parts of your mind… it starts to sound like proof.

Proof that you failed. Proof that you weren’t strong enough. Proof that you brought this on yourself.

But that’s not the truth. That’s just what happens when fear, shame, and pain start speaking louder than compassion.

The truth is…

Blame keeps us trapped.

It convinces us we deserved what happened, and that it’s our lot in life to carry it with us, everywhere we go.

But the moment you loosen your grip on that old blame — even just a little — you make space for a different story to unfold.

A story where your pain doesn’t define you. Where your trauma isn’t your fault. And where healing, slow as it may be, is finally within reach.

You didn’t cause what happened to you. But you do deserve the chance to heal from it.

And maybe that starts by telling yourself the truth — that your trauma isn’t a reflection of your weakness… it’s an indication of what you’ve lived through.

It’s not your fault. It never was. Once you can acknowledge that, real healing is within your reach.

My hands were so shaky I could barely grip the wheel. My palms covered with sweat. My fingers, trembling.

I started to hyperventilate, only I wasn’t sure if it was from the anxiety, or just the altitude. I was approaching 14,000 feet.

My head hurt, and my heart was racing. My stomach felt like it’d just been dropped into a bottomless pit.

If I looked at the road in front of me, I was alright. I knew where the road was leading… and I knew if I simply followed it, I would arrive safely.

But I also knew that if I veered even half a foot off the side of the road, I would plummet to a very fiery death.

And that wasn’t a day I felt like dying on.

Just another road trip…

Earlier this Spring, I took a road trip from eastern Colorado, through parts of New Mexico and North Texas, on my way home to the West Texas town of Lubbock.

I had a grand adventure! What would normally be an 8-hour drive, I split into 3 days of fun, exploration, and freedom.

I saw the original office of the real Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, in Colorado Springs…

The site of the Ludlow Massacre near Trinidad…

Miles of beautiful plains, valleys, and mountains…

The Route 66 “halfway point” (which, in one more generation, might not mean anything anymore)…

But the unmistakable highlight of that trip was my drive to the top of Pikes Peak Mountain.

The mountain that wasn’t on my list

I drove 20 miles up scary mountain roads, with sharp turns and narrow shoulders, and the very real threat that one small twist of the wheel in the wrong direction could send me to an early grave…

And it wasn’t even on my To Do list.

I hadn’t planned on driving to the top of Pikes Peak when I left my brother’s house in Elizabeth. Heck, I wasn’t planning on it when I paid the $10 entrance fee at the base of the mountain.

I wasn’t even planning on seeing Pikes Peak! I just wanted a photo of their “Bigfoot Crossing” sign so I could post it on Facebook, and make myself look fun and adventurous.

There were other roadside attractions I really wanted to see — and if I took the time to drive all the way to the summit, I’d have to cross some of those things off my list.

And I was on a mission to see all that I could.

My plan — my intent — was to take that picture, then turn around and drive to Cripple Creek to tour their historic 19th Century whorehouse. (I am a Sailor, after all, and we do love whorehouses.)

But something grabbed me as I drove into Pike National Forest. The forest was so quiet, and peaceful… and majestic. I actually got out of the car before I even got to the Bigfoot sign, just to take a picture of the scenery at ground level.

The Bigfoot sign is only about 3 miles from the entrance, so it didn’t take long to find it and take the photo.

I could’ve left at that point, but something called me onward.

Everything in me said turn back

I didn’t want to go “all the way to the top,” but I thought, as long as I’m here… it might be nice to drive a few more miles, and just take in a bit more of this scenery before I get back on the highway.

I drove a couple miles, until I got to the first official rest stop. Their gift shop was closed, so I couldn’t go in and buy any souvenirs or anything. Fortunately their campsite bathrooms were open (and surprisingly clean).

It was only a few miles beyond the Bigfoot sign, but I’d pulled over another 5 or 6 times already to take more pictures, or just to stop for a minute and look at it all, and just soak it in.

It felt so damn good to be away from everything, on a quiet mountain road, in almost complete silence, just looking at the horizon and wondering how many people have been on that same road since it was built? How many people have climbed Pikes Peak? How many people went up the mountain, before there even was a road to drive up?

And despite my desire to get on with the road trip and see more sights, I was really enthralled in the mountain, and in the slow, meandering journey I was on; not to the summit, still — but at least, to the next shoulder.

I kept pulling over at every chance, for the next few miles, and trying to take as many pictures as I could.

I got to the official gift shop and restaurant, which I think must’ve been right around the halfway point? But I’m not really sure. Anyway, I asked another traveler to take my picture in front of the gift shop, to prove I’d made it that far… and then I went inside and bought a souvenir, and a soda… and decided I’d better get going now, or I’ll never make it to Cripple Creek.

I was done with Pikes Peak. I’d already driven further than I wanted to, and time was running out. Plus, I really hate mountain roads, and I’m terrified of heights, and I really hate the idea of accidentally driving off the side of a scary mountain road…

I got back in that rental car, and I almost called it quits.

The whorehouse was still on my mind, and I was running out of time. I got out my phone and pulled up their website to check how late they’re open — and found out they were closed for the season. They wouldn’t reopen until after the date I had to be back in Lubbock to renew my lease.

So Cripple Creek was off the list.

And suddenly… I had hours added to my available time. Enough hours to do something different, to be spontaneous, to be brave, to face the mountain road that was already giving me a panic attack — and to come down the mountain, a victor, a conqueror - a hero.

So I queued up my ’80s playlist on Pandora, started the car, and decided to go just a little further.

Not all the way. Just far enough to say I tried.

No turning back now

I still wasn’t gonna go all the way to the top. That road really did scare me.

And I wasn’t 100% sure I could handle another 10 miles or so of sharp, scary turns, and no more than 6-inch shoulders (not to mention, zero guardrails… so there’s literally nothing to prevent you from going over the side if you accidentally take your eyes off the road for too long…)

I started up the second half of the mountain, questioning my sanity and my decision-making ability. But also feeling fascinated by everything I’d already seen.

In the past, I never would’ve started up that final stretch. Heck, I never would’ve driven beyond the Bigfoot Crossing sign.

I would’ve believed that I’m not even the kind of person who can be spontaneous, and who can just change my mind like that and do something new, “just because.”

I would’ve believed I don’t deserve to do what I want… that I haven’t earned the privilege to give myself that much freedom.

I could go on. But this isn’t a story about me being afraid. Nor is it about me holding back.

This is a story about me recognizing that the thing I wanted to do most in that moment, was a thing that, realistically, had the potential to kill me! And I chose to do it, anyway.

I chose, not simply to face my fear, but to challenge it. To play chicken, and to find out once and for all, who will be the first to flinch — me, or my fear.

As I continued to drive up the mountain road, a new determination came over me.

My palms were sweating so profusely, I had to seriously slow down in every curve, so I could have sufficient time to grip the steering wheel, and guide the car safely.

Thoughts raced through my mind of, “What would happen, though, if the front passenger tire was to slip off the shoulder? Could I stop the car, put it in reverse, and get back on the road? Or would I just die? Would one tiny mistake on my part be my undoing?”

I started to hyperventilate, and I got a headache and an upset stomach.

My anxiety spiked. My head hurt. I could feel the panic rising up, and wanting to take over…

And rather than let it win, I started to slow my breathing…

I relaxed my grip on the wheel…

I cleared my mind as best as I could…

And I fixed both eyes on the road directly in front of me, and tried my hardest to ignore my peripheral vision (which was attempting to calculate how high above sea level I must be by now, and seriously freaking me out!)…

Every second mattered. There were no more pull-offs anywhere along the shoulder. There was no shoulder. There was no way to back down, to stop, turn the car around, and get out of these horrible, frightening circumstances.

I had to keep it together.

There was nobody else who could come and finish the drive for me. It was just me, and the road. I had no other choice now; I had to get myself all the way to the summit.

I rose above the darkness

This is the part where, if I was telling you this story in person, you’d lean in and ask, “What happened next, Uncle? Did you make it?”

And I’d sit back, and do my best Han Solo (or maybe Jack Burton, if that’s your thing). And I’d smile. All toothy like. And I’d look you dead in the eye, and I’d say,

“Lemme tell you what happened on that mountain…”

And I’d wait until I knew I had your full attention, and then I’d go on:

“It all started out as just another drive,” I’d say. “Another plain old road trip...”

The day started with me picking up the rental car in Castle Rock, and getting that sweet ride out on the open road. There were a few sights I wanted to see between there, and Colorado Springs. Nothing extraordinary, just your usual garden variety roadside attractions.

I did stop at a vintage record store that claims to be the original home office of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, and that was really far out, man…

But it wasn’t nothing compared to what awaited me on that mountain.

That drive was the ultimate expression of my freedom; of my longing for adventure; of my true, burning desire to live! To feel fully alive.

It was a symbol of my independence. My grit. My decision to take back everything life had tried to strip away.

My rugged determination to grab life by the horns, and never let go.

That drive was me reclaiming my life… my values… my priorities… my passions… my dreams… my integrity… my self-respect.

It was me, recognizing that this thing before me — this ginormous mountain, blocking my path — is truly a once-in-a-lifetime, now-or-never opportunity, for me to show myself my limits, my capabilities, and my true character.

It was an unplanned, unscripted, unexpected chance for me to find out exactly what I’m truly made of.

I came alive on that mountain road.

I became a version of me that I didn’t know was even there, anymore.

I found my sense of adventure… of wonder, and awe…

I found my willingness to make decisions, and to follow through — even in the face of danger! Even in the face of possible death.

I found the resolve to fully pursue my dreams, and my destiny.

And I haven’t been the same, since.

That mountain road gave me the courage to stare death in the face, and to trust myself to prevail.

For 48 years, fear, anxiety, confusion, uncertainty, overwhelm, hopelessness, and despair, have felt like constant companions. Like they’re in charge of my life. Like they’re calling the shots, and I’m only here to witness all the ways they can wreak havoc in my life.

On that mountain road, for the first time ever, I rose above the darkness that’s been slowly destroying me.

I showed myself that I am bigger than all the things I’m afraid of… all the things that keep holding me back.

I found my warrior’s spirit. The same one I thought had died in 2003, when the Iraq War started, and I thought I deserved to perish. I brought that spirit back from the dead, and back down the mountain road, and have since made it a permanent part, again, of who I really am.

That drive wasn’t a detour. It was a resurrection.

I view myself differently now, after making that dangerous drive.

I look at my mental and emotional health differently.

I still have anxiety. I still have PTSD. I still have so many things I’m afraid of. Like most people, I probably always will be afraid of some things.

But now I have something else:

I have the ability, in any moment, in any scenario, to tap into my warrior spirit, and to immediately rise above the darkness, and see the path I need to follow, to continue to find my way out.

Not to conquer it. It’s not mine to conquer.

Not to overcome it. None of us truly ever can.

Not to dispel it. Darkness always returns, whether we think it will, or not. It’s like a permanent fixture in this world. We can’t get away from it, and I don’t think we should even try, honestly.

I have the ability, quite simply, to just rise above it. To step outside of it, and to refuse to allow it to control me, or to pull me under.

The darkness is always there, waiting for any one of us to give in. And it can be so easy to give in, when darkness is all you’ve known.

But now, I know more. Now, I know better.

That mountain road taught me this essential truth: that I am not the darkness, and the darkness is not me. It’s something that exists outside of me, separate from me. Separate from each one of us.

It can affect me. It can influence any one of us. It can shape our actions, our thoughts, our decisions. It can blindside us, and take over our emotions, and make us do crazy, stupid, irrational things… things that no sane person should ever do.

And it’s not ever going to go away. We couldn’t enjoy mortality, if it didn’t include light and dark; good and evil; right and wrong. We need the duality. We need to experience both ends of the spectrum, so that we can choose for ourselves, which one we want to follow. Which one we want to nurture. Which one we want to feed.

I’ll never go through one day of my life, where the darkness is not watching me, and waiting for just the right moment to suck me in. And sometimes, I do get sucked in.

Sometimes, we can all get sucked in.

But that mountain road taught me that I can also pull myself out. And now that I know that, I’m not so afraid of the dark, anymore. Because, while it can knock me down…

That mountain road taught me, it can’t keep me down, when I don’t want to be there.

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When You’re Scared, But You Know It’s Time to Move

You don’t have to feel ready. You don’t have to be confident. You just have to be willing to take the next step.

Here’s how to meet the fear… and keep driving forward.

1. Name What You’re Afraid Of

Don’t spiritualize it. Don’t sugarcoat it. Don’t make it noble. Get raw. Be specific.

What exactly are you afraid might happen if you keep going?

“I’m scared that…”
“I don’t trust myself to…”
“The worst-case scenario I keep imagining is…”

Fear doesn’t lose power when you deny it. It loses power when you name it.

2. Get Honest About the Cost of Stopping

What does it really cost you to turn around? To stay stuck? To keep living in fear?

What part of you stays buried if you don’t move forward?
What dream dies a little more each day you wait?
What would your future self thank you for doing right now?

Don’t just weigh the danger of going on. Weigh the pain of staying where you are.

3. Choose Your Line of Sight

Sometimes, survival depends on where our eyes are fixed. You can’t look down. You can’t look too far ahead. You have to stay present — locked into what’s right in front of you.

What’s the next 10 feet of your path?
What one small thing can you focus on, breathe through, and guide yourself through, right now?

Don’t stare into the abyss. Fix your eyes on the road.

4. Breathe Like It Matters (Because It Does)

When panic hits, your nervous system doesn’t need a lecture.

It needs air. It needs rhythm. It needs gentleness.

Try a 4-7-8 pattern:
Inhale for 4 seconds.
Hold for 7.
Exhale for 8.
Repeat 3 times.

You may not be able to stop the fear — but you can stop it from driving the car.

5. Claim the Fire You Thought Was Gone

This isn’t about “pushing through.” This is about remembering who you are — even if your hands are shaking.

When was the last time you felt strong, brave, or free?
What truth did that version of you believe?
What part of that fire is still in you now?

Fear doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means the moment matters.

And the fact that you’re still reading? That’s proof you haven’t given up yet.

Self-Reflection: What’s the Road You’re Still Avoiding?

This isn’t about conquering your fear. It’s about getting honest about what it costs to keep turning around.

Take your time. Be real. No one’s grading this.

1. What’s the “mountain road” in your life right now — the thing that calls to you, but terrifies you?

(A decision, a conversation, a dream, a truth you haven’t acted on?)

2. What fear or belief has been keeping you from taking that next step?

(Is it fear of failure? Shame? The belief that you don’t deserve to want this?)

3. If you keep putting this off… what part of you stays buried?

(What part of your voice, your freedom, your calling goes unused?)

4. What would it look like to take just one step forward — even if your hands are shaking?

(No heroics. Just a real, human move. A call, a breath, a boundary, a try.)

Final thought

What’s your mountain road?

Maybe it wasn’t 14,000 feet. Maybe it was a hospital room… a courtroom… a breakup… a diagnosis… a quiet night where you finally told the truth.

If you’ve ever kept going when everything in you wanted to turn back…

If you’ve ever felt the panic rise, and chose to breathe anyway…

If you’ve ever faced the darkness, and found even one small reason to keep driving forward…

I hope you’ll share it with somebody. You don’t have to tell it perfectly. You don’t have to tie it up in a bow. Just let it be real.

Because sometimes the bravest thing we can do, is name the road we thought we wouldn’t survive — and then whisper to someone else,

“I made it. You can too.”

I want it so badly, it’s making my stomach hurt

I want to start making money.

I don’t know why, but just writing that out makes my stomach hurt. I have a headache, my eyes are getting blurry, and I don’t know if I wanna cry, or throw up.

Possibly both.

I will do anything to avoid the thoughts and feelings that are coming up right now, around the subject of money. I don’t even want to sit and journal about this; it’s just too much. The discomfort is more than I want to take on.

I can feel it overpowering me.

Making me doubt myself, making me question, not only my values — but my very existence.

It’s telling me: stop this.

You don’t need to pursue money. You don’t need to work through distress. You don’t need to open this curiosity door.

But the door is already open. There’s no turning back.

The door I can’t close

I’ve spoken my money desires into the Universe. I’ve prayed for God to open the path before me, and show me how to make money — and to make it ethically. I couldn’t close this door now if I wanted to.

Last month, I wrote two simple prompts in ChatGPT to help me get more out of my journaling: one prompt to analyze each journal entry I provide, and a second one to review the entries every week, and show me the patterns, emotions, and emerging themes. I wrote these prompts for myself, because I need extra help sorting my life out.

But as I was refining the two prompts, I realized: there’s something valuable here. Something that could help not just me, but anybody who wants deeper insight into their own thought process.

I realized I was creating something that other people could use in their lives.

I realized I was creating something that has real value… and that I could charge money for it, and people would gladly pay.

This was the first time in my life that’s ever happened to me.

Building something I believe in

I’ve finished refining the prompts, and am now beta testing the whole process (which, btw, means I also had to learn how to run a beta test! Go me.)

I had to rewrite the prompts for the beta test, so they’d be simple, clear, and ready for anyone to use.

I had to think through and build a step-by-step guide for a user who I’ll never meet, and whose only instructions will come from the documents I’ve created.

I had to make sure that everything is so easy to use and to understand, that anyone who buys my prompts can be guaranteed that, if they use them, they’ll get the desired result.

I think the hardest part of that all, honestly, was the prompts.

They work great for me — but I knew what I was doing with them. I knew what I wanted them to do, and I knew how to write them for my own, private use, with GPT’s assistance. But to rewrite them to be ready for someone who doesn’t know how they work (and, doesn’t want to know how, but simply wants them to work)…

That was a challenge.

But I got it done, and I sent it to my first tester, believing in what I’ve assembled and what it can do to improve the way people practice self-awareness, discovery, and reflection…

And suddenly, this little thing I built for myself felt real. Like something other people could actually use.

I started to believe in what I’ve created. And now, I’m ready to stand behind it one hundred percent.

I’m certain it can compete with other $20-30 downloads. It might even become part of a course or a live program I could offer for a few hundred dollars! Or maybe a monthly subscription to a Zoom journaling party, where I help other people learn these skills and get better results from their journaling.

I’ve been searching for a way to make money like this since 2018, when I first found the freelancing community. I’ve had seeds of ideas before, but none of them have ever taken root.

Even now, I’m wishing I could just make all the money I need from my newsletter, and from donations to the Resilient Veteran Alliance. But that’s not happening (at least, not yet).

In my gut, I know this journaling system is an in-road for me, to financial success.

And I don’t even know why, but that knowing makes me wanna curl up in a ball and cry, because my whole life, I’ve believed I won’t ever be financially successful… and now I’m taking action in that direction! And it’s a small step, on the one hand, but on the other hand it kinda makes me wanna go jump off a bridge. (A low bridge, though, like two feet off the ground or something…)

Rewriting my old beliefs

The more time and energy I put into this journaling system, the more I’m moving towards the thing I’ve convinced myself I can never have — and now, if I want to have it, I have to work through all my objections. And I know as I clear them away, I’ll be able to see this opportunity more clearly. But still, it’s such hard work just to clear them away.

It’s so hard to let go. Even when I know these old beliefs are keeping me stuck, I still feel like I need to defend them!

Like, “If I’m this afraid of money, there must be a reason!” And then I just leave it at that, instead of asking myself what the reason is.

(I think it’s because I’ve never been good with managing money in the past, so I’m afraid if I do make a ton of it, I’ll just waste it all and I’ll still be in the same exact boat I’m in now, only with more regret over the new money I gained, and threw away on useless garbage. But there may be other reasons as well, that I haven’t uncovered yet.)

If I were to sit down and examine all these feelings, I might find out that the reason I’m keeping myself stuck isn’t a good reason, after all. And I might come face to face with some beliefs that don’t even align with my values… or worse, don’t even align with reality.

One false belief I know I have about money: People who want it are greedy and selfish.

I entered that into ChatGPT, and asked it to help me rewrite that belief. This is what I got back,

“Money is a tool, and in the hands of someone kind, self-aware, and purpose-driven, it becomes a force for healing, generosity, and good. Wanting money doesn’t make me greedy. It means I want the resources to enable me to do the work I’m called to do.”

I have to say, in this instance, I much prefer GPT’s take on money.

Maybe if I just journal on this all a bit more, I might be able to find more beliefs I can rewrite.

I might be able to let go of whatever’s keeping me stuck, and I might actually change my whole future.

I might change the way I think about money, about my own abilities, even about myself. I might learn to believe that I add value to other people’s lives. I might truly see myself as someone who goes about, doing good wherever I go. I might develop confidence in my ability to help other people — and provide for myself.

I’ve been afraid of this door my whole life. But I’m done hiding from it. I’m ready to open it, and see what’s waiting for me on the other side.

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Rewriting your money story

If reading this stirred anything uncomfortable in you — good. That discomfort? It’s just old beliefs rising to the surface, asking to be seen. You don’t have to fix it all today. But you can take a small step toward rewriting the story.

Here’s how to begin:

1. Name the fear

Write down the first thought or feeling that comes up when you say:

“I want to make more money.”

Don’t censor it. Even if it feels silly, selfish, greedy, impossible — get it out of your head and onto the page. Naming it takes away some of its power.

2. Find the old belief

Ask yourself:

What belief is hiding underneath that fear?

For example:

• “If I have more money, people will think I’ve changed.”

• “Wanting money makes me greedy.”

• “I’ll just waste it like I always do.”

It’s okay if you’re not sure — just notice what feels true, even if it’s uncomfortable.

3. Rewrite the script

Challenge that belief with a kinder, more honest truth.

If you’re stuck, borrow this:

“Money is a tool. In the hands of someone kind, self-aware, and purpose-driven, it becomes a force for healing, generosity, and good.”

You can use that, or write your own. The goal isn’t to fake positivity — it’s to anchor yourself in possibility.

4. Take one brave step

What’s one tiny action you could take that moves you toward more financial freedom?

• Journaling on your money fears

• Researching a skill you could sell

• Asking someone how they overcame their money blocks

• Saying out loud, “I want to make more money — and that’s okay”

It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just let your actions start to align with your new story.

You’re not stuck. You’re just standing at the door. And you’re allowed to walk through it — when you’re ready.

Self-reflection: what’s your money story?

Take your time with these.

You don’t have to answer them all at once. Let them sit with you — journal, ponder, or just notice what rises.

1. What’s the first word or feeling that comes to mind when you think about making more money?

(Don’t overthink it — just notice your gut response.)

Write your answer.

2. What beliefs did you grow up with about people who have money?

(Were they generous? Greedy? Powerful? Dangerous?)

Write your answer.

3. In what ways have those old beliefs shaped your own money choices — or your fear of success?

Write your answer.

4. What would having more money allow you to do — for yourself, your family, or your community?

(Be honest. It’s okay to want both comfort and impact.)

Write your answer.

5. What’s one small belief about money you’re ready to rewrite today?

(It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just one old story you’re willing to loosen your grip on.)

Write your answer.

Wherever you land with these questions, you’re allowed to take your time.

Unlearning is slow work. But it’s sacred work, too. And you’re doing great.

Final Thought

Most of us grow up believing that wanting more money makes you selfish, greedy, or just plain wrong.

We’re taught that good people should be content with what they have. That wanting more means you’re never satisfied. That money changes people — and not for the better.

But what if that’s not the whole story?

What if wanting more isn’t about greed… but about growth?

What if it’s about finally believing you deserve stability — that you deserve to have your needs met without scraping by or sacrificing yourself in the process?

What if it’s about creating enough room in your life to rest, to give, to breathe… to do good in the world without burning yourself to the ground just to survive?

I’ve been carrying the weight of my old beliefs for a long time. And maybe it’s time to lay them down. Maybe it’s okay to want more — not because I’m greedy, but because I’m ready.

Ready to build something that lasts. Ready to rewrite the story. Ready to believe that when good people have more, they can do more good.

What old money story are you still carrying? If you’re ready to lay it down — or even just look at it honestly — I’m right here with you.

Let’s rewrite this chapter together.

Love doesn’t have to lead to romance to lead you home.

I didn’t used to believe that.

For most of my life, I thought love only counted if it turned into something official — something mutual, tangible, nameable. But now... I’m not so sure.

You see, I’m falling in love with someone who may never be mine.

But it’s not breaking my heart — it’s waking it back up.

I tried to hide it for the longest time, because I thought it was “wrong” somehow to love someone who doesn’t love me the same way in return.

I thought if she knew, it would ruin our friendship. And I thought it was my duty, as her friend, to keep it all to myself and never let her find out.

When that didn’t work, I tried to deny it.

Then, I tried to control it.

Now, I’m sitting here, trying to change it, and I’m asking myself: why?

Why do I need to change how I feel? It’s not hurting me. It’s not hurting either one of us, actually. In fact, I think it’s helping to draw both of us closer together… just, maybe not in the direction I first thought.

The Truth I Can’t Deny

I love Sara Noelle Jones. I am in love with her. I have been for quite some time.

Whether that means anything beyond me having love in my heart for her, I don’t know. I used to think it could only mean we belong together (and maybe, someday, we will... I honestly don’t know…)

But maybe it really means we’re just super close friends… and I only think she’s the greatest thing to ever come into my life…

But maybe she’s just the precursor to an even greater love... a love I can’t even conceive of yet… one that will shine so bright… my love for Sara will seem… not insignificant, obviously, because she does mean the world to me…

But maybe when I find my next “true love,” I’ll realize my feelings for Sara were real, but that they never actually extended beyond friendship, after all.

That’s doubtful… but not entirely without its merits.

But it doesn’t matter, either way — it’s all irrelevant to the way I feel about Sara Jones:

I love her.

Plain and simple.

No further explanation required.

The Life I Imagine With Her

I desire Sara Noelle Jones. I long for her. I think about what it would be like to be with her.

To spend our days together. To touch her. To hold her. To wash the dishes together.

To sit around the kitchen table and talk about her kids, and about the future, and about money, and our dreams, and the life we want to share...

I want to build a garden for her, hidden away from the crowds and the noise. Away from her problems. Away from her ex. Away from the world, and from anybody who doesn’t want to watch her grow and blossom into the most beautiful flower…

Into the greatest version of herself that’s ever been.

I want to create and maintain that space. I want Sara to feel free in my garden, to give herself permission to run wild, and to let loose, to be who she so desperately wants and needs to be.

To know that she can do and say anything she wants — and know that she is loved, that she is seen, that she is wanted.

I want our relationship to be the flowerbed that nurtures and sustains her. That encourages her growth. That lets her roots grow strong and deep. That gives her the support she needs to live her life on her terms.

The Ache of Not Knowing

I am endlessly fascinated with the woman who is Sara Jones. I want to see her from every angle, explore every facet of her personality, examine every one of her thoughts, words, and actions, extract all the love, wisdom, guidance, nourishment, and support, that she has to offer me.

I want her heartbeat to be my heartbeat. Her pain to be my pain. Her sorrow to be my sorrow.

Her dreams to be my dreams.

Her joy to be my bliss.

I want to help her raise her children. I want to hear her sit down and read from Proverbs. I want to know her hopes, her dreams, her fears, her insecurities.

I want a love that’s reciprocal, that can sustain us both, and allow us to weather any storm.

I want to be the one who makes her laugh, who makes her think, who makes her try, who makes her feel safe… who meets her where she is, and loves her unconditionally.

I want to be the first thing she thinks of when she wakes up every morning… and the last thing before she falls asleep at night.

I want to do everything within my power, to add value, meaning, purpose, happiness, and direction to her life.

I don’t know if that’s healthy, or if it’s appropriate for where we are in our friendship… and I don’t care, anymore.

I’m a year and a half from being 50; I’m too old to hide my feelings, or bide my time.

Maybe I’m immature. Maybe I’m allowing my feelings to control me. Maybe I’m confused and we’re actually just really great friends and nothing more.

Maybe I’m longing for something that isn’t even there. Maybe she doesn’t even feel the same way towards me.

Maybe she means it when she says she only wants to be friends.

Maybe I was just alone for so many years, that now, I want her to be my everything… and maybe, she’s not. Maybe romance is not why we’re in each other’s lives.

But in an ocean of maybes... here’s one river that I know runs true:

She’s the one I want.

She’s the one I choose, over every challenge, argument, and obstacle, that’s ever threatened to come between us.

She’s the one I trust with my secrets, and with my dreams for the future. She’s the one who holds my heart, and who can either break it, or heal it, with only a whisper… or a kiss.

She’s the one who always sees me for who I am, and never asks for anything more. She’s the one I turn to for advice, for wisdom, for guidance, for validation. She’s my shoulder to cry on, and my friend to laugh with.

She’s the one I want to talk to every day. She’s the one who lights me up every time I see a text from her. I’m actually disappointed when I get a notification on my phone, and it’s not from her.

What This Love Is (and Isn’t)

I’m not trying to force anything on her. I’m not trying to control our friendship. I’m not trying to make her feel the same.

I’m just falling in love with the most incredible woman in the world, that’s all.

Life with Sara in it is worth living… worth appreciating… worth enjoying… worth getting out of bed and trying to make each tomorrow, better than today.

Life without her would be empty, aimless, painful, frightening, and so incredibly lonely.

She is the final piece of my puzzle; or, she feels like it, at least.

When I think about Sara Jones, I feel hopeful for my future. I feel like someone finally believes in me… and like I’m finally safe to start believing in myself.

Not even Carrie got this much of my heart. Not even Amanda, who I know I would be safe with, and could build a comfortable love.

No one but Sara has ever made me want to fight for this kind of feeling.

I’m not imagining the way I feel about her — I’m acknowledging it. I’m allowing it all to exist. To breathe. To occupy space in my heart, mind, and soul.

I don’t care if she feels the same. I mean, obviously, I would be thrilled if she did! Not gonna lie. Because then, maybe we could start talking about what our future might look like, and make plans to take this friendship to new heights, and find out where these feelings could lead.

But even if she doesn’t feel the same… that’s not going to change how I feel. And, I don’t need to change how I feel. And I shouldn’t want to change. I shouldn’t be telling myself that I “need” to change.

(To Sara’s credit, she’s never once told me I need to change anything about the way I feel for her. She has questioned the depth of my feelings. But she’s never shamed me for loving her. And that’s a gift I don’t take lightly.)

The Change She Set in Motion

I love Sara Jones, and my love for her has already been a catalyst for my own growth (and, I believe, for hers too). My feelings for this woman are — for once — working to my advantage.

They’re inspiring me to let go of years worth of baggage I finally know I don’t need anymore. I’m letting go of decades worth of pain, anger, and heartache. I’m releasing all my pent-up fears, anxiety, and insecurities.

I’m working through things that used to beat me into submission. Things I was so afraid of, I wouldn’t even name them, for fear they would overpower me. Things that used to frighten me, overwhelm me, and make me want to self-isolate.

I’m following through on my goals to build a business that will nurture and sustain me and give back to society — a society I didn’t even want to be part of until I met Sara Jones.

Now, maybe I give her too much credit, and I’m not appreciating all the effort I’m putting into those things. But, make no mistake: she is the catalyst for all this change.

She is the one who’s making me want to change!

Yes, I’m the one putting in the hard work — but my love for her is what gives me the reason. Without her, I don’t think I would be strong enough on my own to work through all the obstacles in front of me.

If it was just me, I wouldn’t do it. Whether that’s right or wrong, I don’t know. It’s just the truth:

Without her, I wouldn’t even try.

The Lighthouse and the Legacy

Sara Jones provides me with just the right amount of external validation to give me the strength, vision, and courage I need, to stay on the path God has placed before me.

I need her to be my lighthouse. To keep me moving forward. To give me a reason. To stop me from going back into the darkness.

I can’t do it all without her. I won’t.

It wouldn’t be worth it, if she wasn’t there to see it all, and to share it with me.

If I am Odysseus, I have made her my Penelope. And I will allow no other woman to take her place.

I love Sara Jones.

And that’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s quite wonderful!

After everything I’ve endured, it’s a miracle that I can love somebody new. And a blessing that that someone is Sara Noelle Jones.

It’s not something to deny, or fight against, or feel like I ought to change. It’s something to nurture. To be proud of. To embrace fully — regardless of whether she feels the same way toward me, or not.

My love for Sara Noelle Jones is a beautiful thing.

It’s leading me home.

And it’s showing me that it’s not too late for me to become the man God made me to be.

Why would I not want that kind of love in my life?

What kind of life would it be, if I refused myself to feel such love for someone who means so much to me?

Maybe she is my happily ever after. (Or will be, once she’s totally free of her ex.)

And maybe we’re only supposed to be friends, and that’s all we’ll ever be.

Either way… why try to hide my feelings? Why try to pretend I’m one way, when I know I’m really not? It’s not hurting me to love her. It’s not hurting her to be loved.

In fact, it might just be thing that’s saving us both from sliding back into the darkness we each used to know all too well.

Have you ever loved someone who might never be yours — but still changed your life in truly magical ways?

Tell me what that love revealed in you. What it helped you see. What it helped you become.

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🧰 When Love Doesn’t Need to Lead Anywhere

Sometimes, love doesn’t turn into the thing you thought it would.

Sometimes, it doesn’t need to.

This toolkit isn’t here to help you move on — it’s here to help you stay grounded in the love that changed you… and let it keep changing you, even if it never becomes anything more.

1. Name the Love

What kind of love did you feel — or still feel — for that person? Was it romantic? Soul-deep? Protective? An ache? A longing? A slow burn?

Let yourself name it. Don’t diminish it. Even if it didn’t “go anywhere,” it still mattered.

Example: “I loved him like he was my future — even if he didn’t see me that way.”

2. Tell the Truth About What It Gave You

What did this love awaken in you? What did it teach you about longing, hope, presence, or your own capacity to feel deeply?

Example: “It reminded me that my heart still works. That I’m capable of showing up, even after everything I’ve lost.”

3. Release the Outcome

What are you still holding onto — the fantasy, the closure, the idea of what it was “supposed to become”?

Write it down. Breathe it out. Let it rest.

Example: “I thought we’d end up together. But maybe loving him was never about being with him. Maybe it was about remembering who I am.”

4. Choose to Carry the Good

What do you want to carry forward from this love? Not the pain — but the power it gave you. The softening. The strength. The spark of who you’re becoming.

Example: “I want to carry the courage to feel again — and the belief that love, even unreturned, can still be holy.”

You don’t have to stop loving the person who doesn’t love you in return.

Just make sure you’re not losing yourself in the wanting.

✍️ What This Love Revealed in Me

You don’t have to explain your love to anyone. But sometimes, it helps to explore what it opened up in you — especially if it didn’t go the way you hoped.

Use these five prompts to honor your experience without shame or agenda. There’s nothing to fix here. Just something to see.

Write whatever comes up, and let your feelings guide you.

1. Who was I, before this love arrived?

Think about where you were emotionally, spiritually, or relationally before this person entered your life.

What had you given up on? What had you stopped believing in?

2. What surprised me about how I loved them?

Did this love draw something out of you that you didn’t expect? A tenderness, a devotion, a depth of presence you didn’t know was still possible?

3. What did this love wake up in me?

What kind of movement began in your life because of them?

Was there a shift in how you saw yourself, your future, or what you deserved?

4. What am I still holding onto — and why?

Be honest. Is it the idea of them? The imagined future? The sense of safety or belonging they gave you?

There’s no shame here. Just notice what still lingers.

5. What do I want to carry forward — even if they never come with me?

What part of this love feels worth keeping?

What truth, what strength, what softness — belongs to you now, even if the relationship doesn’t?

Remember: You don’t have to have closure to find clarity. You just have to be willing to name what this love gave you — and what kind of life you want to build, even if it ends up being yours alone.

Final Thought

We grow up believing that love is only real if it becomes something. If it’s returned. If it lasts. If it checks the right boxes and follows the right script.

But not every love fits that mold.

Some love arrives simply to stir something in you — not to stay, not to settle, not to solve you, but to wake you up.

It comes quietly, without asking permission, and starts rearranging the furniture inside your soul. And before you even realize it, you’re seeing yourself differently. Wanting more. Reaching farther. Becoming braver.

Not because you have the person you loved — but because you loved them. And that love did something holy in you.

Maybe this love was never meant to be solved, or sorted, or sealed with a promise. Maybe it wasn’t meant to end in romance, or partnership, or any of the usual destinations we use to justify the depth of our feelings.

Maybe it was just meant to be — to pass through you like wind through open windows, to stir the dust, to wake what had long been sleeping, to remind you that your heart is still alive.

Maybe the point was never to win someone over. Maybe the point was to let love soften you again.

Sometimes, the love that doesn’t lead anywhere is the very thing that leads you home. And if it brings you back to life — even just a little — then maybe that love was never wasted.

Maybe the miracle isn’t found in being loved back by the person you love. Maybe it’s found in daring to love at all.

I’m really struggling this week with feelings of fear, doubt, and overwhelm.

Like, “I wanna go back to Mom and Dad’s and just hide in my old bedroom” levels of overwhelm.

I’m really afraid that I’m taking on too much… that I don’t know what I’m doing… and that despite my best efforts, I’m only going to disappoint everybody who’s relying on me.

I feel like maybe, because I’ve given up on so many things in the past… I’m scared that I’m going to give up on everything I’m working on, now… and if I do that, I’ll lose this sense of purpose and direction that I’m just barely starting to find.

I feel like I need to withdraw, and hide all these scary feelings from everybody around me, so that I don’t get any on them.

I feel like I should just give up now, before these feelings get so big and out of control that I can’t stop myself from doing anything stupid.

I don’t want to give up, though. I want to rise above.

But I’m scared that I don’t have what it takes to push through.

What I’m afraid to admit

I’m so scared, I’m thinking about cutting my wrists.

Ninety-five percent of me knows that’s the wrong approach; that hurting myself won’t solve anything. But that other five percent just hurts so badly, I just want some way to let the hurt out.

The good news is I know I’m not actually suicidal. (But wait — didn’t I just say I want to cut my wrists open?)

I don’t know what the clinical term for it is… but I know I don’t have any real desire to die.

I don’t want to end my life.

I do want relief from this all-encompassing pain, and the never-ending feeling of despair that comes with it.

And somewhere, my mind thinks I might find relief in self-harm. Like somehow if I’m the one inflicting the pain, that gives me some control over it? Like by cutting myself I get to decide where it hurts, when it hurts, and how much it hurts? Just for that one brief moment, obviously… but that one brief moment would feel so nice right now…

It’s like I want to somehow use self-harm productively — like if I could make it a “safety release valve” for my suffering, or something like that.

I know it’s not a smart idea. I know it’s not healthy.

I know it’s not truly a safe way to manage all my pain…

But if it would bring even temporary relief… it might almost be worth it, just to have a few minutes where my mind is not consumed by these dark and heavy thoughts.

I’m not going to do it, by the way.

I don’t have an actual plan (or desire) to cut myself; it just feels like it could be a way to put me in control of my pain, and my scary thoughts, and all the things that normally would feel like “this is controlling me…”

And I absolutely do not want to die! I just want that to be clear, right now. I’m not glorifying or romanticizing the idea of self-harm.

I am bringing to light, some very serious struggles that I’m ashamed to talk about publicly. That I’m embarrassed to own up to. That I wish would just go away… but that I’ve fought with in one way or another, for most of my adult life.

Where it all began

There have been times, before, when I’m pretty sure I was suicidal.

One of the earliest times was before I hit puberty, on a family trip to Waikiki. As the fifth of six children in a home where both parents worked full-time, I seldom got all the attention I wanted.

And as a young boy, I misread that and I convinced myself that, if Mom and Dad weren’t giving me attention, it could only be because they didn’t want me. I know, today, that’s not true. I know because of the conversations I’ve had with Mom and Dad about feeling unwanted.

I know I’m a valuable part of my extended family… and that, even though I’m unmarried, and childless… my impact reaches into not only the lives of my siblings and my nephews and nieces… but even into the lives of my nephew’s and niece’s children… my “grand-nieces and grand-nephews,” if you will…

I know I’m important and that I’ve added value to the family. And I know the bonds are there because I feel it every time I text one of my brothers or sisters… and every time I get to see a niece or nephew…

Or when I get to hold their babies, or hunt for dinosaurs with their four-year-old, or hear all about Iron Man and Spider-Man from their eight-year-old. (I miss those little guys the most, by the way…)

I don’t want to hurt my family. I don’t want to leave them. I don’t want any of them to be disappointed in me, or to wonder why I gave up the fight.

I’m still here for a reason

I don’t want to give up the fight — I just want to figure out (if I can) how to stop getting knocked down all the time, and start stringing more of the small victories together, until I can see that even with my struggles and my disabilities, I’m still adding value to the world around me…

And I still have a job to do, despite the darkness that surrounds me, and tells me constantly that it’s all hopeless, that I’m unqualified, and that I’ll never succeed at any of my goals and it’d be better for me and for everyone around me if I’d just quit trying so hard and worrying so much…

And just accept that there’s not a damn thing I can do to help anybody…

Because most days, I can’t even figure out how to help myself…

That’s where I’m at, right now. That’s what I’m afraid to tell you.

That’s what I don’t want anybody to know about my life.

It hurts so much and it feels so overpowering. And I don’t feel like I have any skills, knowledge, or experience, in how to deal with these feelings, because I’ve purposely spent so many years fighting to avoid them all… to hide from all the pain…

To keep myself numb, isolated, and withdrawn, so that the pain of caring about another person, and wanting to get involved in their life, hoping to help them succeed…

So that, that exact pain can never find me… because I’d be so closed off from the world and so disconnected that I wouldn’t be able to feel anything, anymore…

And maybe, if I could cut myself off from all of my feelings, then I could finally feel safe again…

And finally feel like nothing can hurt me, and nothing can bring me down, and nothing can make me feel so afraid, that the only thing I can think or even want to do is to cause myself more pain…

All in some strange attempt to gain control over it all through some secret, horrible act, that only leaves me more alone, more afraid, more frustrated, more overwhelmed…

And more convinced than ever, that things are never going to change for me, and that it’s all my fault, because I’m intentionally making the choices that keep me stuck, that add to the hurt, that tell me I can’t succeed…

I don’t wanna give up — I just don’t know where to begin

But I’m not trying to fail, anymore. I don’t want to go through life, afraid and alone, and disconnected. I don’t want to feel like I have to stay locked inside my apartment, because it’s the only place on the planet anymore where I always feel safe.

Kudos though, to the fact that I can be in my apartment and feel safe!

I never used to feel safe anywhere… so to have a safe, quiet, peaceful, secure, home… that’s a huge improvement over where I used to be… but it’s still not where I want my story to end.

I don’t feel like I’m fit for modern society, though.

I think that might be part of why I always wanna keep to myself.

But I think the underlying fear and apprehension that accompanies all my other shortcomings is what makes me wanna curl up in a ball and cry, and look at my front door, and want to step outside… and not be able to take that physical step.

Not being able to take that step makes me feel like I’m a failure. And I don’t know why, exactly, but it’s like I’m conditioned to believe that failure is eternal, somehow? Like it’s not actually possible to recover… or to learn… or to change, or grow, or any of those things.

If I fail, I’m a failure for life. I got scared when my ship deployed to the Gulf at the start of Operation Iraqi Freedom. (Can you believe it, ladies and gentlemen? A United States sailor was afraid that, by going to war, I might die… the nerve…)

But I got scared on that deployment… and for 22 years, because of that fear, I’ve been calling myself a coward.

I’ve been letting my moments define my character… and my moments have not been good. I have not done things with my life, that I can be proud of. I’ve made horrible life choices all in the name of avoiding the pain of past regrets.

I’ve allowed my life to be shaped, and guided, by fear, anxiety, anger, depression, grief, heartbreak, shame, frustration, confusion, and overwhelm.

I’ve tried — unsuccessfully, I might add — to run from every one of these “negative” feelings… because I grew up believing that these feelings are bad, that they’re undesirable, that they only make us do bad things, that they get in the way of “being happy” and finding success.

And so, of course, the more I’ve tried to hide from it all, the bigger and more out of control it all becomes.

Until I’m sitting on the couch, watching Netflix, and imagining what it might feel like to walk into the kitchen, grab a knife, and cut one wrist.

Not to end things. Not to die. Not to suffer.

But to feel.

To finally be brave enough (yes, I know how dark and twisted that sounds.) But… to finally be brave enough, to allow myself to experience pain. To feel it. To guide it. To pretend like I’m in control of it, and I know where it begins and where it will end.

To show myself that I can handle pain… I can handle being hurt… being frustrated… being angry… being overwhelmed…

That I don’t have to withdraw into my safe space where nothing can get to me.

And maybe, so that I’ll finally have visible, verifiable proof, of exactly how much pain I’m really in… and how much I really need the world to notice me, and for just one person to care.

I want to stay! But I’m still learning how

I don’t want to go on feeling this same way. But I don’t think I can break free from it all on my own. I think I need help. I need more connections. More reasons to stay in the fight, instead of throwing in the towel.

I need to know I’m not in this alone, anymore. And that no matter what happens, I’ve got friends I can count on to help me through.

That doesn’t mean the darkness goes away. It doesn’t mean I stop feeling overwhelmed, or broken, or scared out of my mind.

But it does give me something to hold onto when the pain starts to rise. It reminds me that even when I don’t trust myself… I can borrow someone else’s hope.

I don’t have to keep trying to prove I’m “strong enough” to handle this all on my own. (Because, spoiler: I’m not. None of us really are.)

While I’m writing this, though… it’s making me feel like maybe — just maybe — the fight to stay alive is one I don’t have to fight alone.

And maybe ‘alone’ is half the reason I feel so overwhelmed, in the first place.

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When the pain feels too big

What to reach for when you want to stay — but don’t know how.

1. Name what’s real — without judgment

You don’t need to sugarcoat the truth to survive it.

If you feel like giving up, say so. If the urge to self-harm is loud, name it. If you feel shame, speak it out loud — even just to yourself.

Try this:
Write one sentence that scares you. Start with:

“What I’m afraid to admit is…”

Even a single honest sentence can give the pain a little less room to grow.

2. Don’t fight the pain alone

This one cannot be stressed enough:

Pain isolates. Shame convinces you that you have to deal with it in silence. But pain loses some of its power when it’s shared.

Try this:

Text a trusted friend and say:

“Hey. I’m not okay right now. I don’t need you to fix it — I just don’t want to be alone in it.”

Or send them this newsletter, and say, “This is what I feel but don’t know how to tell anybody.”

3. Give the urge a shape — without feeding it

Sometimes the urge to hurt yourself is really just a need for release. You want to feel something, or stop feeling everything.

That’s not evil. That’s human.

Try this instead:

• Grab a marker or red pen and draw where it hurts. No knives. Just expression.

• Hold ice cubes. Scream into a pillow. Go primal, not permanent.

• Put your hand on your heart and say: “I see how much pain you’re in. I won’t punish you for it.”

4. Let yourself be loved — even if you feel unworthy

The most dangerous thing about pain is that it convinces you you’re unworthy of being seen. But connection is what makes pain survivable.

Try this:

Make a short list titled:

“People I Can Text If I Need to Stay.”

Even if it’s one name. Even if it’s a stranger in a support group. Keep it nearby.

You don’t have to feel worthy of love to receive it. You just have to be willing to stay.

Self-reflection: staying with the pain

These questions are for when the weight feels unbearable, but you know you want to stay.

1. Name what hurts

What are you afraid to admit out loud right now?

Start small if you have to. But be honest. You’re not here to impress anyone — you’re here to stay alive.

Write your answer.

2. Listen to the pain

What does the pain actually want from you?

Not what it tells you to do — but what it’s trying to express. What is the pain asking for?

Write your answer.

3. Let yourself be seen

Who would you want by your side if you let yourself be fully seen?

Is there someone who might not fix it… but would simply stay?

Write your answer.

4. Interrupt the spiral

What’s one thing you could do to interrupt the spiral — without hurting yourself?

List anything: a gesture, a sentence, a scream, a memory, a texture, a safe object. Something that grounds you. Even a little.

Write your answer.

5. Borrow someone’s hope

If you could believe — just for today — that you're not in this alone… how might that change the story you're telling yourself?

Not forever. Just today.

Write your answer.

You don’t have to feel strong to stay. You just have to remember you’re not alone.

Final Thought

Some days, the weight of it all feels unbearable.

The fear. The shame. The feeling that no matter how hard you try, you’re still falling short — still one step away from giving up completely.

And when those thoughts come, it’s easy to believe they say something permanent about who you are.

But they don’t.

The pain doesn’t mean you’re broken. The fear doesn’t mean you’ve failed.

It means you’re human — and that you’re feeling things most people spend their lives trying to avoid.

Staying doesn’t always look brave. Sometimes it looks like crying on the couch.

Sometimes it looks like canceling plans.

Sometimes it looks like texting a friend and saying, “I don’t think I can do this today.”

It can feel so hard, in those times, to make the choice to reach out for help — to make the choice to stay.

But every time you choose to stay, you are pushing back against the lie that says you’re alone, or unworthy, or too far gone.

You’re not alone.

You’re not unworthy.

You’re not too far gone.

You’re still here.

And that matters more than you know.

I’ve finally cut Carrie out of my life, completely.

I finally saw the truth: she doesn’t want to be friends. She doesn’t want to “keep in touch.” She doesn’t want to exchange family Christmas photos.

I don’t mean anything to her, anymore…

And that’s okay.

In fact, that’s how it should be.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I loved her more than I ever did any girl before her — or since. She was my first love, and while to her that meant one thing (one in a whole string of men until she finally married her husband)… to me it meant everything.

To me… I believed that “first love” had to equal “forever love.”

I believed that so strongly, it took me thirty years before I was finally able to let it go.

We broke up when we were 18. And I know we both wanted things to end. We never actually spoke the words, “It’s over.” But we both knew the moment the love was gone.

I really did love her! I think we really loved each other. She says I was her first love, so… I need to let that count for something.

We started dating when we were 16, a few months after she and my friend Nathan broke up. I’d liked her even when she was dating Nathan, so once they stopped dating, and sufficient time has passed for me to be free to pursue my friend’s ex… I went for it.

She didn’t disappoint. She was everything I wanted a 16-year-old girlfriend to be, or so it seemed. She was really special, and I love the time we spent together… but even in the beginning, there were warning signs. I just didn’t listen to them.

I wanted to love her forever — or did I?

I was in love with an incredible girl, who all my friends and family adored, and all agreed that we were perfect together. And loving her made me happy, in ways I hadn’t known before. So naturally, I wanted that happy feeling to last — and at 16, it’s probably pretty natural to think that feeling, and that love, is meant to last forever.

At least, that’s what I always thought.

But even before we broke up, I knew I didn’t want her anymore.

I still loved her. I’ll probably always love her! (I’m not one to believe that love ever ends, but I am learning that as people grow and circumstances change… the way we love those people changes, too.)

But even though I still loved her… I knew I was ready to move on. I knew I had no more interest in being her boyfriend, and I was eager to find someone new.

But she was perfect! Everybody said so. Even I believed it… even though she had already hurt my feelings so deeply, on multiple occasions, that I knew she wasn’t… I still wanted to believe that she was.

So when we broke up, instead of feeling free to move on and find somebody new to love… I felt like I had mistakenly thrown away my one chance at finding my happily ever after.

I believed we were destined to be together — and that I was the one who ruined it. And worse, I believed I had to keep that to myself. Because if I told anybody we had broken up, they’d think I ruined it all, too.

I really did a number on myself.

I wasn’t trying to… but at 18, I didn’t know any different. I’d already learned that most of the people I thought I could trust, would always find a way to make all my problems “my fault” and my responsibility. Nobody knew how to just hear me… and support me through my struggles.

They either blamed me for creating the problem — or they blamed me for not correcting the problem, after the fact.

The breakup I never spoke of

I couldn’t talk to anybody about anything… certainly not anything as serious as losing the love of my life! No sir, that was one hundred percent my fault, and my responsibility. It was the biggest mistake of my life, and something I’d just have to carry alone, for however long it takes me to learn to set it down and leave it behind me.

And I could never set it down.

Everywhere I went, I knew I had ruined my own life… and the life of the only woman I could ever love. Her unhappiness became my responsibility. She was miserable because I had left her. Because we belong together and we both know it, and I was making it impossible for that to happen…

So of course she could never be happy without me.

I wasn’t only hurting myself by letting her go — I was telling her that she’s not good enough to be loved by the man she’s supposed to spend eternity with.

That’s a lot of responsibility to put on my shoulders. But I believed it was true, and I knew in my head and my heart that if I told anybody what I had done… they would all agree that I’d royally messed things up and there was no way to recover from it all, and that now the only option I had, was to just somehow learn to live with it all.

I believed that so strongly that I became afraid to tell anybody what I’d done, because I knew they would condemn me. I knew they would tell me it was all my fault. Or, if not that, they would simply tell me that I need to let go, and move on, and find somebody new.

But how can I let go of the love of my life? What would that say about me, if I abandoned true love just because she went off and married somebody else after I joined the Navy and left her behind?

What kind of man gives up on true love and happily ever after, just because the object of his affection decides to build a whole life without him?

How could I live with myself if I ever stopped loving her?

So I just swallowed it all. I buried the pain, and the embarrassment, and the regret, and I tried to act like I was above it all and like, any minute, Carrie would just wake up and realize she belongs with me, and she would abandon her loser husband and grab her daughters and come live with me, and we could finally set everything right.

(Which, I don’t know that her husband is a loser. But… he’s not Michael Glenn… so, how happy can she be? Kidding. Mostly.)

What young love really looks like

But even though I wanted our relationship to end…

When everything was finally over, it really broke my heart to say goodbye to something I wanted it to become, even though it was never meant to be anything more than what it was: a fun, exciting, fascinating, surface-level, first love.

It wasn’t for us to be in love forever. But it was for us to learn from each other, what it’s like to simply fall in love, and how that can make things better, and can add layers and dimensions and depth to a person’s life, that there’s no other way to experience, aside from truly being in love with somebody else.

And for that… our relationship was ideal.

I did learn how to be in love. I learned what it feels like. I learned how powerful, inspiring, and beautiful, love can be. But I also found out how much the person who loves you, can also become the person who hurts you more than anybody else ever can.

Carrie was a nice girl. (I think.) But she wasn’t a great girlfriend. She was critical of a lot of the things I did and said. She judged me for things I wasn’t looking to be judged for.

I’m pretty sure she saw other dudes behind my back. (And I never told anybody about that, because I was afraid they’d tell me to break up with her… and I needed her in my life. I needed her to love me, even if it did mean putting up with her indiscretions.)

Sometimes, when we got together, she could be really distant… almost a stranger in certain ways… other times, it felt like she only saw me as a friend — or maybe, she only saw me as an option, a placeholder until some other boy came along… but it has been thirty years, so it’s possible that some of what I’ve written here, is the way I remember things but not the way things actually were.

That said…

Sometimes, our relationship was really beautiful.

She was my date at my sister’s wedding… and she was so amazingly beautiful, in such a simple but elegant dress. Her hair, her makeup, her poise, the way she interacted with my family — even my idiot uncle who kept giving her the hardest time. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

Making out (which, is every teenager’s favorite pastime) was spectacular. Everything about her body lit me up. Her kiss, her touch, her skin, her breath, her scent… she was the girl next door times infinity…

She was like nothing I’d ever known before. And she wasn’t even close to the first girl I ever made out with… but with her, it was like… none of the other girls even existed… not even in my memory…

Sometimes we’d just hang out, casual-like… just two friends chitchatting. Every great once in a while she’d drop her guard and I could see who she really was underneath the facade. And she was so inspiring.

But most of the time, I wondered whether she loved me or not. Sometimes I wondered if she even liked me, the way she treated me. Sometimes, all I could feel was pain, and heartbreak, and like I was the biggest mistake she’d ever made in her life.

We had problems. I know now, that every relationship does. But back then… I really believed if I just loved her enough, our problems would just go away. After all, true love conquers everything… even death… so why wouldn’t it be enough to make all our problems go away?

Better yet… if I truly loved her, we wouldn’t have any problems to begin with.

So naturally, any time that we did… I always believed it was my fault, because I wasn’t being a good enough boyfriend. And she didn’t do much to ever make me believe otherwise.

She made me feel like I was a bad boyfriend for “making her upset.” Like I don’t know if she did that intentionally — but that’s the way it always felt when we did have problems.

And I always accepted that responsibility, without hesitation. I took all the blame for anything that ever went wrong. I told myself it was my job to make everything right… and that if we were unhappy with each other, it fell to me to figure out how to make everything better.

In my mind, Carrie could do no wrong

It was never her fault. She was perfect — she couldn’t possibly do any wrong, even if she tried.

And over time, that built up and started to hurt me more and more. And still, I buried everything inside. Still, I believed it was all my fault and I couldn’t talk to anybody about it because even if I did, they’d just agree with me and I’d only feel worse about all the wrong I was guilty of.

So I let it all build up, and fester beneath the surface, in places where I couldn’t even see it… couldn’t even name it… couldn’t ever bring it out into the light of day… because I was too ashamed of being the bad boyfriend I thought I’d become.

I kept all this to myself until earlier this year, when I started to open up with my friend Tara.

I started to sort of dance around the edges of this all… trying to gauge how much I could share and how much I could let go… and how much would send me into a tailspin, and make me feel more ashamed, more afraid, more uncomfortable…

More like I’m responsible for ruining mine and Carrie’s life forever, simply by being too ashamed to admit my mistakes, and ask for Carrie’s forgiveness, and beg her to come back to me and try again.

The things I never told her — until I just had to!

I kind of did beg Carrie to come back to me, last summer. I shouldn’t have. She is married, after all… and whether that’s a happy marriage or not, I still have respect for the institution.

But I couldn’t hold it all inside anymore! I had to tell Carrie that I still love her, and that I wish I’d told her, all those years ago, not to marry her husband, but to wait for me to come home from the Navy, and give us another chance.

I told her everything. I told her things no man should ever tell a married woman. But I wasn’t telling “a married woman” all these things; I was telling the love of my life, the only girl I’ll ever want, or need… the one who I can’t live without and who, if she would just come back to me, I know we could make it work this time, and we could both finally be happy…

And she called me and told me our time was done. She told me I will always be her first love… but that’s all we were ever meant to be for one another… and there is no future “us” for me to wait for.

And it tore me up but it was exactly what I needed to hear. And I needed to hear it from her. I never would’ve believed it, any other way. And I know it’s true; I know she’s right; I know we’re not each other’s one true love.

And it still cuts me so, so deep…

It’s been thirty years! And I’ve been waiting this whole time for the two of us to be reunited. I’ve been telling myself the same worn-out story that we were destined to be together forever, and I ruined it and there’s no coming back.

I’ve punished myself, one way or another, every day of my life for letting our relationship end. And it hurts more than anything for me to admit: staying friends with the woman I thought I was supposed to marry, has been the worst punishment of them all. It’s been a constant, daily reminder of how badly I messed things up between us, and how much I hate myself for losing my only chance at happiness, in this life and beyond.

And it’s time for that to end.

It’s time for me to stop pretending.

It’s time for me to stop hating myself, over something that wasn’t even my fault.

It’s time for me to finally let go

Our relationship didn’t end because I was a “bad boyfriend,” or because I was selfish, or because I grew tired of her and wanted to experience love with somebody new…

Our relationship ended because it had run its course. There was nothing left for us to learn from one another… nothing left for us to do in each other’s lives, except apparently to keep bringing one another down because I couldn’t let go of something that’s meant to be let go of.

I loved/love Carrie with all my heart. And even though I wanted our relationship to end… I never wanted our love to die. I tried with everything I had inside, to keep the love alive by staying friends with the woman who’d broken my heart worse than anyone alive…

I thought if I could just somehow pretend I wasn’t hurting, that maybe I could keep her in my life in some capacity… and maybe, someday, we could be reunited.

But I’m learning, that was another lie. A lie on top of a lie. And it wasn’t serving either one of us… but most of all, it hasn’t been serving me. I’ve refused to let myself move forward from the moment our relationship ended… because I believed if I ever did, it would invalidate the love that I do still have for her, deep in my heart.

That love will never go away. I think our attachments to other people can wither and die, if we neglect them or abuse them, or if we just spend enough time apart from each other… but I think love is pure and real… even if it’s not “lifelong” it’s still worth remembering… worth preserving… worth being thankful for.

I don’t think it’s possible for love to ever die.

But I do think it’s unhealthy for me to maintain an attachment — a living, breathing, connection — to Carrie. It doesn’t bring me anything but pain, that I should have let go of thirty years ago, when I was only 18 years old.

So I’m doing the next best thing:

I’m letting go now.

I’ve finally cut Carrie out of my life, completely.

And I’m afraid of what’s going to happen now. I’m afraid of all the feelings I’ve kept bottled up, for three decades. I’m afraid of the pain, and the grief, the embarrassment, and the sorrow…

But I won’t let it control my life any longer. I won’t hide anymore, from the things I need to resolve, so that I can be restored to full mental, emotional, and dare I say, spiritual health.

I don’t deserve to suffer, at my own hand, for something that I never even did wrong.

The only thing I could be accused of doing wrong, in all of these years, is not telling somebody else everything I’ve been going through — not asking for the help I need.

And this year, due in large part to my deep friendship with my incredible friend Tara Johns…

I’m finally letting go.

I’m finally moving on.

I’m finally getting better.

I’m finally asking for help.

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Letting go starts by telling the truth

Letting go isn’t a single act — it’s a process. And it doesn’t start by forcing yourself to move on.

It starts by telling the truth. By speaking what’s been unspeakable. By saying: “I can’t keep carrying this alone.”

Here’s how to begin that process — gently.

1. Name the story you’re still carrying

We all have one: a memory, a relationship, a regret that still haunts us.

Write it down. Say it out loud. Be honest — even if it hurts. You don’t have to explain it yet. Just name it.

“The thing I’ve never been able to let go of is…”

2. Admit what’s been true (that you’ve never said aloud)

Letting go doesn’t mean rewriting history. It means letting yourself see it clearly for the first time.

What’s the part of this story you’ve been too ashamed or afraid to tell?

“The truth is… I still think it was all my fault.”
“The truth is… I didn’t want it to end, even though it needed to.”

3. Ask yourself: “What would letting go actually look like?”

Would you stop replaying the old conversation? Would you stop waiting for them to come back?

Would you stop punishing yourself for something you can’t change?

Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. It means loosening your grip on what’s still hurting you.

4. Let someone in

This is the part that changed everything for me. Not a grand gesture. Not some brave confrontation.

Just… telling someone I trust.

“There’s something I’ve never said out loud before. Can I tell you?”

When you stop carrying it alone… that’s when healing begins. And maybe, that’s how you finally start to move forward, too.

Self-Reflection: What are you still carrying?

Take your time. There’s no right way to do this.
Just find a quiet space, breathe, and start where it feels appropriate.
You can write your answers in a journal, type them out, or speak them aloud.

1. Name the story

What’s one relationship, event, or memory from your past that you’ve never fully let go of — even if it ended years ago?
(You don’t have to explain it. Just name it.)

2. Be honest about the weight

What have you been carrying, silently, about this story?

• Regret?

• Guilt?

• The belief that it was all your fault?

• A fantasy that it might still work out one day?

• Something you wish you’d said but never did?

Write freely. Don’t edit. Don’t judge.

3. What would letting go look like?

If you could begin to let go of this story, what would that actually mean?

• What would stop?

• What would open up?

• What might shift in the way you see yourself?

Follow-up question:

What’s been stopping you until now?

Be honest — not to blame yourself, but to understand what’s been in the way.

4. What do you need right now?

What do you need — right now — in order to begin healing?
Let your heart answer. Not your shame. Not your fear.
Just… your heart.

5. Who could you let in?

Is there someone in your life you could share even a piece of this story with?
What’s one sentence you could say to begin?

“There’s something I’ve been carrying for a long time… and I think I’m finally ready to stop doing it alone.”

Final Thought

If you’ve been carrying something quietly for years — a heartbreak, a regret, a version of yourself you haven’t been able to forgive — I want you to know:

You’re not weak for holding on. You’re not broken because you haven’t let go.

Some pain takes time. Some grief stays longer than we expected. And some stories, we keep inside, not because we want to… because we don’t know how to say them out loud.

But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

Healing doesn’t always come from figuring it all out. Sometimes it starts with telling the truth to someone who’s safe enough to honestly receive it.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do isn’t moving on… it’s opening up, just enough to let someone in.

So let someone in today. Just a little.

And let your healing truly begin.

Last weekend, my apartment complex had their annual summer get-together.

They went all out, with games, food, a water slide, prizes, fun…

And the chance to low-key meet other apartment dwellers, and maybe even make a new connection or two.

And it happened literally right outside my front door.

I wanted to go out there, but I just couldn’t

Last year, I watched the festivities through my kitchen window, nervous, anxious, and excited… wanting to go join in the fun… but too afraid to even think about putting myself out there.

I watched as families laughed, their kids playing, couples holding hands, friends swapping stories over free food. It looked so inviting… so fun… so easy…

I wanted to join in. I wanted to be part of the crowd. I wanted to go say hello.

But I couldn’t. Not last year, and not last Saturday.

The fear always feels the same

I was too afraid it would only remind me that when there aren’t any parties to go to, I’m completely, utterly alone.

Too afraid that I would despise all the smiling faces, and resent all the happy families.

Too worried that I would be so jealous of the fact they can even be happy, and friendly, and outgoing…

Too worried that I would get so insecure, I’d freak out, and run back into my apartment (which, may I remind you, was right in front of the whole get-together!)

And then, all my neighbors would know that I’m a weirdo — and worse, they would all know where “the weirdo” lives.

It was safer for me to stay indoors. Smarter to keep withdrawn, and isolated.

It hurt more, not to go join in the fun… but it saved me from having to deal with the awkward moments when people ask me what I do (because everybody asks that, when they meet a stranger), and I would have to tell them:

“I don’t do anything, actually. I haven’t been able to do anything since I got home from the war.”

Which, isn’t 100% true, technically… but when I’m at home, and I’m struggling to even get out of my apartment… even when the party is literally right outside my door… it’s easy to feel like I can’t do anything.

It’s easy to convince myself I don’t even deserve to get out, and do fun things when I do want to.

I don’t want to believe I’m not allowed to have fun — but it’s easy to slide into that mentality. I lived there for so many years, before I came to Lubbock, it’s almost second nature at this point.

I don’t know how to belong, anymore

It’s not just social anxiety. And it’s not just feeling insecure, or strange, or awkward or uncomfortable.

It’s all the years I spent at Mom and Dad’s, isolated and withdrawn. The ones that left me locked inside a body, and a mind, that don’t know how to belong anymore.

When you’ve spent over a decade hiding from everyone…

When you’ve been the ghost in your own life for so long, you don’t even remember what it feels like to be seen by somebody new…

When you’ve believed the lie that nobody else wants you around, anyway…

The simple act of just meeting your neighbors can feel impossible. And yet, not going… not meeting anybody… not having any fun…

That hurts, too. It hurts to sit behind this window, hearing my own neighbors mingling… while I stay hidden behind a locked door, and a closed kitchen window.

And, I get it. Me locking myself in my apartment, when there’s good times to be had, not ten feet away! That’s pretty embarrassing.

It looks like a failure. Hell, it feels like a failure.

But here’s what you don’t know:

Last year, I stayed inside too. But last year, I stayed silent. I was so ashamed of myself, for being so afraid, I didn’t tell anybody.

And this year, I’m willing to share my fears. I’m ready to open up, and start naming them, one by one.

I’m so tired of feeling afraid, though

I’m afraid of looking awkward. I’m afraid of being jealous, and bitter, and accidentally biting someone’s head off. I’m afraid of feeling embarrassed, and shy, and insecure, and randomly bursting into tears.

Or saying something really stupid, and not at all family-friendly; the kind of thing I could say to another disgruntled veteran, and they wouldn’t even bat an eye… but say it in front of the wrong civilians, and you’ll be lucky if they ever want to talk to you, again.

I’m afraid I’ll start talking about my disability, or worse, that I’ll try to explain to somebody how I got PTSD, and why it ruined everything for me…

And I’ll start crying, and just be so weird, I’ll hate myself even more and withdraw deeper into my own shell, instead of climbing out, like I really want to, and building some sort of safe and healthy in-person connections.

But I’m not ready to build those in-person connections

It takes a lot of work to make new friends. A lot of preparation.

A lot of repeat opportunities for short interactions, to build up enough trust and rapport with somebody new, to feel like maybe, it’s safe to be myself around them, after all.

I’m not ready for all that. I want to be. I’m just not.

And that kind of embarrasses me, honestly. I don’t want people to know I’m that afraid to just go meet somebody new, and talk to them for like, 30 seconds, and then grab a plate of food, sit down and just smile and nod, and act like I make small talk all the time…

I don’t want my neighbors to know how hard it is… or how scared I really am…

It’s much safer for me to just keep my distance, to keep myself locked away, where I don’t even have to worry about the awkward moments and the inquisitive looks…

I don’t know how to do all those things, today.

I don’t know how to be charming, and friendly, and outgoing, and engaging, with my own next-door neighbors.

I can do it with a total stranger in a random cafe when I’m on a spontaneous road trip, and I’m free and clear of all my “typical” routines that I’m a slave to when I’m at home.

I don’t know why I can’t do it with my own neighbors. I just know it’s too much, and I’m not ready.

Not this year.

Maybe next summer, things will be different

Maybe by then, I will have done enough therapy, and enough inner work, that I can step outside my own front door, and say hello to the people in my own apartment complex, and not be afraid to let them see me, the way I am.

If you think I’m losing, in this moment — if you think I should have just found my courage, and went out and greeted my neighbors, even when I knew I wasn’t ready — you’re not paying attention.

Yes, I do wish I could’ve joined in.

Yes, I do feel like I didn’t live up to my full potential, hiding in my apartment, peering out my window to get a glimpse of it all… wanting to participate but being too afraid…

But no, I don’t feel like I’ve failed at anything.

Because, a year ago, when I stayed inside… I was too ashamed and embarrassed to even talk about it.

And now, a year later, I’m telling everybody, “There was a party right outside my door, and I was too afraid to go out, and meet new people, and try to have fun.”

And for someone who’s struggled with PTSD for over 20 years now… that in itself is a big change. The fact that I can tell other people, “This event made me afraid,” that right there is huge for me.

And if you don’t see that… it’s okay. You don’t have to. I’m not going to try and explain it to you.

But I’m also not going to appease you, or listen to you tell me how I “should have behaved,” in a situation that you weren’t present for, and don’t understand.

Maybe that makes me a jerk; I don’t know. Maybe after how long I lived with PTSD, and how many years I struggled alone, I’ve earned the right to be a jerk now and then.

Maybe, you think it makes me weak.

(Spoiler: I am weak. I have the documentation from the VA to prove it.) jk jk…

But for real…

I’m honestly doing my best

Sometimes, trauma survivors face challenges that the rest of society doesn’t understand. And that’s okay; not everybody needs to understand everything everyone else is going through.

But you should try to understand, that when we say something was too hard… the answer is not, “You shoulda just tried harder!”

The correct answer is, “I’m sure you did all you could.”

Because you might not always think so… but we know what we need, in order to heal.

And we know when it’s the right time to step outside our comfort zone, and stretch our legs… and when it’s time to withdraw, and conserve our energy, and maybe do some more inner work for awhile…

Until we’re ready to step out and take those chances, and navigate those uncomfortable moments.

If you wanna judge me, for reacting to new situations, in ways that are not under my control… well… I can’t stop you.

But I’m probably gonna think you look pretty foolish.

Maybe that’s okay; maybe you think I’m foolish, too. Maybe I am.

But… if you are afraid, like me…

If you do relate to what I’m going through… if you can grasp exactly what I’m saying…

And you feel embarrassed, too, because people are telling you that, “You can do better than this!”

Know that I see you, and I know you’re doing great, exactly where you are.

You’re doing what’s right for you, and I honor that

You’re not in a war zone anymore. You’re safe now, to be afraid, to be anxious, to be confused, and sometimes, to want to be alone… even when what you truly want, is to be comfortable out there, enjoying life, with all the rest of ‘em…

You’ll get there, one day. We both will.

But we’ll do it when we’re ready… and we’ll do it on our terms.

Maybe there are moments you’ve hidden from. Maybe those moments made you feel broken, or weak, or behind. Maybe when everyone else seemed to belong… you felt like you couldn’t find your way in.

But those moments are over. You’re not alone, anymore. You’re not failing. You’re not weak.

You’re surviving. And surviving is enough, for today.

The world will tell you to "just be brave," "just show up," "just try harder."

But you and I both know — sometimes, just staying where you are takes all the courage you’ve got.

So if all you did today was survive… if all you did was name the fear… if all you did was read this, and feel a little less alone…

That’s enough.

Tomorrow’s another day — another chance to do better

Every day you wake up is another chance to start doing things differently. And when you’re ready, I’ll be here, cheering you on — whether you feel like you’re winning, or not.

And honestly? If you’re not ready to do the thing, today…

I don’t mind if you wait until tomorrow.

You know what you need. And you know when you’re ready.

And I’m always gonna be here, supporting you, loving you, encouraging you, whether you’re ready to step outside yet… or not.

It doesn’t matter where you are on your path, when I find you. I’m gonna love you no matter what. I’m gonna stay with you, until you send me away — or until you’re safely moving forward again, and hopefully, bringing somebody else alongside you.

Because I believe in you.

I know you’re worth it.

And because I need somebody to do the same for me.

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When you’re not ready yet

Not ready to meet new people? Step outside? Try the scary thing?
That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.

Here are a few tools to help you stay kind to yourself on the hard days — the ones where the party feels ten feet away… but impossible to reach:

1. The permission slip

It’s okay to not be ready yet.

You don’t have to justify your fears. You don’t have to force it. Growth isn’t on anyone else’s timeline — and neither is your healing.

Try this:

Write yourself a literal permission slip:

“I don’t have to [go outside / meet new people / explain myself] today. I’m allowed to protect my energy.”

Tape it to your fridge. Carry it in your wallet. Let it remind you: staying safe is valid.

2. The window moment

You showed up… even if you didn’t step outside.

Sometimes, the courage is in the watching. In the wanting. In the quiet ache to belong. That longing? That’s proof you’re still alive inside. Still trying.

Try this:

Next time you find yourself watching from a distance — a window, a doorway, your own head — notice it. Don’t shame it. Say to yourself:

“I want connection. That’s a good thing. I’ll get there, when I’m ready.”

3. Tiny Rehearsals

You don’t have to jump into the deep end.

Social courage grows in micro-moments. A nod in the hallway. A smile at the mailbox. You’re building the muscle, even if no one sees it yet.

Try this:

Set one small, no-pressure goal for next time. Example:

“If I pass a neighbor, I’ll make eye contact.”
“If someone says hi, I’ll smile back.”
“If there’s another event… maybe I’ll stand outside for two minutes.”

And if you can’t? That’s okay. The window moment still counts.

4. Nobody sees the war you’ve fought

But that doesn’t mean you’re not winning.

The world only sees the surface: the closed door, the missed party. But you know what you’ve survived. You know how hard it is to even want to belong again.

Try this:

Make a private victory list. Every time you choose honesty, self-compassion, or rest — write it down. You’re keeping score. You’re making progress. Even when it’s invisible.

You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re becoming.

And when you’re ready? Opportunities will still be there, waiting.

Self-reflection: before you open the door

Questions for the days when showing up feels impossible.

You don’t have to be ready to walk outside. But you can be ready to tell yourself the truth.

These prompts are for the quiet moments, when you’re still figuring out how to belong again. Take your time. Be honest. There’s no wrong answer.

1. What’s one situation — big or small — where you wanted to show up… but couldn’t?

(It could be a party, a phone call, reaching out to someone, applying for a job — whatever comes to mind.)

Write your answer.

2. What did you feel in that moment?

(Name the real stuff — fear, shame, grief, longing, frustration… all of it belongs.)

Write your answer.

3. What story did your brain tell you about why you couldn’t do it?

(Was it 'I’m broken'? 'I don’t belong'? 'Everyone will judge me'? Notice the narrative.)

Write your answer.

4. What’s one gentle truth you can remind yourself of instead?

(Something like: 'I’m allowed to move at my own pace.' Or, 'Wanting connection is brave too.')

Write your answer.

5. If you could give yourself permission to grow slowly… what might that look like?

(A tiny next step? Or simply resting where I am, without shame?)

Write your answer.

You’re not weak for hesitating. You’re human. And you’re healing. Your moment will arrive, when you’re ready.

Final Thought

Sometimes, courage doesn’t look like showing up. It looks like telling the truth — even if that truth is, “I’m not ready yet.”

We spend so much of our lives measuring progress by what people can see. The job. The relationship. The friends. The parties. The smiling pictures.

But healing — real, messy, honest healing — happens in the unseen spaces.

It happens in the quiet moments behind closed doors. It happens when you want to belong… but you stay where you are, because pushing yourself too soon only deepens the wounds.

It happens when you notice the fear… and instead of shaming yourself, you meet it with compassion.

The world may not understand that kind of progress. But I do.

And if you’ve read this far, I think you do too.

You’re not broken because the door feels heavy. You’re not failing because the window feels safer.

You’re human. You’re healing. And every time you tell the truth — to yourself, or to someone else — that’s a step forward.

Whether anyone else sees it, or not.

You’ll get there, when you’re ready. And when you do… the world will still be waiting.

And when that day comes… it won’t matter how long it took. It won’t matter how many times you hid, or how heavy the door used to feel.

What will matter is that you made it, on your timetable... and now… you’re ready to go help somebody else.

That’s all any of us can ever really ask for… and it’s all anybody ever really needs.

She wasn’t listening

“You’re not listening to me,” I said for the third time.

And to my utter dismay, she continued to talk right over me.

I was trying to explain that this issue I’d brought before her was one of the biggest problems I’ll ever tackle in my life! And she acted like she was just trying to sweep it under the rug.

I could feel myself starting to get angry. I could not believe she wasn’t even trying to hear me out!

I wanted to yell, “What is wrong with you?!” But I knew it wouldn’t help. She was making me crazy though… so rude… so arrogant… so disrespectful…

So unexpected from a VA therapist.

It was our third session, and she opened up by asking me how my week had gone, and had I done the homework we discussed last week.

I told her I didn’t get a chance because I’ve been dealing with the emotional fallout of finally removing Carrie from my life, and letting go of any thoughts, hopes, or horribly misguided dreams, of ever being reunited with the girl I’ve been mad about for more than 30 years.

And she acted as if I just told her my next-door neighbor was playing their music too loud.

I explained that I spent the first half of the week frantically trying to avoid the pain I knew was coming, and the second half lying in bed, sobbing uncontrollably, totally relieved to finally be letting go, yet at the same time totally hating myself for waiting so long…

I told her I’ve been trying to get to this point for years, and it’s finally happening and I just need help to work through it all, so that I can get back on track with the skills and techniques she wants to teach me for emotional regulation…

And all she could say in return was,

“Well what are you gonna do the next time something happens that derails you? We can’t allow our emotions to dictate all our actions, you know.”

Pushed aside so she could push her agenda

This therapist showed me zero compassion.

Zero empathy.

Zero listening skills.

No indication at all that she was even attempting to understand the depth or the breadth of what I was telling her — of what I was going through, and what it must mean for me…

Or how essential it is for me to be able to talk about it, and finally put all the pieces in the right perspective so I can let go of Carrie and move into a brave new life that doesn’t include her… but does include space in my heart for somebody new… if and when…

I told her this is the single biggest problem of my life, and I’ve been avoiding it since I was 18, and I never believed I could ever let Carrie go but now I have! And now it’s creating room in my life to finally grieve the relationship… to finally wallow, and cry, and hurt, and long, and wish, and dream…

To finally allow myself to feel all the big, scary emotions I’ve been running from, exactly because I know that once they do show up in my life, I won’t be strong enough to face it all on my own…

And she told me we have to stay focused on “the reason we’re here in session.”

Talk about a slap in the face.

This isn’t what healing is supposed to look like

We were barely ten minutes into our session, and she’d already lost complete control, and violated and betrayed my trust. There was no way I could keep talking to her, and expect her to be willing, or able, to give me the help I needed.

She wasn’t listening to me at all.

She didn’t even try to hear my side of things. She was too busy pushing her own agenda, trying to force me into the right size box for where she thinks I’m supposed to be in my healing, based on two prior sessions where she did most of the talking and hardly heard me at all.

I finished telling her how my decision to let Carrie go had impacted my week, and the first thing she said back to me was, “You were going to go to the Windmill Museum over the weekend, remember? What happened?”

What happened?

What happened?

Didn’t I just tell you what happened?

Seriously… how can a fully trained, licensed, VA-hired, professional mental health therapist… be that blind and deaf, that she doesn’t understand “what happened” to stop me from going to the Windmill Museum while I was in the middle of the worst meltdown I’ve seen since before I even moved to Lubbock, two and a half years ago?

The moment I knew we weren’t going to work

She wouldn’t hear me. She refused to listen. I knew what I was telling her was true. I knew it was the good stuff, that’s going to open up all kinds of new possibilities, if she would just help me work through it.

And it wasn’t as if she “just didn’t get it.” She knew I was hurting. And she straight up refused to get it.

Refused to let me in.

Refused to acknowledge that I was in such emotional pain, and I needed that to be addressed first, before I could think about the Windmill Museum… or about any of the homework she had assigned me.

She didn’t even care. Didn’t even try to make it look like she wanted to help me.

Which, I could’ve overlooked, if it’d only happened once or twice. I’m a pretty patient man, and I know sometimes I don’t explain myself very well on the first attempt. So, in the beginning, it could have been my fault she wasn’t understanding me.

But I kept explaining myself… and each time, she became more intent on making me wrong, and making sure I understand why I’m wrong to let my emotions get the better of me, and prevent me from doing her stupid “homework.”

She literally asked me why I allowed this “little problem” to stop me from doing the things we’d agreed on the week before. Why I couldn’t just handle it, and push through, and start living the life I told her I want to live (and I do want to live a better life! But, I mean…)

She actually told me I was not displaying healthy behavior, by giving into my feelings and allowing myself to cry nonstop for two whole days after making the single most difficult, and important, decision, I’ll ever make in my adult life.

She wouldn’t even admit that I had room to wallow — not even for a minute — despite the fact I’d been holding all of this in for 30 long, lonely, horrible years… and in all that time, I never believed I’d ever let Carrie go.

Letting go of her wasn’t just a decision — it was the end of an era. The end of a hope I’d kept alive since I was a teenager. It felt like losing a part of myself, like saying goodbye to the version of me who still believed in that one impossible dream.

And now it was finally here, and it hurt like nothing I can describe. And I needed time to mourn.

And my therapist, of all people, had the nerve to tell me I was doing it wrong.

The only question she asked, that had anything to do with how I was feeling that week, was,

“What are you going to do the next time this happens, and these feelings make you want to go lay in bed for two days and cry, and ignore the rest of the world and ignore your other goals and dreams?”

Apparently, “Lay in bed and cry it out,” was not what she wanted to hear.

Why I had to let her go

Look…

I know I can be difficult sometimes.

I know sometimes, I put walls up when that’s not the right response.

I know sometimes, I just get frustrated or overwhelmed, and just want the conversation to be over, because we’re about to touch on things I’m not ready to talk about yet.

But this was my therapist, actively making me wrong for having an emotional crisis that turned my entire week upside down, and stopped me from going out and doing one thing I’d told her I was going to do.

And maybe at some point, it’s appropriate to ask me why I didn’t go do that thing, and what I can do differently next time, to achieve the goal and show myself that I’m ready to move forward.

But maybe there’s more than one definition of what it means to be moving forward.

Maybe letting go of Carrie, and putting everything else on hold for a couple days, to let myself get all those emotions out… is also moving forward. Just not in the direction my therapist was looking for.

Maybe I actually know what I’m talking about.

Maybe my own intuition is greater than any homework a therapist can assign.

Maybe I know when it’s time to stop, and get things out, rather than to think I can soldier on when I know things are getting ready to fall apart again.

And maybe while things are falling apart, is not the time to tell somebody that they’re doing everything wrong.

Maybe that’s the time for you to slow down, and hear that person out, and understand what it is they’re telling you, and show some actual compassion for the fact that they’re dealing with something you’re not even mature enough to comprehend…

But that you’re still willing to give them space to explore, to uncover, to reintegrate all those old hurt feelings, into a new and better version of who they were, and who they want to become.

That’s what I was looking for, in our third session.

I had finally had the biggest breakthrough of my life! And I was anxious to share that with my therapist, with the person whose job it is to listen to me, to understand me, and to help me make sense of things so I can start moving forward again…

And she was talking over me, invalidating my feelings, ignoring my struggle… making me wrong for giving a voice to the thing I’ve been fighting to avoid, my whole life…

So I fired her.

I told her it’s clear that we’re not hearing each other, and she’s not interested in giving me the help I need, so there’s no sense in us continuing to work together. And I ended that session and I’m not looking back.

And you know what?

I can’t remember the last time I was so proud of myself, for having enough self-respect to recognize when someone’s invalidating me, and to put an end to it, right then and there.

She actually looked offended that I would dare to interrupt her while she was talking. And when I told her we were done, her jaw dropped.

I honestly think she doesn’t even know she’d done anything wrong. There was no apology. No attempt to straighten things out. No, “Wait, help me understand why you don’t feel seen right now.”

Just a blank look that said she couldn’t believe I thought she wasn’t helping me.

It’s funny, in a way: my own therapist didn’t want to hear about my feelings; she just wanted to tell me all the ways I need to ignore them so I can finally live a happy life.

Like… how does that even fit within the scope of therapy? In what modality do they teach you not to listen to your patient, but to dismiss their feelings as unimportant, ignore their problems, and question their own ability to know what they need in order to heal?

It just doesn’t make sense.

I know not all therapists are like this

I’ve had other therapists, in the last 10 years, besides her. One was clearly new to the profession, and kind of clumsy in his approach. One kind of just talked in circles, and didn’t really give me much to work with in between sessions.

One was really cute and encouraging — which, I know, cuteness is not a factor one should consider when looking for a therapist, but in this one instance the fact that I had a crush actually worked to my advantage. Because I cared about her opinion and wanted to make her proud of me, I was willing to work hard to resolve some of my issues, and to show her (and me) that I was capable of real, lasting change, after all.

One was just totally chill. I could tell her anything. She was so down to earth, encouraging, understanding, supportive, intuitive. She’s the one who helped me find the courage to move to Lubbock, to get out of Mom and Dad’s house and trust myself, and God, to get me through anything.

Without her help, my whole story would be totally different today.

One — another VA therapist — also showed zero compassion or empathy. She did help me a lot, though. But I don’t know if it’s right to say she helped me, or if it was just the EMDR that helped.

She did tell me, the first time I admitted I was having suicidal thoughts, that they weren’t that severe and that, “You’re not suicidal. You just need to go home and rest.” So, that’s a big red mark against her, I’d say.

None of them ever made me wrong, though, for coming to them with a serious problem, and expecting them to hear me out and to offer real help that will let me solve it.

I already know what I need — I just wanted my therapist to help me get it

Even in our first two sessions, this therapist kept giving me advice that was the exact opposite of what I’d just told her I wanted. I told her I want to find a way to earn an income through my writing, and she said I should apply to be a VA peer support specialist, because then I’d have a full-time job and I’d have purpose and direction, and a reason to get out of bed every morning.

Like, okay… but I just told you I want to make money from my writing, and your response was to tell me to get a job.

Her responses to my other goals were the same.

My favorite though: she told me she wants me to do this exercise to help identify my top 5 values, so she’s going to mail me these “values cards” for me to go through and pick out what matters most.

I answered her, “My top 5 values are faith, family, personal development, finances, and making sure I get adequate rest.”

And she literally said, “That’s great but we need to find 5 values that are on the list.”

Um… no.

Just, no.

I know what my values are. I’m almost 50. They’re not going to change because you have a list of “better options” for me to choose from.

But she was so intent on her own agenda, she never once heard the things I was telling her.

She wasn’t helping me. And if I’d stayed with her beyond that third session, she would’ve started hurting me. She would’ve convinced me, most likely, to compromise my own values, and to think I’m supposed to do what she wants me to do, or I’m failing at therapy, and I’ll never get any better…

And I won’t tolerate that, anymore. Not from my therapist, or from anybody I rely on.

I know what I stand for. I know what direction I want to go in.

And I know I need help to get there.

But this therapist was trying to take me in a whole different direction. And if I hadn’t spoken up, if I’d kept silent and just tried to go along, I wouldn’t be honoring my own intuition…

And I wouldn’t be healing. I would be stuck in a pattern of appeasing. And that wouldn’t do anybody any good, at all.

So I did what I had to, to maintain my own forward momentum… and my integrity.

Have you ever had to fire a therapist — or stayed too long with one who didn’t listen? I’d love to hear your story. You don’t have to explain or justify it. Just share what’s real.

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How to reclaim emotional authority (when no one’s listening)

You don’t need anyone else to validate your pain before it counts. You don’t need permission to grieve what mattered to you. You don’t need a checklist to prove that your breakthrough was real.

What you need — and what this toolkit helps you reclaim — is your ability to trust yourself, even when someone in a position of power tries to dismiss, redirect, or override what you know is true.

Step 1: Name what’s really happening

Before you start questioning your own reactions, ask:
What part of me is asking to be heard right now?

Sometimes your pain isn’t just about the current moment — it’s an echo. A younger version of you is speaking up. Don’t rush to fix it. Just acknowledge it. Say what’s true, even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts.

You’re not being dramatic. You’re being honest.

Step 2: Pay attention to the power dynamic

Notice how the other person is responding — not just to your words, but to your vulnerability.

Are they making space for your truth? Or are they trying to move past it, minimize it, or solve it too quickly?

When someone talks over your emotions instead of through them with you, that’s not guidance — it’s control.

Step 3: Let your body vote

If you’re feeling confused, disoriented, or ashamed during a conversation, slow down and tune in. What’s your body trying to tell you?

Do you feel tight? Defensive? Like you want to shrink or disappear? That’s your nervous system waving a red flag. Don’t ignore it.

If something feels “off,” it probably is. You don’t need a diagnosis to trust your gut.

Step 4: Remember — emotion is movement

Grief, anger, longing, shame… none of these are signs you’re broken. They’re signs you’re in motion.

And motion means progress — even if it’s messy.

Feeling deeply is not a setback. It’s part of becoming someone new.

Step 5: Take back the pen

When someone tries to rewrite your story, you don’t have to hand them the pen.

You get to decide how this chapter ends. You get to decide what healing looks like — and what kind of help actually helps.

You are not hard to help. You just need the kind of help that honors where you really are.

Self-reflection: practicing your voice

There’s no perfect way to stand up for yourself — especially when you’re hurting.

This isn’t about crafting the “right” comeback or the most elegant boundary. It’s about giving yourself permission to speak, even if your voice shakes.

Even if it comes out messy. Even if it’s just for you, on the page, for now.

Let these questions help you begin:

1. If someone dismissed your pain or rushed you past your feelings, what’s one sentence you wish you had the courage to say in that moment?

(Write it. Don’t overthink it. Let it be messy or fierce or sad — just let it be real.)

Write your answer.

2. Think of a time when someone made you feel unheard or unseen. What would you say to them now, if you could speak freely — without fear or apology?

Write your answer.

3. What does your pain need to hear from someone safe?

(If nobody else will say it… write it down now, in your own words.)

Write your answer.

4. What words or phrases make you feel strong, clear, and self-connected — even when someone else is trying to talk over you?

(Write 2–3 sentences you can practice using in future conversations.)

Write your answer.

Your voice doesn’t have to be polished. It just has to be yours.

Keep writing. Keep speaking. You’re allowed to take up space.

Final Thought

There comes a moment in every healing journey when you realize: you’re not the broken one in the room — you’re just the one finally telling the truth.

And sometimes the bravest thing you can do in that moment is walk away from the people who were never ready to hear it.

You don’t owe anyone a quieter version of your pain. You don’t have to shrink your grief to fit someone else’s framework.

And you don’t need a therapist — or anyone — to give you permission to feel what you feel.

Your emotions are not the enemy. They’re the evidence that you’re still here — still trying — still becoming.

So trust what you know. Speak what you feel.

And if the room can’t hold all of you?

Find a new room.

Part 1: What I’ve been avoiding

I’m staring at the cabinet in my living room, its contents spread out on the floor in front of me. I have letters in there. Old, unopened letters. Some of them more than a year old. I have this thing about not wanting to open the mail and read bad news… so I normally just put it all in the cabinet for safekeeping.

I have books in there, that I bought, and didn’t have room for on my bookshelf. I cram them into the cabinet, wherever they’ll fit.

I have empty spiral notebooks and journals, waiting to be used… and deep, in the inner recesses — a weekly planner. (Which I should start using, because my current planning system is to hope that I remember each day, what I’m supposed to do, and when and where I’m supposed to do it.)

I have some light exercise equipment: a small step and a stretch band, that I forget to use when I want to feel light and limber. And I have this weird, sort of half-moon shaped corkboard that’s supposed to heal my feet and correct my posture. Maybe someday I’ll take it out of the box and try it out.

I used to have a cheap set of tuning forks, each one set to vibrate a different chakra… but I’ve had that in there since last summer, and not used it once. So I’m giving that to Goodwill.

Behind the second cabinet door, there’s a ball of yarn, some scissors, more empty notebooks, and maybe a hundred or so loose leaf, handwritten pages. Some of them are old journal entries; some are hastily scribbled notes that I can no longer decipher; some are meal plans or weekly goals that I’d intended to follow.

Some are from unfinished brainstorming sessions — things I wrote down because I don’t want to forget them… and then, having written it down, I put it away in the cabinet, and promptly forgot it.

I have a jaw exerciser that’s supposed to give me sexy cheeks, or something. I bought it because it helps exercise the head and neck muscles, and my neck is always bothering me. But apparently, it only works if you remember to use it each day.

I have a couple of card decks - flash cards basically, that all deal with different therapy modalities.

I want to be using the cards to help me explore different concepts and modalities, and understand how these different therapies work together, but it always feels like such a chore to even grab one deck and just casually flip through the cards. I just can’t bring myself to do it. It’s too much effort, for too much unknown return.

Part 2: Dreams that don’t fit anymore

I have a Griswold cast iron patty mold box set, for making some kind of deep-fried dessert that must’ve just been the bee’s knees in the 1940s or ‘50s… I bought it off eBay when I was still living with Mom and Dad, and thinking I was going to get into the cast iron restoration business.

I thought for sure I would’ve got that patty mold out at least once by now. Just to try it…

Maybe I’ll just keep it anyway, and use it as home decor. The box is pretty fun, itself. Pretty nostalgic. Not for me so much, because I never had anything like that, growing up. But I mean it’s got that classic vintage look, right? It’s just… really cool.

(Is it enough to keep something, just because I think it’s really cool? I feel like that’s enough of a reason for me.)

What’s not so cool is the boxes in my walk-in closet, full of more than a hundred cast iron skillets, muffin pans, corn bread pans, and trivets of all shapes and sizes, all waiting to be sold on my Etsy — after I finish stripping and reseasoning them all.

Which… I stripped them all down to bare iron, before I left Mom and Dad’s… but by now they’ve all got surface rust that would need to be removed… and then need to be reseasoned… and then need to be listed, packaged, and made ready for sell… and then, if anyone is actually willing to drop a couple of hundred dollars each for 1940s and ‘50s cast iron…

Then, I need to figure out how to get the packages shipped, when I don’t have my own car or any reliable way to get them to the post office, or the UPS store, or wherever…

Plus, I don’t even have the right size boxes I need, to ship the individual pieces… and I haven’t done the work to determine how many boxes I need, or what sizes, or where to order them all from… or anything.

Those pieces have been in my closet since the day I moved in, two and a half years ago. At this point, probably the smartest move is to just try and sell it all locally, for whatever price I can get, to whoever will come to my apartment and take all the boxes out. I’ll never get back the $6,000 or so that I spent on it all… but at least I could get it out of my life, and whoever does buy it could eventually get those pieces out in other people’s kitchens, being used and appreciated instead of sitting in a cardboard box in a walk-in closet in the middle of nowhere, West Texas.

And anyway, stripping and reseasoning cast iron is hard, heavy work, that my fibromyalgia really doesn’t tolerate well. It leaves me so drained, I’m unable to do the things I really want to do, like write my newsletter, grow my veterans community, or even play the piano. Cleaning cast iron makes my arms and back just hurt too much, to be able to do anything else.

So it’s probably time I let go of the dream of being a world-renowned cast iron cookware restoration specialist and sharing all my knowledge of the history and showing people how to get the most out of their cookware! Especially when I barely know how to cook with it myself.

Food gets stuck all the time, and it’s often undercooked (even though I swear I preheated the pan!) So considering my appalling lack of expertise… and the way it drains my body and leaves me in more pain, not less… I probably need to let it go so I can work on other, more important things.

If it was up to me, I’d rather devote that time and energy to playing the piano. (Or harmonica, if I can get over the worry that harmonica will be too loud and will offend my downstairs neighbors.) But that’s for another day.

Part 3: I should’ve just bought a digital piano in the first place

To the left of my cabinet is the cigar box guitar I built, back when I was trying to restore a hundred-year-old upright piano in my parents’ garage. Working on that piano was so rewarding! It fueled my passion, for music, and for woodworking.

But as a pastime, it quickly became too expensive and required too much expert knowledge… and I barely had novice knowledge of what I was doing. I had to refer to books and to the Internet, and occasionally, call on a local piano tuner to come advise me.

It was fun, and I learned a lot throughout the process. But the biggest thing I learned was that I’m not cut out to be a piano tuner — or to work in piano restoration. It’s too physically demanding, and I’m just not willing to put in the time required, to master all the needed skills.

I was proud of myself for making the attempt. And other people were always impressed when they found out what I was up to.

But I just couldn’t see myself making a living at it… so I let the dream go, and I let the piano go to another family at church, and ultimately replaced it with a digital Yamaha piano. Which, maybe I should’ve just gone that route in the beginning, and saved the trouble, because all I really wanna do on the piano is play it, anyway.

But I think there are other valuable lessons that “learning to be a piano tuner” taught me. So I don’t think it was a total waste; it just wasn’t something I was destined to do for very long.

Compared to restoring an old, upright piano… building a working cigar box guitar was far easier, and much more satisfying.

I don’t play the guitar, though. I just keep it to remind myself of my creative genius, and how much I love learning and experimenting, and exploring things that are way out there in left field… for no other reason than it just tickles my fancy.

I just need to be a bit more selective in the future, because I don’t have nearly enough time, or money, to continuously throw myself into brand-new fields that I’ve never explored before. Oh, but if I could…

Part 4: What I show the outside world

I’m frustrated with the current state of the inner contents of my cabinet. The mess, the clutter, the disarray. The fact that I have unopened letters that are more than a year old! (Tasks like “open the mail” are why I really need to get married… so someone else can take care of it for me.)

I hate the insides — but I’m quite content with the outside appearance, particularly the mementos I’ve placed on top.

The cowbell was my nephew’s when he was about six years old. He played it in a school recital, and was the star of the show. (According to me.) He outgrew it in high school, and was going to throw it out, so I took it from him.

He lived with me and his grandparents for almost seven years, and he was my best friend and playmate when I didn’t have anybody else in my life. He depended on me to be there for him, to give him my time and attention, and to be a positive role model in his life.

I was trying to fade into oblivion, and I didn’t want anybody around. But I couldn’t say no to a kid who didn’t have anybody but me. The bond we formed in those seven years kept me alive when I really thought I didn’t want to be, anymore.

The train cars are from my dad’s model railroad when he was a kid. Me and my brothers used to play with them when we were kids, and me and my nephew played with them when he lived at grandpa’s house.

The photograph is from my grandparents’ wedding. I lived with Grandma for the last two years of her life. I took care of her at the end, so she wouldn’t have to go into a nursing home.

I’ve never missed anyone the way I miss my grandma.

The typewriter is my mom’s. I’ve never used it, and never will. (I’m not the type of writer who thinks it’s hip to use analog technology… or that typewriters sound more “romantic” when you strike the keys.) I have it, though, because I’m a writer, and because it reminds me that creativity, self-reflection, and inquisitiveness, run in my family.

The Book of Mormon and the “Be Still” sign remind me to keep my focus on God. I know He played a key role in getting me approved for disability, and preparing the path for me to move to Lubbock, and to flourish and thrive once I got here.

The monk studying at his little table reminds me to respect other people’s beliefs, and to maintain an open mind and honor other paths than just the one I’m choosing for myself.

The Donald Duck book? That’s another eBay find. I haven’t even read it; I bought it solely because I like the idea of being lazy. And because with PTSD and fibromyalgia, I need to remember to get adequate rest each day, or I can quickly become incapacitated for days or weeks on end.

The whole top of the cabinet tells the truth about who I am — what I love, what I miss, what I believe in. It’s full of life and intention.

Part 5: The truth, and the ugly, messy insides

But inside?

Inside, it’s a God-awful mess: unfinished projects, forgotten tools, abandoned dreams; things I don’t want; things I forgot I had; things I wish I would remember to use… but don’t.

Kind of like my heavy, broken heart, the insides of the cabinet remind me of what happens when we accumulate grudges, regrets, hurt feelings, sorrow, and sadness… and don’t ever take them out to examine them and to discard the parts that are no longer serving us… the parts we no longer need.

The parts we show to the world — and the parts we don’t. The sacred, and the scattered. The order, and the disarray.

But maybe the mess in my heart isn’t the disaster I’m making it out to be.

Maybe it’s just evidence that I’m sorting through what no longer fits, so I can make room for what might. And maybe that’s all I need to do right now: keep sorting, and keep making room for what might be waiting, just around the corner.

What about you? What are you still holding onto?

And what might become possible if you finally let it go?

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The Sorting Table

A 5-Step Practice for Letting Go Without Shame

When life feels cluttered — not just your space, but your story — it’s easy to freeze.

You don’t know what to keep. You don’t know what to toss. You just know it’s too much.

This practice isn’t about getting rid of everything. It’s about getting honest — with what you’ve outgrown, what you’re still carrying, and what you’re finally ready to make space for.

You don’t have to rush. You just have to sit down at the sorting table — and begin.

Step 1: Name What’s in Front of You

Pick one thing — physical or emotional — that’s been sitting in your “cabinet.” Maybe it’s a project. A plan. A habit. A role you’ve been playing.

Write it down.

Prompt: What am I holding onto right now that feels unresolved, unfinished, or like a weight I haven’t questioned?

Step 2: Name the Season It Belonged To

Everything had a reason. Even the weird stuff.

What version of you needed this? What season of life did it belong to?

Prompt: When and why did I first hold onto this? Who was I back then?

Step 3: Get Honest About What It’s Costing You

Even good things can become too heavy.

If it’s still in your life — what is it costing you to keep it?

Prompt: What toll is this taking on my energy, space, time, or self-trust?

Step 4: Choose What to Do With It

You don’t have to “get rid of” everything. You can archive it, reimagine it, donate it, or finally let it go.

But make a choice — one that honors who you are now.

Prompt: Does this still belong in my life — or am I ready to let it go?

Step 5: Make Room for What’s Coming

Letting go isn’t the end. It’s the clearing.

Now that you’ve made space — even just a little — ask yourself what kind of life, practice, or joy might be able to enter.

Prompt: What do I want to make room for now?

Self-Reflection Worksheet: What Are You Still Carrying?

Some things we keep out of habit. Some because they once made us feel safe.

Some because we’re scared of what it might mean to let them go.

This week, don’t just look at the clutter. Look at what it says about who you used to be — and who you’re becoming now.

Sit with these questions. No pressure to answer them all. Just start where something stirs.

1. What’s something in your life that looks like it belongs — but deep down, you know it doesn’t anymore?

Write your answer:

2. What part of your identity was wrapped up in this thing, this habit, this role, this dream?

Write your answer:

3. What do you want your life to feel like — and what are you still holding that gets in the way?

Write your answer:

4. What fear or story has been keeping you from letting go?

Write your answer:

5. If you let it go, what would you be making space for?

Write your answer:

Final Thought

You don’t have to have it all figured out.

You don’t have to clean the whole cabinet.

You don’t even have to know what you’re making space for yet.

All you have to do is begin,

with one drawer,

one old dream,

one honest moment.

Letting go isn’t weakness.

It’s how we make room for the next version of ourselves to arrive.

Keep sorting.

Keep becoming.

You’re doing better than you think.

My friend Amanda might have cancer.

Might.

That’s such a heavy word, all of a sudden.

She’s 40 years old. Single mom of 2. Recovered addict. Her husband walked out on her so he could move in with a stripper. Her cousins pick on her and probably call her names behind her back.

Her whole life, she’s been dumped on by the people closest to her. She left home at 14, and got taken advantage of by men who should’ve known better.

Her mother has her convinced that nobody cares about her. That she’ll never do anything right.

Most of her childhood friends have abandoned her. Some have forgotten her. Some outright despise her.

Some still come around, though, but more often than not, it’s not to check on her — it’s to try and get something from her.

Her grandmother adores her, though.

She maybe doesn’t always know how to show it, but grandma thinks she’s the best one in the whole family. The most kind, most loving, most aware, most likely to leave a lasting legacy. If she doesn’t die first from cancer.

When I first met her, I almost wrote her off, myself.

She was just so weird… and she had so many problems that I couldn’t even relate to… and she just talked all the time…

The first time we ever video chatted, she talked for three hours. And I almost didn’t let her in, at first… but after three hours of conversation, yeah, she was starting to grow on me.

What’s weird is that, at the start of that call, she presented as shy, and withdrawn — skittish, almost. She was like this caricature, this scared, confused, frightened, beat down little girl, trying to survive in an adult body but still stuck in a teenage mind.

She looked like if I said the wrong word, she’d curl up in a ball and cry for her mama — and I’d feel like the biggest bully to ever enter her life.

She scared me a little, with how scatter-brained she seemed.

It felt like it was all she could do to just have a conversation, without descending into utter and complete madness.

In short, she was my mirror image.

Outside of my family, she was the first person I’d spoken to in probably seven years. And I was every bit as scared, confused, frightened, and skittish, as she was. I was just better at covering it all up.

That first time we spoke, I don’t honestly know who was more afraid: her, or me.

I’d been withdrawn and isolated for so long, I was honestly afraid to just talk to another person. Afraid of how she would see me. Afraid of what might go wrong, if I accidentally said something ridiculously stupid.

Afraid that, on seeing me, and speaking with me through video instead of just text… she would decide that I was as big of a loser as I’d already convinced myself I was.

And yet, despite the fear, and the awkwardness of it all… and both of us being so worried about what the other person was going to think…

We talked that first time, for three hours straight.

I guess we both had a lot we’d been waiting to share with somebody.

I went into that video chat wanting to protect myself from possible harm, or rejection. I believed I was such a mess that, if I ever talked to anybody — really talked, about things that truly, deeply matter — I would give myself away from the beginning, as a total nobody. I was afraid I’d say one wrong thing and that would be the end of everything between us.

All my walls were up, and I went into it looking for any possible reason I could find to disqualify her as a potential friend… so that if one of us was going to get hurt, at least it wouldn’t be me.

I was critical of her every word… every look… every facial expression.

She was so incredibly weird…

But behind all the weirdness, the shyness, the awkwardness of that first call…

When it came to finally hang up, I didn’t want to stop talking to her.

And since that day, roughly two years ago now…

She has become the best friend I’ve ever had since middle school… and I never want to stop talking to her.

We talk, now, for hours on end, almost every week. We text each other a hundred thousand times a day. We share all our secrets. We cry, we laugh, we fight, we make up.

And now…

She might die.

I might be months — maybe a few short years — away from losing the best friend I never knew I needed, and it’s not fair to our friendship to have to face the real possibility, so soon, that she might be taken away and it’s not either of our fault, but still there’s nothing anybody can do about it.

I need Amanda in my life.

I’ll be lost without her.

Every time we talk, it’s like the whole world disappears into the background, and all that exists is me, Amanda, and our friendship. Our love for each other. Our mutual respect, support, and encouragement.

When I’m talking to her, time itself stands still. Everything fades away, and our beauty is all that remains.

We’ve helped each other through so many things in the past two years. I wouldn’t be who I am today, if I didn’t have her to talk to. She always meets me exactly where I am, where I need her to, so that she can help guide me through the storm… and help me find my own answers to my own problems, so that I can finally start moving forward again.

After 30 years of keeping everything to myself, and letting nobody into my own inner circle, Amanda owns my secrets. Between her, Sara Jones, my therapist, and God… there’s nothing I haven’t revealed now, to somebody who can help me start to make sense of it all, and let go of the broken pieces that aren’t even mine to begin with, but that have kept me buried under so many failures and frustrations, and so much disappointment and devastation.

Because of her, I know, for the first time in my life, that I’m not going through it all alone. I will always have at least one person now, in my corner no matter what. One person who sees everything about me — and loves me exactly the way I am.

Even when we fight, I always want to love, honor, understand, and support her.

The one time we fought and I thought it was truly over, it was like I didn’t even know how to breathe anymore. Here I am, forty-eight years old, and all I could do for a week was lie in bed, listen to the Smiths, and stare at the empty wall in my bedroom and sob because I didn’t believe I would ever talk to her again.

I never want to go through that again, with her, or with anybody.

I flew to California to meet her last summer.

I won’t go outside my apartment except to go to church, or to take my walk… alone… away from anyone who could possibly get close to me…

And I flew to freakin’ California to meet her in person, and to spend a weekend together. She was so captivating, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Every moment we got to spend together felt like a miracle. It was like we were in our own little Hallmark movie, about to reach the happily ever after.

(Whatever that looks like for friends.)

I showed her Zorro, the Gay Blade, and I’ve never heard a woman laugh that hard or that loud. Sitting next to her, watching one of my favorite movies from my childhood, to this day is one of the happiest moments of my life.

And for the fourteen years I was stuck in Mom and Dad’s house, I never dreamed I could ever be happy again — not even for one small moment.

That weekend with Amanda saved my life.

I love her so, so much. I tell her all the time.

I wondered, at first, if we might be more than friends. But what we have is exactly what it's supposed to be. It doesn’t change the way I feel about her for one second. It doesn’t change the fact that I would drop everything for her, any time she needs me.

It doesn’t change the fact that I’m not ready for her to die.

And I know; I’m getting ahead of myself. She doesn’t have the cancer diagnosis, yet. But just the “maybe.”

Just that cloud, hanging over it all.

I don’t have any answers to this one. There are no insights. No lessons that I can offer, that make this easy at all.

Except this:

I’m a better man for knowing Amanda. Every interaction we have had, has taught me something essential to my own growth and happiness. If I had shut her out in the beginning… I wouldn’t be who I am today.

So you can bet your bottom dollar I’m not going to cut her out now, at the end. I’m gonna stay her friend, and stay in her life, and do every last thing that I can to love her and to learn from her, all the way until her very last breath.

Because that’s what true friendship is — refusing to let go, in spite of the fear and the pain and the awkwardness of it all.

That’s what I need more of in my life. And that’s the only thing that I know is always worth fighting for… and always worth holding onto.

My friend Amanda might have cancer.

But whether she does, or not, I’m not going to lose her friendship, ever.

She brought me back to life. I’m going to honor that, every day that we have left.

Whether that’s two years, or two hundred. (You never know with modern medicine.)

I hope that cancer doesn’t take her.

I don’t think it will. I don’t really have that feeling about it.

But it still makes me afraid, either way. And I feel like this is one of those times, where that’s the absolute right response. I am afraid she’ll be taken too soon.

But I’m not using that fear to push her away; I’m using it to hold her tighter in my heart than I even know how. And I think that’s what is going to get me through.

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When Someone You Love Might Not Make It

A Guide to Loving Through Uncertainty

The Weight of "Might"

That single word changes everything. Not "will" or "won't" - just "might." You're caught between preparing for loss and hoping for the best.

What you're feeling is normal:

• Anticipatory grief (mourning someone still alive)

• Emotional whiplash between hope and despair

• Urgency to say everything important right now

• Guilt for making their crisis about your feelings

The Art of Present-Moment Love

Stop Rehearsing Goodbye

Your mind wants to prepare for loss by imagining it repeatedly. This steals time from actually loving them today.

Instead of future-focused fear:

• "What will I do without them?"

• "How much time do we have left?"

Try present-focused love:

• "How can I love them well today?"

• "They're here with me right now"

Daily Choice

Every morning, consciously choose: Will I love them as if they're dying, or as if they're living?

Both acknowledge uncertainty, but only one lets you enjoy their presence.

Ways to Show Your Love

Small, Consistent Acts

• Text them something that made you think of them

• Share inside jokes and references to your history

• Ask about their day like you always have

• Make plans for next week, next month, next year

• Take photos during ordinary moments

The "Just Because" Letter

Write (but don't necessarily give) a letter expressing:

• What they mean to you

• Favorite memories you share

• Ways they've changed your life

Keep it for when you need to remember why this love is worth the risk.

Supporting Them Without Losing Yourself

What They Need From You

• Normalcy - continue being who you've always been

• Consistency - don't disappear because you're scared

• Space to feel - let them express fear without fixing it

• Future thinking - make plans assuming they'll be there

What You Need

• Permission to be scared

• Your own support system

• Professional help if needed

• Self-care to maintain your ability to help them

When You Want to Pull Away

Your fear whispers:

• "Distance yourself now to avoid future pain"

• "You're just making it harder on yourself"

Your love knows better:

• They need you most when things are uncertain

• The pain of loving and losing beats the pain of not loving at all

• You can handle whatever comes if you face it together

The Bottom Line

Loving someone who might not make it is one of the bravest things you can do. You're choosing vulnerability over safety, connection over protection.

Whether they have months or decades left, the love you're giving them today matters.

Keep showing up. Keep loving fully. Keep holding them close in your heart.

The possibility of loss doesn't diminish the value of love - it makes every moment more precious.

"The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief. But the pain of grief is only a shadow when compared with the pain of never risking love."

- Hilary Stanton Zunin

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Loving Through Uncertainty: A Self-Reflection Worksheet

Based on "My friend might have cancer" - A guide for navigating relationships when facing potential loss

Before You Begin

Find a quiet space where you won't be interrupted. This work might bring up difficult emotions - that's normal and okay. Be gentle with yourself as you explore these questions.

Take as much time as you need. Some questions might require coming back to later.

Part 1: Understanding Your Situation

1. Who in your life are you worried about losing, and what specific fears do you have about this potential loss?

Your answer:

2. Are you pulling away or drawing closer because of your fear? What's driving that response?

Your answer:

3. When you think about this person, what word comes up most often: "might," "will," or "won't"? How does that word make you feel?

Your answer:

Part 2: Your Love in Action

4. What's something you've been meaning to tell them but haven't yet? What's stopping you?

Your answer:

5. What ordinary moment with this person do you want to remember forever?

Your answer:

6. What's one small thing you can do today to show this person they matter to you?

Your answer:

Part 3: Moving Forward

7. What would change if you decided to love them as if they're living rather than as if they're dying?

Your answer:

8. How can you honor both your fear and your love without letting fear win?

Your answer:

9. Complete this sentence: "Even if the worst happens, I will never regret..."

Your answer:

Your Personal Mantra

Based on your reflections, write a personal statement you can return to when fear threatens to overshadow love:

When I'm scared of losing _________________, I will remember that _________________.

Today I choose to _________________ because _________________.

Quiet Reflection

Look back at your answers. What patterns do you notice? What surprised you? What feels most important to remember?

Your insights:

Remember: The goal isn't to eliminate fear - it's to love fully despite the fear. Every moment you choose presence over panic is a victory.

Final Thought

The hardest part about loving someone isn't the possibility that you might lose them. It's the realization that you almost lost them by never letting them in at all.

I almost wrote Amanda off after that first conversation. Too weird, too much baggage, too many problems I couldn't relate to. My walls were so high I was looking for any excuse to keep her out.

Thank God I didn't.

Because here's what I've learned: The people who scare us the most - the ones who mirror our own brokenness back to us - are often the ones we need most in our lives. They're the ones brave enough to show us that it's okay to be a mess and still be lovable.

Amanda might have cancer. That "might" hangs over everything now. But you know what doesn't hang in the balance? The choice to love her fully while I can.

The fear of loss will always whisper that it's safer to keep people at arm's length. That getting close just sets you up for heartbreak. That vulnerability is weakness.

Your love knows better.

Love anyway. Let them in anyway. Show up anyway.

Because the opposite of love isn't loss - it's never taking the risk in the first place.

And that's a tragedy no amount of safety can justify.