Growing up, I don’t remember having a special friend group, or even a single close friend from school.

In second grade, I remember all the girls in my grade seemed to be friends with each other, like there was some invisible bond between them all. Some kind of secret membership that made them all feel like a group, a unit, a sisterhood. 

I was on the outside, looking in.

I always felt like I was on the outside looking in. As much as I wanted to have friends and a group of people I could be myself with, I just didn’t quite fit in.

I envied Jasmin Harris. She was smart and tall and pretty and had a personality with some self-assurance. She seemed like she was happy and comfortable in herself, and also had lots of friends. 

I have a distinct, ironic memory of myself at 5 years old, a year before my world would be turned upside down when my parents would get divorced.

One evening, my mom, my dad, my two brothers, and I were in the Dodge minivan pulling back into our driveway from a family outing. Just then, I had an awe-inspiring realization that I just needed to share with everyone that exact moment, before we got out of the car and went back inside.

“Look!” I exclaimed, outstretching my hand, counting my fingers. “I have 5 letters in my name, J–O–L–I—E, I have 5 people in my family, and that’s how old I am, 5!”

I felt the same elation and pride in finding that simple pattern that I imagine an explorer must feel upon discovering a new continent.

I had no idea that just in a matter of months, counting to 5 would never be that easy again.

When you’re 9 years old, you have no idea the moments that you’ll remember for the rest of your life. The big ones, of course, but what about the seemingly insignificant ones that will potentially end up making a mark on the trajectory of your life? 

That’s the story I want to share about Mr. Antonoff, my Physical Education teacher from about 4th-6th grade, and how in just being himself and making me feel seen in the smallest way became a highlight of my day, and a dot that I can trace back to for how I structure my life even decades later.

I have a problem with passion. Passion is the spark. The explosion. The power. 

Passion is what thrusts a plane into the sky. It’s the lift of the bird's wings. It’s an unbridled horse, running wild and free. 

But passion alone is a plane with no wheels to land, a bird that never finds a perch. It’s a horse racing towards an abounding cliff. 

Everyone here is broken. Our bodies, that is. Broken and trying to heal. But it’s okay, it’s normalized. We’re safe here. There are wide aisles for all the wheelchairs, empty spots near the chairs so able-bodied loved ones can sit near those who are wheel-bound. There’s a feeling that we’re all survivors of something. We’re all dealing with some sort of pain, and you can see it on our bodies.

In 3rd grade, Ms. Muckleman helped me find a love for fitness, for drawing circles one half at a time, and made me feel seen and like someone believed in me. And to this day, I think of Ms. Muckleman, the art teacher who taught me so much more than art. Maybe the art of passion. The art of practice and dedication and believing in myself. Thank you, Ms. Muckleman.

Hey. 

You’re about to enter what could potentially be one of the hardest times of your life. I know it was for me. There will be constant doubts of where you fit in. Where you feel safe. Paddling as fast as you can just to keep your head above water. Just wanting a place you belong. 

Rejection stings extra hard because you haven’t had much time to develop a strong sense of self yet. So you’re gonna grasp for any attachment and attention you can get. It’s normal. You’re gonna have some bright ideas about outfits and hairstyles and things to say or do that you’ll think are True Brilliance. A decade from now, you’ll probably think differently about that and about a million other things. It’s okay. It happens to the best of us.

A year ago today, my dear friend Debi passed away from ALS. I met Debi about a year before she passed—she was my girlfriend-at-the-time’s mom. Our friendship grew even when me and her daughter broke up, and I was a caregiver for her along with her widower, Steve. ALS is an incurable disease that progressively shuts down your bodily functions while your mind stays totally intact.

Here are a few things I learned from that process of caring for her in hospice:

Until just a few years ago, I wouldn’t even introduce myself with my properly pronounced name because I didn’t want to make other people uncomfortable if they said it wrong.

I stayed in friendships with people who were being just plain mean and unkind to me.

Yea, I was a pretty intense people-pleaser. And very codependent. That translated into my romantic relationships, too, until I finally woke up and realized that I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I’ll share my story along with how I got through it, and what life is like for me now on the other side. My aim in sharing this is that my story can give you some hope if you or someone you love is also struggling.

A client recommended I see the movie The Founder—the story of how McDonalds came to be an internationally known fast-food chain. 

I’m glad I watched it. It definitely prompted some thoughts worth sharing.

I came out as a lesbian when I was 19. By then, I was a year into being clean and working a program of recovery. Being sober showed me that I’d hated myself the majority of my life, largely because I believed my sexuality was wrong, sinful, and abominable, and disgusting, and that I was all those things as a person, too. More than a decade later, I’m sharing my journey in how I came to accept myself and learn that there’s nothing worth sacrificing my authentic self for. And for you, dear reader, know that you are a beautiful human being, worthy of love and respect, regardless of your sexual identity. 

Rasberri had been taking care of both her mom and dad for the past 8 years as both of their healths were slowly declining. When her father passed, she had her mom with her at the funeral. Six months later, her mom died, and this time, she didn’t have either of her parents to help her go through the loss with.

Her mom was her best friend. People would even comment and call them twins, mistaking them for sisters. 

Luca,

I feel like you deserve a better momma than me. Because I feel like you deserve the best. That’s what my head tells me some days. Today was one of those. I know today is about you, not me, but man, I’m having a hard time here. 

I wanted to write you a song for your birthday, but I only got it half done. And I wanted to bake you a cake. But I just bought something from the barkery. And I wanted to go on a hike with you. But I knew you’d be limping in pain when we got back. And I wanted to take you anyway, just so I wouldn't feel so guilty for leaving you home on your birthday. But I didn’t. 

Dear Future Partner, 

I’ve been having really heavy dreams, lately. Nightmares. Sometimes I remember them, sometimes I’m just left with this vague fog, and it feels heavy. It’s like this huge emotional weight on my back that I can’t actually see, I just know that subconsciously, shit just went down. It’s like when you walk into a room where two people were just in the middle of a fight. You can just feel the tension in the air. Only it sticks with me all day.

It does get hard. I get lonely in some of those moments. I wish there was someone there to sleep next to, just to make sure I’m okay, someone to hold me through the night. Or someone I can hold onto, in those moments when I’m afraid. So I can keep myself from floating away.

And it's okay. I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m just saying, it’d be nice if you were already here, sometimes. It’d be easier. 

I was recently in NJ to spend a week with my friend Daniel who has prostate cancer. He’s also my sponsor, coach, mentor, and one of my closest friends.

Each morning we drove over an hour to his radiology appointment, grabbed some breakfast, maybe did some shopping, and came back home to recover and do it again the next day.

In each of those drives together, I kept wondering, how does someone face cancer and still be so full of life, hope, and joy? How do they not let it define them?

This was supposed to be a list of 100 but there was simply too much good stuff to try to condense it.

I feel like having a list like this actually makes the trip that much more real and tangible when I look back at it. It’s something I’ll probably continue for future trips. It’s those small moments that bring the experience back to life for me.

A list like this is a way I can bottle up those small, insignificant moments and jokes that brings the experience back to life for me. (Give it a try! And if you do, I’d love to see it.)

“Invite The Good In.”  That’s my phrase for 2023. 

When I say this, I picture a Sunday afternoon. It’s quiet, calm, and sunny. I’m standing on my porch, talking with a friend. And it’s one thing to have a nice conversation right there, on the porch. But it’s another thing to invite them inside: “Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

I don’t understand this concept of “waiting to meet the right person.” I’m sorry (well, not sorry), but I’m not sitting around waiting for you. I have a whole life to live. I’m not putting my life on pause just because you’re not here. 

And I hope you’re not on pause waiting for me either. Wait on me? For what? To experience beautiful things? To chase your dreams? To take a chance? 

Listen, I’m dying to go on an African safari. To see elephants and tigers and giraffes. I cry just looking at my friends’ photos of their trips. I’m not going to wait up on you for that. Why would I?

I went to a Wim Hof Breathing and Ice Bath Workshop this weekend.

It’s kind of funny when I think of the concept of going to a breathing workshop. Breath is what makes me alive, and yet no one ever specifically taught me how to do it. Or how to harness the power of it. How my breath can change the state of my mind and body. We tend to just assume from the moment you're born that you’re breathing, so you must be doing it right.

I’ll share my experience with the workshop, as well as some of the things I learned about Wim Hoff, the breathing method and sound bath we experienced (okay I can’t wait and I’ll tell you now–the sound bath was absolutely beautiful), and the experience of my first dunk into an ice bath (definitely stick around to the end–you’ll love the story behind that part!).

Here’s the best Valentine’s Day gift I ever got—it was a card I wrote to myself 3 years ago. I was going through the hardest time in my life. It was a really hard breakup, I’d just moved out of my house, and life felt upside down.

That was the beginning of my new journey of self-love. I realized I’d been relying on a relationship to fill a void and validate who I was. And it would never be enough, until I learned how to give myself that love first. Here’s my Valentine’s letter to myself, from 2020.