Listen To Her

When I met my ex husband, I was going to school for massage therapy and astrology. Both of those dreams fell to the wayside as I gave myself up to be a wife and mother. Over the course of my marriage, I lost myself, as many young mothers do. Women have an instinct to nurture, but sadly it is rare that we nurture ourselves.

That time in between announcing the divorce and actually moving out of the house, was one of the most stressful times of my life. That simultaneous push and pull, I could physically feel my heart breaking, my family being ripped apart. It had to happen. We were only ever together because of the baby. She was eight when I left. I had just broken her heart and her home. Her sister was too young to remember.

I was terrified. I had no idea who I was or where I was going. I had never been on my own before. I wanted to stay. I loved my family. But there was a voice in my head, whispering at first, and then screaming later on, that I needed to go. I was pushed out of my marriage from the inside. And for the very first time, I chose to listen to that voice. I now realize that voice belonged to my intuition. She makes all of my decisions now.

On my first weekend away from my daughters, after moving out, I went to a concert in a town about forty minutes north. A band was playing that I had never heard of, but I thought it would be good to meet up with old friends. That night was electric. I danced like a wild woman. I screamed ‘Rage Against The Machine’ songs out to an amazing cover band. I had my picture taken with sexy rock stars. I got drunk and lost my shoes.

A rainbow shot over the stage and I realized that I hadn’t felt like myself in so God damned long. That night, I captured a piece of the girl that I used to be, before I became a mom and a wife. I remember staring at the moon that night. It was shining bright in the sky, peppered with grey clouds. How significant that moment came to be. Looking back, I get chills at how beautifully orchestrated my life has been. The moon, that stage. Those two things would go on to change me in ways I never could have imagined.

It’s been seven years since I got divorced. What an amazing adventure it has been, learning to choose myself over and over again. I’ve learned the hard way, to honor myself. I now know that learning the hard way is the very best way to learn…because when it finally sinks in, you get it for life.

I honor myself now, above all else. And more importantly, I honor the experience of being myself. I honor my life. I honor my heart. And I honor my intuition. I’ve baptized myself in love so thick, that no one can hurt me now. And because of that, my life has taken me into a direction that has exceeded my wildest expectations.

My story has come full circle in so many ways. My life is proof of manifestation. The moon. The stage. The stars. The place that I now call home. My dreams are coming true. Even the big ones. I am now working as a massage therapist and professional astrologer. I’ve already accomplished what I once thought was impossible. And I am literally just getting started.

The most amazing thing that I’ve learned so far, is that it all comes down to realizing just how fucking powerful we truly are. I had the power inside of myself, all along. We all do.

If I could change just one thing about the world, it would be the way we see energy. We all have energy, we were born with it. It’s our connection to something bigger than ourselves. It’s more precious than gold. And once I learned this, I became very mindful of my own energy. I stopped giving it away.

I learned to correct my thoughts, as they would often wonder off into someone else’s thoughts. As an empath, my energy had mostly been spent on everyone except myself.

I learned to take all of the energy that I had focused on men, on friends, on chasing the many carrots that have been dangling just out of my reach for years and years. I started to focus that energy on my own happiness.

I didn’t cut people out of my life. I cut out the attention that I paid to them. I focused that attention on myself. It felt selfish, but it’s really not. It felt painful, but it was the healthiest thing I’ve ever done for myself.

I started to dig down deep, inside all of the layers of other people’s opinions. And I shed those opinions, like a dead old skin. The weight of anything out of my control had fallen off of my shoulders. I dug a little deeper into my own opinions, and I wrapped them in love.

Today, I am at one with the moon. She is my light in the darkness. She is love, and she lead me to my tribe. She lead me to myself. She is constant in her revolving cycles. I am too.

Today, I am helping to plan a Music festival that will take place on the very same stage that I visited all those years ago. A stage that is nestled in a beautiful little town, where I have found a new life, that fills me to the brim with hope and inspiration. Seven years ago, I would have never believed in this reality that I have created around myself. Today, I am proud of the life that I am living. I am proud of who I am.

And it has all been possible, because I listened to my heart. Even when I didn’t really trust myself, I listened to my intuition. Even when all the people around me stared in disappointment, I followed my guts. I am guided, not by my family, or my friends, or my boss, or society. I am guided by something bigger than myself. And that is the only thing I believe in. That is the only thing worth believing in.

I used to waste a lot of time worrying. I worried about the future. I worried about the past. Now I sit with contentment and I receive blessings as they flow into my life. I don’t hold onto them. You won’t find me clenching onto my dreams. I simply thank them for showing up, and I enjoy them while they’re with me.

I honor my life.



My identity crisis is really going the distance, this time around. I thought, for a moment, that I was ready to settle down and try my hand in love again. I hadn’t met anyone special, I just thought, for the first time in a long time, that I would like to.

About three days later, I had a very passionate one night stand with a guy who showed me something new. I’m an old dog. I didn’t think there were any more tricks left, that I hadn’t already experienced. Teaching me something new is a really good way to catch my attention.

I’ve been a hoe from the start. My virginity was lost in a one night stand. By the time I met the second guy, I was clawing blood from his back and choking him. My knees were gouged out from rug burns. All of this took place in front of an entire house full of drunken college students. I actually had someone tell me that story, not realizing that I was the main character. I felt no shame. That story is about a beautiful soul, claiming her power, inside of a beautiful body. I have an entire collection of stories like that. I regret nothing.

I have tried everything. Sex was always really crazy for me. A one night stand is an adventure for me, diving deep into the vulnerability of another person, while letting the wild woman inside of me come out for a night. I liked the energy of strange, it was exciting. I also spent eight years in a volatile, but loyal marriage. I discovered the deeper, more intimate side of sex. So I was certain that I had tried everything that I have ever wanted to try…until recently.

A few weeks ago, I tried something that I had never really wanted to try. While having wild, crazy, all-over-the-room sex with a man that I had just met, he was leaning over me with his fingers clenching a fist full of my hair. It wasn’t painful, just the right amount of tension. He was kissing me and touching me with his other hand. He whispered into my ear, “Do you trust me?” I nodded my head yes. Couldn’t speak with his teeth holding my bottom lip. And without further notice, he reached all the way inside me. He started thrusting, what felt like elbow deep inside of me. My fingers gouged at the side of his naked torso, as he leaned over me, thrusting away like he was working a machine. I screamed uncontrollably. I wasn’t so much screaming, as screaming was just happening. I had fallen out of my body for a moment and simply observed the entire spectacle, while howls fell out of my mouth. I had never experienced such euphoria in all of my life. It was like some sort of spiritual experience, that I never would have experienced, had he been specific in asking me what he wanted to do. I never would have agreed to let that man reach so far into my body, had I known ahead of time. But I am also glad that he didn’t ask. Because I did get to experience that very new trick. And I did enjoy it. It feels weird to me, that I felt so violated and so good at the same time. It was both pleasurable and painful.

And now I ask my partners to repeat that experience. I’m slightly obsessed with it. And that feels both shameful and beautiful to me. I feel like a freak and a queen. I suppose I am both.

And I wonder if a girl like me can ever settle down. Because now that I have experienced this, I have to wonder what else I might have been missing out on. And there it goes again, my fear of commitment, my fear of losing out on the sweet bliss of curiosity. I’m always wondering what’s behind the curtain of tomorrow…what’s on the other side of a boundary. I am terrified of monotony. And deep inside of that very same fear, is the very real fear, that I will never know love.

Jesus Christ. Who am I?

Bad Decisions

I don’t know if it’s the cold weather, the exhaustion from everything going on in my life, or another midlife crisis…but I’ve been making some deliriously fun, but bad decisions.

I spent last month with the looming cloud of a pregnancy scare that would have changed my life in so many ways. I would have lost my family over it. The past month has been an opportunity for me to really sit with that. And It hurt. More than I thought it would.

Usually, when difficult feelings start to bubble up, I would stuff them down and numb them with drugs and alcohol. Now, I use writing to sort it all out and bring my emotions up to the surface. I use these words to lure the heartache out of myself. But this time, I have had trouble putting these deeply ingrained emotions into words. I’ve been wrestling my own feelings constantly, and losing. This cave is a little too dark to travel through on my own.

So last night I drank a lot of wine. I smoked a lot of weed. I danced to beautiful music. And I brought a dude home from the bar. Not just any dude. A dude that is sixteen years younger than me. A dude that could technically have been my son. A dude that was surprisingly good in bed, considering his lack of experience. I didn’t have sex that good at 21. This guy had some skills. He didn’t look that young. He had a beard and long hair. He could have easily passed for 31, especially with my wine goggles.

This morning, on the awkward trip to drop him off at his parents house, where he still lives, because he delivers pizzas for a living…I realized that he is the son of a woman that I had worked with for several years. I remembered seeing his school pictures taped up on her cubicle wall. My ego exploded and imploded all at the same time. That was a plot twist I certainly didn’t expect.

I’ve got many miles into the walk of shame. But nothing could ever compare to dropping off the crazily kinky guy from the night before at his parent’s house and hoping that his mom doesn’t see or recognize me.

One would think that the initiation into the cougar club would feel less creepy. Such dirty words fell out of this young man’s mouth. I am both impressed and ashamed.

He asked if we should exchange phone numbers. I laughed and said, ‘No thank you, I am good.’ Not that I wouldn’t mind another round, he had wisdom beyond his years. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t know his mom.

My life is unpredictable, but never boring. And for that I am grateful.


I hear coyotes every single night. There’s nothing more primal than a pack of wild predators, screaming like banshees right under my bedroom window. The sound is not soothing like the howling of a wolf. The coyote’s voice is raw and screeching, eerily distressed. They are beastly lunatics on a murderous rampage. They are wild survivors, claiming rank in the food chain. They are hungry, just like me.

This haunting sound is my favorite part about living here in this old double wide trailer that I call home. In this place, I have grown wild, like the forest around me. I have embraced the sight of my own wilderness as it grows unruly and uncaged.

It was in this place, that the bit snapped out of my mouth and the reins fell away from my face. Finally, I had experienced the sweet taste of freedom, like marmalade on my tongue.

In this place, I found my shadow side. I did not shine a light on her. I simply laid myself down into her darkness and let her be exactly as she was. She needed to be seen and so I stared at her until my eyes fell asleep. When I woke up, she was dancing naked in the moonlight. She had never known love before, and so I loved her.

I hear the coyotes screaming, and I dance uncontrollably to the loud drumming, the sudden thump of my pounding heart. Sometimes, a little fear is the voltage needed to bring a dead heart back to life.

How precious are those moments when I can feel my own heartbeat echoing in the empty space around me. My breath grows rapidly out of reach. Those moments of amazement and adrenaline are the only moments that matter.

I never knew, until now, that screaming could be a reflex. The beautiful demon living deep down inside of me, laying dormant all of these years. She has risen up from the depths of shame and seclusion. Her howling had startled me at first. Now I long for the mirrors to shatter while she cries out. She is blood and voodoo honey. She is the kind of magic that I have been searching for.

My mouth will not hold a bit anymore. It just sings into the wind, sometimes spiraling like a barbaric tornado. Destruction is the only way out of confinement.

Now, even my skin has awakened. The change is slight and gentle, but I feel it still. Every hair on edge. This hunt for mattering moments might just kill me, but at least I will die free.

Forbidden Fruit

Racism is such a heavy topic in my life. I can’t remember the last time that I had a conversation with my dad that didn’t include racial slurs. I’ve been told since I was little that I would be banned from the family if I ever had a relationship with a black man. My sister was disowned for having a biracial child. My family is ridiculous.

So naturally, I am very, very attracted to black men. In fact, I have only dated one white guy in the past year. I dumped him because his lips were too thin. It was annoying to kiss a face with thin lips. Shallow, I know… But I like what I like. I’m not going to apologize for that.

I spent the night with a beautiful set of lips this past weekend. I can’t even begin to describe how sexy it was, watching the contrast of our bodies intertwine in the large mirror across from the bed. It almost feels like a fetish for me. Like, I don’t think that I could ever commit to a white guy, because I enjoy black men so much. It’s like the opposite of racism. And the fact that I pick men based on the color of their skin feels wrong. But again, I like what I like. And the black men that I’ve encountered don’t seem to mind at all. This guy was very happy to oblige.

He was holding my face, staring into my eyes, and kissing me. I was mystified by the intimacy of the moment, when he asked if he could put a little brown baby inside of me. I’m pretty sure my brain shorted out at that moment from the confusion of how that made me feel. First of all, that is a horrible idea. I know I recently decided that I was ready to fall in love again…but I am definitely not ready for that kind of commitment. And I don’t love this guy. I barely know him. At the same time, I don’t think that I have ever been more turned on in the history of my life. By the end of the night, I was practically begging him to put a little brown baby inside of me.

I really shouldn’t be allowed to make adult decisions, especially while a beautiful black man (and a lot of wine) is inside of me. I will anxiously be awaiting the start of my next period and hoping that my polycystic ovaries are still out of commission.

Lessons from 2017

1. I make a terrible whore. When 2017 came rolling in, I had planned on being single for the rest of my life. I have a promiscuous past, and I thought maybe I could get back to that way of living. I had it all figured out too. I would only sleep with the worst dudes, who could never capture my heart. Turns out, I can fall in love with fucking anyone. I will literally plan a future with the flea-ridden stray that humps my leg on a park bench. I’ve moved on to plan B.

2. Childhood trauma can’t be cured with wine or therapy. But it can be cured with weed and energy work. My friend and I have spent the past year, pulling invisible thorns out of each other’s backs. It has been the closest thing to a miracle that I have ever experienced.

3. I’m a lot more powerful than I ever thought I would be. This realization has helped to chip away at the concrete wall of anxiety that I have boxed myself in with. It has also allowed me to create my life rather than be a victim of it. I wrestled vulnerability to the ground and put that bitch in a choke hold. I could fucking fly right now. I’ve always been terrified of flying. I could fall in love right now. I have always been terrified of loving.

4. Love and time have nothing to do with each other. I felt more love with my summer fling than I did with my last serious relationship. It only takes a moment to find love again. In fact, love is never lost. We just choose not to see it sometimes. It’s been there all along.

5. Ambiguity is the secret to my sanity. I’ve always tried to be one thing or another. Now I am both. I am whoever and whatever I say that I am, because the only thing that matters in this life is my perception of it. The right to define myself lies only in my hands.

6. I get lost in darkness sometimes. But even on my darkest night, billions of distant suns still shine upon me and the moon is a promise that tomorrow will come around again. The sky has consistently shown me the direction in which to move. 2018 is the year that I will stop swimming against her current.

Fucking Christmas

I have not written in a while. Time to feed the monster, I guess.

I hate Christmas.

When I was younger, my mother would say that I cannot hate anything or anyone, unless I loved them first. It’s probably the most profound lesson that she ever taught me.

Her words would be true in this case as well. I loved Christmas when I was younger. It was a two day celebration for me. On Christmas Eve, we would spend the day with my Dad’s side of the family. On Christmas Day, we would spend the day with my mom’s side. Both days were filled with lots of presents, good food and giggling cousins.

When I got married, we had to cram a few more Christmas parties into those two days. It was exhausting, but it was also magical. We would load up the minivan and tote around our bundled up kids with car seats and bags hanging off from every arm. It was slushy wet boots, warm houses, and blissful chaos. Our van would be packed solid by the end of it. I miss those crazy days, sometimes.

Now I spend Christmas Eve by myself. My grandparents on Dad’s side are both passed and no one makes the effort to gather anymore. Most of my cousins have been driven away by my Dad’s racism. I don’t blame them. I’m close to being driven away myself.

My daughters spend a lot of extra time with their dad during the holidays, because he gets this time off at work. So, Christmas is kind of lonely for me. I got my girls back last night. As soon as I saw them, they hugged me and asked if they could live with their dad. I tried not to take it personal. It wasn’t meant to be personal. He just spoils them a lot because he’s got money and a new family that my kids really seem to enjoy. But it still hurt pretty fucking bad. And I am not allowed to show it, which makes it hurt even more. It felt like failure in the most important part of my life.

I spent today at my mom and dad’s house. I wish Santa would have left some Xanax in my stocking for that one. Pot doesn’t quite suffice for my family gatherings!

My grandma has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and it’s very sad to see her struggle with it. She’s the sweetest person I know, and she’s heartbroken about the loss of her mind. It’s heartbreaking to see her so scared and alone. She is one of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever known.

My cousin Brad and I shoot looks across the table as my dad pledges allegiance to the Trump presidency and spouts out racism like we’re in a klan meeting. My cousin Brad and I have a special unspoken bond, because I ran into him when I was drunk one time and we discovered that we were both closet potheads. I like my cousin Brad. We both know that my dad will never change.

After the extended family left, my brother and I and our families stuck around to exchange gifts. My brother thought Christmas Day would be a great time to inform me that I was going to burn in hell because I have not accepted Jesus as my lord and savior. My brother is my mother’s chosen son, the golden child of our family. He is also kind of a dick. My mother encourages him, by telling me that she will pray for me because I don’t believe that Jesus was a real person. Christmas feels a lot like shame in my family. And I would be very surprised if my mom truly did pray for me. I don’t think she prays at all. She just talks about it because she thinks it makes her look better.

It didn’t used to be this way. They used to be more normal. But then my brother became a drug addict, and he discovered Jesus in recovery. And then my mom saw all of that as an opportunity to separate me from the family. Divide and conquer, that is her true religion. She reignited her childhood passion for Christ and all but burnt me at the stake because of it. So at the age of thirty, my never religious family became pretty fucking religious. And then they decided that astrology, a passion that I’ve had since fucking middle school, was no longer acceptable. And so now I’m a devil worshipping, demon lover. And I am going straight to hell while they all have a one way ticket to that exclusive castle in the sky…you know, the one with a burning cross in the yard.

My Aunt Judy and her four kids don’t even show up to Christmas anymore. I have not seen my Aunt Judy in years. She never met my kids. They all belong to a church that doesn’t allow women to cut their hair, and they have to wear long skirts because pants are only allowed on men. My Aunt Judy refuses to acknowledge the rest of us, even my religious brother, because we’re all going to hell for cutting our hair and wearing pants.

Isn’t it amazing how family patterns repeat themselves? My mom lost a sibling to religion, and now I have too. That is actually one of the very few things that we have in common.

Religion was the ax that took my family tree down. A tree that was never really solid to begin with.

Christmas was stressful. I sat there, drowning myself in mashed potatoes until my guts wanted to explode. I think sometimes, about moving really far away. I think about going somewhere warm…Somewhere far from this madness that is my bloodline.

And then my dad walks us out to the car and scrapes all of my windows in sub zero temps while I sit inside my car with the heat turned on and I am reminded of the fact that I was born into a black or white family…but I am living in a grey world. And my dad is scraping my window as if to say he’s sorry for all of it. But he doesn’t really know me, or what he’s sorry for.

My niece reached out to me the other day. She needs me here, because she’s next in line for the shit throne and I am pretty much the only person who can help her. I see them all working tirelessly to hold her down. They used to hold me down, but I got strong. Now nobody holds me down, and it’s almost just as bad.

Christmas is all over for now, like a bad dream. I wonder if I will ever love these holidays again. Christmas is all about love and family, and right now I barely have either. All I have is a great disdain for this holiday, meant to celebrate a guy that I never believed in… and a gut full of really good mashed potatoes. ”Tis the season.