Men are like rabbit holes. You crawl inside, because you are curious. And then the next thing you know, you plunge into another world, where you are constantly being told that you are too big or too small. And you start to question your own sanity.  So you drink tea, smoke a hookah, and you find yourself.  And then you get the fuck out of there.

Curiosity is going to kill me.


Dear Mama

I had forgotten a really big piece of my healing journey.  After my divorce, I went through an incredible transformative phase. It was the first time in my life when I began to cultivate some self worth. The first thirty years of my life, I had none. And now that I’ve laid myself down in the greener pastures of self love, I could never imagine going back to the dead yellow grasses of self loathing. However, during this transformation, I neglected to forgive and love my mom. And here’s why that is a key ingredient to my healing process.  

My mom sees the world a lot differently than I do. She sees people as objects to compare with herself, as you are either a hero or a villain in her book. Her heroes are few, but the small group of people that fall into that category, to her they can do no wrong. Those are the people who personify her ideas of perfection. Those are the people she aspires to become.

And then she has her villains, anyone she sees as less than herself. People she feels threatened by. I have always been the rebellious child, lashing out at her beige world with a paintbrush soaked in my own bright red reality.  

People have a natural instinct to love their mother. But when that love goes unrequited, it’s devastating. A kid is supposed to be able to count on their own mom for love and support. I couldn’t. I carried around an empty cup. It should have been filled with my mother’s love. But instead I filled it with binge drinking, disconnected sex, and enough resentment to take out a small army.  

So I began to despise my mother. I blamed her for my shortfalls in relationships and life. I hated her. I dropped her into the villain box and began to treat her the same way she had treated me. In my eyes, she wasn’t enough. She didn’t measure up. She couldn’t do anything right.  

But what I failed to realize, was that she was still my mother. She created me out of her own flesh. She brought me into this world. She gave me nourishment and taught me her language. I am her. She shows up in my mannerisms, my eyes, and my smile. Her voice is the voice in the back of my head. It’s the voice that taught me how to navigate the world. It’s the voice of my inner critic. My mother’s mind, body, and soul are ingrained into my own. So no matter how much energy I put into self love, if I hate my mother, I hate myself.  

So I am making the conscious effort to forgive her for not being able to love me in the way that I need. And I am able to truly accept her version of love, because my cup is filled with my own self love now.  

And I will fill her cup too. Because she is my mom and she has always loved me, the best that she can. And so I will continue to love her the best that I can.  And hopefully one day I won’t have to work at it.

My Little Girl 

My eight year old daughter asked if I could read my blog to her.  Unfortunately, I have nothing written down that she is ready to hear. I started this blog so that when my daughters were older, they could read a little bit about life during their childhood, through my eyes.  My mom and I don’t talk much. I know very little about her life during my childhood or prior. And that breaks my heart. I want my girls to know me. 


We should have named you Sunshine, because when you came into our lives, with your big cheesy smile, you lit up our world and gave us hope. I remember crying during the ultrasound I had when you were still in my womb. After trying for so long to bring you into our family, watching your busy little feet kick around inside me was one of the greatest moments of my life. We found out you were a girl that day.  Dad got busy remodeling your room. I could not wait to get you home and rock you to sleep in your Ladybug nursery. That feeling never went away. I sobbed like a lunatic on the last night of my maternity leave. I felt like Dumbo’s mom, pulling myself away from you was agonizing.  But I had to do it so I could afford to raise you. I hope when you are older and have a baby of your own, that the world will be a little more supportive to the importance of the parental bond.
Holding you at night was my happy place.  Your optimism and adventure for life are inspiring. Since your first breath, you have made us smile on a daily basis. You had sass right out of the womb and I wouldn’t have you any other way.  Your mind is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed. Your ability to live wide open as your truest self is my greatest accomplishment. Please don’t ever lose that one. 

I don’t know what you will accomplish in this lifetime. But I do know that you are an extraordinary person. I know that you are going to sprinkle your pixie dust along the road of life, pouring color into this black and white world. And this world is going to be better because you are in it.  

I hope you always feel loved and safe. I hope you keep a good circle of friends. I hope you know that I am always in your corner, even on your darkest days. And I hope you don’t have too many of those…just enough to gain some wisdom about your old soul. Your beautiful, amazing, and precious old soul.

I hope you know that life is what you make of it. If you dream hard enough, you will make your own dreams come true, and I hope so badly that you do. I hope you see the sunset with the full moon rise as often as you can.  And I hope you know that your dad and I love you in that very same way. We couldn’t always be together, and shine on you at the same time, but we both love you day and night.

I hope you fall in love with someone who deserves you. Someone who knows your soul like I do and will cradle it gently to their safest place. I hope you never lose your curiosity about nature. And I hope you will live in a society that respects it. I know you will speak up if you find that you don’t. I hope you never feel small. I hope you always stand tall. I hope you follow your heart just a little bit more than your brain, and I hope it leads you to great places. I hope you always see the magic in life. I hope you always love yourself as fiercely as you love Pokémon cards. I hope you get to read this to a child of your own some day, when you are older. And I hope your heart will then, finally understand the magnitude of our bond. I love you to infinity and beyond.  


Freedom is Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose

My therapist and I hashed out some of my commitment issues today. It was my most uncomfortable visit so far. But it was also one of the most enlightening.  

When I was married, I thought that being a wife and mom was it for me.  That was my life. There was no sense of adventure. No dream to work for, because the American dream was already mine. I had a lovely home, a beautiful family, and an adorable rescue dog. My old laptop has about 2000 pictures from that era of my life, and they are all kids and dogs. That was my life, and I feel guilty for admitting that it was killing me. But I was hungry for something more than just repeating the life of my parents.  I had terrible cravings, but I wasn’t sure what for.  

When I got divorced, my life got washed away. I moved into a shitty old house. I had to rehome my beloved rescue dog. Not one landlord in my county would let me keep a 140 pound French mastiff. But something magical happened, when my life was stripped down to the bare bones. I had the realization that I could build my life in any way that I wanted. My life was a blank canvas, washed clean. I had found a new sense of freedom that hadn’t been experienced since the day I got my drivers license. I found adventure in my life again. 

 My first weekend out as a single mom, I ended up stoned out of my mind in a soybean field, surrounded by friends that I hadn’t seen in years. I will never forget the feeling I felt when I looked up at the warm July sky that night. I could see so much space. I could feel so much space. It was the first moment of absolute contentment that I had felt in a long while.
And my life became an adventure.  

My kidless weekends were intimidating at first.  I didn’t know what to do with myself, the quiet, the freedom.  Then I began to embrace my me-time.  I started to date myself.  I would take day long road trips by myself.  I would go to restaurants by myself.  One time I even went to the movies by myself.  And I reconnected with friends.  I danced.  I had a crazy night in Detroit, where my best friend and I crashed three bachelor parties, triple kissed a stranger, and ate fried alligator that we didn’t pay for.  I went to concerts.  I had sex with a twenty-something guy in a Walmart parking lot.  I made out with a hot doctor on the hood of his sports car.  These are all things that my married self would have never dreamed possible.  These are all the things that helped to revive the old me, that wild girl who died when I had to be someone for somebody else.  These adventures saved me.

But eventually, I had convinced myself that I needed to share my life with someone. And we all know how that went. But what’s important is that I realized that the old feelings of hopelessness came back to me when I was living with my ex boyfriend. That smothering feeling like I’m heading into the last chapter of my book because the adventures have all been had and it’s got to end soon. And that quiet whisper in the back of my mind starts getting louder and louder. ‘This is not how your story ends!’ She screams from my soul. And then I walk away. And with every step, I feel myself come back to life.  

I love the idea of sharing my life with another person. But I don’t like the reality of it. I am madly in love with not knowing where my life will be tomorrow, or next year, or in ten years.  It’s the curiosity that keeps me entertained.  And my shrink thinks that is okay, for now. So I guess I will too.  

Stellium Guys 

Here’s what sucks about being an astrologer. My friends always make fun of me because I am really good at relationship compatibility…for other people. But I am really bad at picking out men for myself.  

For example, I knew that my ex-boyfriend was emotionally detached. His Sun, Moon, and Mercury are all in Gemini. That is called a stellium, where you have three or more personal planets in the same sign. Oddly enough, my ex husband had a Stellium in Leo. He was admittedly narcissistic.  The guy I wrote about in a previous post had a stellium in Scorpio. He was very intense. The guy I almost met up with the other night, who called and casually mentioned that he had chlamydia a few months ago and then proceeded to tell me every detail about it for twenty minutes… Stellium in Aquarius. And no, that story will never happen. One time I went out with a 5 planet stellium Aries man. One date was all I could handle.  

There’s something about people with Stelliums. There’s something off about them, different but difficult to pinpoint. Some of these men are incredible people. But there is always something strange and unique about them. And unless you look closely, you can’t quite narrow it down.  I think that’s why I’m always attracted to them. My mars is in Scorpio, so I get excited about eccentric men. But depending on the aspects to their outer planets, some of these men have very serious personality disorders.  

I do believe that these men came into my life, or perhaps I sought them out, for a reason. Dating stellium men has taught me more about astrology than any book, video, or class has come close. 

I was able to feel the energy for each sign who came into my life. When someone has a stellium, it’s like they are an extracted flavor of human. They are out of balance. Their planets and energy are all focused in one vibration that plays too loudly for the other energies to be heard. Any interaction with these men allowed me to immerse myself in the song of their vibration, and those melodies taught me astrology.  If I have anything going for me at all, ‘astrology career wise’ in the future, it is because I am one of the few astrologers who has not only studied the zodiac…I have experienced it.  

If my nerves could handle it, I’d date all the stellium variations and then write a book about each experience. All I need to complete my collection would be Cancer, Virgo, Capricorn, and Pisces. But like I said, stellium men are a lot to handle. The Cancer man probably never leaves his house. The Virgo reminds me too much of myself. The Capricorn guy probably works too much. And the Pisces guy is definitely in rehab right now. 

No more stellium guys for me.

No guys at all.  Venus is retrograde right now in my seventh house.  Or as the astrology world sees it, a time to go back to old love. Unfortunately, all of my old loves are stellium guys.  The retrograde is also a time to change direction with relationships, but I’m not in one.  For me, Venus retrograde is a time to take a break because She rules my sun and rising. She is a version of me, an illusion in the sky. And when she naps, I nap.  

I love how my relationship house has been lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, during the one time in my life where I have no interest in love at all. Old love? No thank you. New love? Nah, I’m good. I’m dead on the tracks while the zodiac train is headed straight for my 7th house. Luckily, my ruling planet is retrograde, so I have an excuse to opt out of this love train.  
Venus retrograde in the 7th is also a time to focus on your relationship with yourself. To move your energy inward, crawl back into your cocoon, and rest your tired soul.  Now that sounds more like me.
When a planet is retrograde, it is actually moving closer to the earth, giving it the illusion of backward motion. Right before the start of the retrograde, in what we call a shadow period, the planet is vibrating the loudest and closest to us.  For Mercury, this is when the electronics and communication get all jumbled up. For Venus, it’s women, love, beauty, and of course, me. And at the end of the shadow period, the planet goes to sleep, replenishing the burst of energy that came with a higher vibration.  
So far in 2017, I’ve started a new job. I’ve settled into a new house. I’ve nursed myself through a big break up. I’ve worked my way through most of massage school. I’ve worried about the health of friends and family who have stepped a little too closely to death. Including my dad, my rock, who had a blood clot in his lung last weekend along with the flu and possibly Cancer. Add to that raising my kids alone, and not sleeping anymore, I am exhausted!  As fun as it would be to get out and frolic among the twitterpated men of Spring time on Tinder, I just can’t!  I don’t have it in me. My tank is running low. And like Venus, I’m going to sleep through it until April 15th. That’s graduation day for me.  It’s also the day that Venus moves forward.  Wake me up on tax day.  

Shitty Pancakes and Bob Ross

Sunday is my best friend. It’s my only day off, and I usually spend my Sundays just chilling around the house.  
Last night, both of my kids had friends sleep over. Four teenagers and two eight year olds. My house is a disaster, but my heart is full.  
I love these kids. All of them.  

I got out of bed to make blueberry pancakes. They were horrible. Half were burnt. Half were undercooked. But at least I tried, right?  I’m no Betty Crocker.

‘These are shitty pancakes,’ My daughter’s friend told me. I probably shouldn’t have encouraged that language. But the statement was true, and I laughed so hard I had tears. Then I got some factory made frozen pancakes out and we ate them right out of the microwave.

The kids are all outside, playing in the sunshine now. I’m laying on the couch, watching “Chill with Bob Ross,” on Netflix and falling in love with his calm voice, encouraging me to create my life anyway that I want it. He says, ‘If you want a big tree, paint a big tree. If you don’t want one, don’t paint one. Let’s not make things complicated.”
I absolutely needed to hear that.  

I wish every day was Sunday.

Seven Saturdays

Seven more Saturdays.  For the past six months, I’ve spent every Saturday at massage school. It has been quite a journey so far, returning to school after a fifteen year hiatus. I dropped out of massage school when my daughter was born, having only two classes left to finish. I have always regretted that decision to cast my dreams aside.

It has been a lot harder than I thought to go back. This is an accelerated course, with lots of homework. School has taken time away from my kids, away from my social life, and away from my sex life. It has cost me $3600.00 that I really couldn’t afford. But I’ve paid every dime, knowing that I am worth the investment.
In school, I have found a sense of purpose. I am a very good massage therapist. I know, because my clients always tell me so. And I can see it in their face after they have been through a session with me. I am a healer. And it feels pretty awesome to get out of my paper pushing cubicle to mold and mesh the pain out of some fellow humans. I love the gooey feel of a melted muscle. I love the sound of my client snoring on the table. I love the way it feels to cradle a client’s head in my hands while I send them love and balance. Life is hard. But on my table, my safe space, I get to connect and heal. I get to protect my clients from the harshness of the outside world. What an incredible honor it is to take someone’s pain away, to soothe and nurture a complete stranger. There’s nothing else in the world that can compare to working someone’s trapezius from a rocklike texture, to soft muddy clay.  
Massage school came into my life when I was lost and broken. This education, this reaching back into my past to complete something I had thought I’d lost forever, has healed my soul in ways I never imagined possible. My teacher is the kindest soul I’ve ever met. My classmates are inspiring. My hands are on fire, burning for the finish line.
I have so much gratitude for this unexpected detour in the road of my life. Seven more Saturdays and my life will be in bloom.