The Quiet Rebellion

My last therapy stint was a semidisaster (here's to praying my therapist never reads this😂). It wasn't her. I don't think. It was what talk therapy is set up to be in most cases? I guess? It was similar for me in the counseling I went thru 23 years ago when my daughter died. I process by talking about something. A lot. Often, I have epiphanies or deeper understanding when I say things out loud. An analysis or questioning of it isn't always necessary. Therapy strangled me unintentionally. (Please do not think I am anti therapy - I am not!). It is just that I was rerouted more times than I wanted to be in our sessions. But. Come sit with me with a puzzle. A paper and pencil. Some paints. My t-shirt printing supplies. Any crafty thing. And talk to me. An intricate dance of doing the activity and a personal conversation emerges. Suddenly, I am realizing why I reacted the way I did to an incident last month that still bothered me. Or, I stop looking at it this way and look ...

I don't know why you tout yourself as low maintenance or seek to be unobtrusive.  Me? Well. When you're born 10 years after your parents' last child and despite birth control🤷🏽‍♀️ It wasn't anything specifically they intentionally did - we wanted for nothing as long as my dad lived. It was the thrusting of my mother into single mom-hood (and single grandma to an already single mother) that made life rough. My dad passed after being sick. Coupled with being overlooked or not taken seriously while my parents were away for dad's treatment - I learned to shrink. Financial limitations taught me what was priority and what was not. Birthday gifts were not. Cable tv was not. It was easier to ask for nothing because it eased the guilt my mom felt for not being able to provide it and prevented my disappointment in hearing no. I couldn't make my mother feel worse when she was doing the very best she could. So presence became a definite way I felt secure in some cases.  W...

We manage, we provide, we observe, we anticipate with solutions, we are women holding it down so hard we aren't just the roots upholding our families, we are somehow, the branches, the leaves and the twigs. We position our lovely leaves for the most sunlight so that they can have the best chance at photosynthesis. Even if it means blocking ourselves, with the promise that we will get some sun this afternoon, or tomorrow...next week...whenever the time magically appears.  From where everyone else stands, the tree is thriving. It stands tall, broad and beautiful. With its soil enriched by daily meals, healthy snacks, affirmations, occasional treats, recognition for good behavior, proper admonishing for not so good behaviour and all that makes a tree big and lush and strong. It isn't until we walk closer to the tree, that we see major issues hidden by the outer appearance. A supporting cast of leaves not getting enough sun. Sometimes turning brown. A few already crinkly and dry. O...

Looking back now, I can see that what felt like scattered thoughts and reflections at the time were actually pieces of a much larger picture forming. I didn’t have the language then for emotional labor, over-functioning, or decompression. I was simply writing my way through the weight of life as I experienced it. Those writings are still here: Before The Quiet Rebellion , and they remain an honest record of the journey that eventually led me to the work I do now. In future posts, you’ll occasionally see links back to those earlier reflections. Not as nostalgia, but as proof that the experiences many women carry quietly are not new — and that the path to release and reconnection often begins long before we recognize it. Sometimes the clearest understanding comes when we look back and realize we were already telling the truth of our lives all along.