There was a time when a canceled plan felt like a small earthquake under my feet.

Motherhood is the most demanding, disorienting, heart‑splitting experience I’ve ever known. It is also the most sacred. It asks everything of you — your body, your sleep, your certainty, your identity — and then somehow gives you back more than you ever imagined you could hold.

But here’s the truth I didn’t understand until Evan was born

There was a time when a canceled plan felt like a small earthquake under my feet.

A text that said “I’m so sorry, I need to reschedule” would hit my body like rejection, even if the words were gentle. I’d feel that familiar tightening in my chest — the old story waking up, stretching its legs, whispering, “See? You’re not important.”

There’s a line from Dr. Tara Narula that stayed with me long after I heard it:

“Things happen. Things go wrong. Things go bad. We face challenges… We are so much stronger than we think we are.”

When I walked into the short‑term rental, I expected it to wow me the way almost every other rental had. I had chosen it carefully. The pictures were perfect. It looked like it was going to be an amazing place to land for a few days.

I didn’t know Forest Bathing existed until one of my closest girlfriends surprised me with an experience last December. I thought we were simply spending a morning outdoors together. Instead, she handed me a doorway into a different way of being — one I didn’t realize I’d been craving.

Sometimes we find that the most difficult moments we experience can lead us to the places of our greatest moments; moments of pure joy and love.  

In my last couple blog entries I shared my thoughts on Rejection (which never feels good, and sometimes feels horrible) then we talked about Self-Awareness.  Now I’d like to talk about Authenticity.  Authenticity is the natural landing place after self‑awareness.

Most people think superpowers look like laser vision, super strength, or the ability to fly. But the most transformative power you can develop doesn’t come from a comic book. It comes from the quiet, unglamorous work of understanding yourself.

“Rejection doesn’t just hurt — it activates the body’s emergency system. When someone feels rejected, their sympathetic nervous system floods them with adrenaline and narrows their perception. Suddenly, you’re not a person they cared about; you’re a threat their body is trying to neutralize. Understanding this doesn’t excuse the behavior, but it does explain the speed and intensity of the turn — and it gives you the power to stay grounded instead of getting swept into their storm.”

For most of my life, other people tried to tell me who I was.
Sometimes gently, sometimes carelessly, sometimes with the confidence of someone who had only known me for five minutes but believed they had me figured out.

Have you ever stood beside someone who sees rejection in every shadow—even when none exists? I have, and while understanding the psychology behind it helped me find compassion, the relationship itself quickly became untenable.

The third opportunity for jealousy is the fear of loss.

According to TherapyRoute.com, jealousy born of loss is a specific form of jealousy that arises when someone experiences a real or anticipated loss (a partner’s attention, status, a relationship, a role, or a formerly available object of desire) and responds with fear, longing, or anger toward perceived rivals or reminders of that loss.

What if jealousy is not proof you are broken but a map to what you have not yet tended?

Insecurity-driven jealousy, the next arm of the green-eyed octopus, commonly rests on three dynamics: imagined scarcity, identity tied to another’s attention, and unprocessed wounds from earlier loss or rejection. These create predictable patterns: checking, triangulating, dismissing a partner’s intention, and self-silencing to avoid perceived threat. Naming these patterns reduces their power.

Jealousy often arrives as a sharp, animal alarm that signals something we value is threatened, but when that alarm is tangled with territorial instincts it stops being a simple emotion and becomes a claim on meaning and space.

There are days when the waters rise and my compass spins. When the winds of doubt howl louder than my own knowing, and I drift — untethered, uncertain, undone. In those moments, I don’t need a rescue. I need a reminder. A voice that says, “You know the way. Let me help you remember.”  I am grateful for those who help put me back on course.

I couldn’t find the exact statistics comparing how many people see themselves as “good listeners” with how many view their romantic partner that way, but I did find this: most people overestimate their listening skills. Surveys show that a very high percentage of people—sometimes as high as 96%—believe they are good listeners.

I don’t know if I still identified as a perfectionist when I learned about a recent opportunity to level up, because my perspective changed so much that the moment became a clear “before and after.”

I’ve been pondering the difference between motivation and discipline. As I dug into this topic, I discovered a debate I hadn’t expected—yet I simply wanted clarity on how each drives me toward my goals.

Lately, it’s been more than a concept—it’s felt like a companion. I speak of it often, not out of habit, but because so much of my life is unfolding into unfamiliar terrain: new businesses, a newly unpartnered existence, and soon, the quiet threshold of becoming a single empty nester.

I sometimes wonder if my ex belittles you the way he used to belittle me. Part of me longs for proof of his cruelty, and while I would relish the validation, I shudder at the thought of you suffering as I did.

When Evan was born, I gobbled up every bit of information available on individuals with Down syndrome. It was fascinating but also overwhelming—and even a little frightening. I remember the genetic specialist listing all the things Evan would likely never do: go to college or drive a car. I felt defiant and skeptical—not convinced this stranger could predict what an infant might achieve decades later. In retrospect, I’m grateful for the glimpse this gave me into the world’s expectations for my son and the fierce protectiveness it awakened in my heart.