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.

Oneness isn’t just a lofty ideal—it’s a living perspective that reshapes how we perceive ourselves, others, and the world. It invites us to move beyond isolation toward a sense of intrinsic unity with all that is.

Between breakup number six and breakup number seven (which were breakups from the same man), I poured everything I had into a relationship that was ultimately destined to fail. I had my reasons—and no regrets—but I look back on that time as one of the most challenging chapters of my life.

I never really gave much thought to anger as an emotion. More often, what I felt was irritation—a quiet undercurrent that, if unnoticed, could register as anger to those around me. This realization hit home when I was partnered with a man whose significant mental health challenges and fixed, victim-oriented mindset led him to project his own anger onto me. The pain was deep, and the experience reshaped my understanding of this powerful emotion. Now, with the clarity that comes from solitude and self-discovery, I see that even the suffering carried wisdom and growth.

I had a race about an hour south of home. I’d been to the location before, but somehow, I got lost. Not once—but twice. I went to the wrong address, then a second wrong address, and by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. I never made it to the starting line.

People often ask me, “Did you know before he was born?” And every time, I pause. Because it’s not a simple yes or no. That question used to land like a rock in my chest—not because I didn’t want to answer, but because it carried this subtle, unspoken suggestion that there might be something “wrong” with Evan.

Too often, we focus on the negatives when looking back on past relationships—the frustrations, the incompatibilities, the moments of conflict. It’s easy to slip into a narrative where an ex becomes a collection of grievances rather than a complex, multifaceted person who, at one point, played a meaningful role in our lives.