Gutted, Grown, and (still) Grateful: A Reflection on Strength, Surrender, and Softness

This past year kicked my ass.

Yeah, I know, I’m not supposed to swear and there’s probably some eloquent poetic prose written by Robert Frost or Shakespeare that would capture it better. I know. But that’s not the vibe today, so we’re going with what we’ve got.

I haven’t posted in a while, and despite having about 27 half-finished posts, not a single one felt good enough to share with the world. The post graveyard currently has hits titled “The Precious Intimacy of Small Things,” and “On The Beauty in the Void” and “Same Pain, Different Phase,” or, “Different Days….” I’m not even sure anymore, they might as well be the same thing. Maybe one day I’ll have a few glasses of wine and feel another spark of creativity and they’ll actually get written.

Nevertheless, 38 did not start on a happy note. You know when you start something – a movie, a job, a book, a recipe – and pretty soon into it, you already know it’s going to be bad? Like, the kind of bad when you make waffles and get baking soda and baking powder confused, and then add a few tablespoons (instead of teaspoons) of salt and end up with a waffle monster that tastes like salty, vanilla-y bread? No one asked for it, no one liked it, and as my parents, or the Beast from my all-time favorite movie Beauty and the Beast, would say, “you can eat this, or nothing at all!!!”

Now, brunch isn’t always a tragedy just because the waffles aren’t perfect. Although, let’s be honest, it kind of is, especially if the ONLY reason you made the entire effort to get up, shower, get dressed, and take a $3,594 Uber there was specifically for the waffles…. Then it is. But, the coffee is usually decent, the mimosas might still be tolerable, and after two or three of those, the salty, vanilla-y monster-waffle isn’t so awful anymore.

And really, who goes to brunch alone? No one. (And if you do, hit me up, we’ll start a brunch club, or a brunch cult, whichever one feels up your alley.)

Sometimes, I’d look at the menu and think “Lemon custard banana ginger cookie dough coffee tart?? That sounds awful, what else is on here? Ohhh yes, of course, salmon fried pancakes with honied reduction of asparagus? Whose idea was any of this?” (In case you are wondering, it was in fact the Universe deciding that’s what’s on the menu.)

So here we are, sitting around the table having an overpriced, mediocre brunch, in some newly opened, Tik-Tok made-famous cafe, drinking burnt coffee and mimosas, and inevitably, someone would say “We’ll, why don’t we just try that sous-vide apple tart with caramelized onion confit anyway.” Ah yes, delicious.

But guess what. After begrudgingly tasting whatever absurdity came out, sometimes, it actually turned out surprisingly delicious. (I hate to report that other times, it did in fact, taste just as awful as it sounded…)

Or, that’s kind of how it went.

Did I want to be there? Sometimes. Maybe? Truthfully, mostly not.

Did I want to try the salty, vanilla-y, waffle monster? No, not really.

Did I appreciate that I was dragged out from under the blankets, where I was comfortably snuggled up with Scruffles, scrolling those IG accounts planning my next 368 art projects that will never come into existence, while having my not burnt coffee in the silence of my own home? Absolutely.

Did I end up leaving with a few new friends, taking a leap, trying new things, and knocking a few bucket list items (and wine glasses) off? Also, yes.

I have been trying to figure out what the universe has been trying to teach me recently. On countless occasions, I have whined, wined, wallowed, and whimpered that I feel like I’m constantly dealing with the same stuff, just showing up to my door dressed up differently. Even my trusty horoscope apps (Susan Miller and The Pattern… looking at you) kept telling me that “some patterns are re-emerging to challenge my ways of thinking, being, and existing.” Thanks – super helpful. Can I get a little more specific, detailed information? (Lottery numbers would be welcome too…)

But lately, leading up to my big old 39, the frequency of these “re-emerging patterns” became quite intense, and has in fact, given me a bit more clarity. Perhaps it is also what has prompted me to write again, or maybe the sheer unawareness and stark realization of “oh, wow, I do actually do that…!!??!!” rattled me a bit.

“It hurts me that you never allow me (or from what I can see, anyone else) to actually do nice things for you, without it being a fight” was the gist.

Well, ouch. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t met a single human being who doesn’t like having a nice thing done for them. But, we’re all pretty busy people, with our own stuff going on. Right? I’m a big girl, I can do it myself, if I don’t know how, I can watch a YouTube video, finagle it, figure it out as I go along, lose a finger, maybe cause a flood. No matter what, “I got it” will be my famous last words.

Makes sense, right?

(Yes is the only right answer here in case you need just a little bit of guidance here.)

It does. Except for the teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, small part where I was m informed that my resistance to kind deeds actually makes others feel “unwanted, unwelcome, unneeded, and as though I can’t and don’t contribute to your life, the way that you do to mine.” If I’m being totally honest, I probably wouldn’t have even thought twice about it if it didn’t came from someone who is somewhat of an acquaintance saying it, then repeated by friends who actually know me, completely unprovoked. I guess I didn’t hear it when it was a drizzle so the universe must have gotten impatient and amped it up.

I thought I was winning karma-brownie-points and being a good citizen of the world by not “burdening” anyone, while here I’m being accused of giving off “unapproachable” vibes.

So, stubborn as I am, I conducted a little survey for myself, looked back on the last year, and concluded that this was in fact about 93% true.

I’m not even sure what was more devastating, the fact that I was so unaware, or the fact that it took me having to go through the same crap that ends in exhaustion to figure it out. And when I say exhaustion, it’s not the kind bed-rotting one day fixes it. The kind where your soul feels tired and you feel like the universe does not have your back anymore. It feels, what I imagine, whitewater rafting would go like for me.

But despite all the chaos, I think I was actually carried by the universe, received exactly what I needed at exactly the right time. (Notice the use of needed and not wanted.)

I ran into the right people at the right time, which has in an unexpected way, changed the trajectory of where I thought my life was headed in ways that tickled me. Others returned after being absent for years, reflecting how much I have “grown up.” Some felt like gifts from the other side, coming into my life at the right time to remind me that I’m still being looked after. All of it nudged me along toward finally surrendering to the flow of life. Not like you really have much choice once you’ve started heading down the river.

I think because of the ass kickery and fairly blunt reflection of what it’s like to be my friend, I have surrendered that (maybe) I CAN’T do it all on my own.

Cue the devastation.

Cue the drama.

Cue the histrionics.

Yes. Apparently, I can’t do everything on my own. There’s even written proof of it now. And that, I think, is why the universe forced me to have to deal with this awful vanilla-y, salty, waffle monster this past year.

But you know what else I learned? It’s a bit easier, and less miserable, sharing it with others who want to sit at the table, and coffee and mimosas help.

So this year, I have been pushed, shoved, dragged and forced into surrendering and facing my own obliviousness in ways I didn’t expect.. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll actually allow someone to treat me to dinner, look up that song I’m searching for, spend an evening just hanging together when I’ve had a rough day, accept that spa day offer, call someone when I need help.

Google knows a lot – but it doesn’t know me. I actually even asked for emergency on-call support when I was trying to grill a steak…. (The rest of that statement was “so I don’t have to ever ask anyone else to be the steak griller” but I left that out just so I can end with “See? Progress!”)

It is a work in progress. Changing any habit is hard. Changing any habit that can potentially make me vulnerable and less independent is even harder.

That said, it seems like this is my task for the year. Mel Robbins, if you ever see this (I’m going to pretend you have time to read random unknown wordpress blogs). I’ll be rebranding your Let Them book title for myself. My year didn’t teach me to “let them do whatever they want” but instead, it taught me to “let them, in.”

Let them… do nice things for you.

Let them… treat you.

Let them… help you.

Let them… care for you.

Let them… celebrate you.

With a full heart, a home filled with flowers, plants, art, and wine – I’m starting off 39 with a toast to letting them in and receiving all the love and kindness the universe sends my way with grace and gratitude.

XOXO,
Kathy ❤

2024 – Shaking it Up

Here we are. It’s officially 2025 – in fact, several weeks in. (Actually, more like a whole month…) While I am usually quick to write, reflect and set intentions, this year kind of chaotically stumbled and rolled along without much pause.

I started this blog with the intention of committing myself to focusing more on the good than the bad, and with that, tried to infuse most posts with positivity, gratitude, hope, and joy. But when I sat down to try to craft a little post of the past year, writing it in a positive and playful tone felt… insincere. There have been years that I can reflect back on and unequivocally, sincerely, and passionately say “this was a good year.” Maybe my age is showing, maybe the swing of my pendulum is getting smaller, or maybe the middle is where things kind of shake out.

The last few weeks, I keep coming across the proverb “sunshine all the time makes a desert.” I have, on my occasions, criticized the disingenuousness and superficial nature of rewriting any narrative to primarily reflect on the wins ands the positives. I promise. I’m not a curmudgeon. (Yet.) I want less “I’m doing great!” and more “you know, I had this wonderful win, and also, this other thing has been stressing me out.” The closest friends are the ones who have welcomed me into their days of sunshine, but also rain, snow, sleet, thunder, and everything else in between. But not every year can be sunshine… And all the years with sunshine create a drought.

The older I’m getting, the more I’m realizing that I’d rather be alone (actually, what I mean is, with the dog) than around those who I can’t be myself with. The intention behind this little blog was for it to be a place where I can just be. Whatever that might be – happy, sad, melodramatic, cheerful, pensive, hysterical, anything in the world. It’s still a work in progress – and finding a balance of writing something truly sincere and real from the heart while publicly sharing it is apparently an art. (Writers, novelists, and all – hats down to you… scientific writing is easy in comparison… this feels relatively less so.)

In ways, this little project has chronicled my life for the last several years. Without looking at my thousands of photos, I think reading through the posts would have me thinking that I have been living my best life all the time, grateful for all the good and bad, and always seeking some meaning in the flow, smiling, laughing, and like a Hallmark movie, always finding that inner peace and happiness in the end. That, my dear friends, is not the truth.

In fact, I think last year was one of the harder years for me since I’ve started the blog in many ways – personally, professionally, financially, mentally. Last year was also a year of major transformation – and like a pinball, my life kind of pinged here and there and seems like, maybe, is a bit more grounded and clear.

I was certainly just kind of floating through life, pretending all is well, checking off the boxes, and just kind of trying to figure out the next steps. (This is where I am grateful for those intentions I wrote the year prior – when I felt a bit too lost – I just picked one at random and focused on that.) That said, another little message that kept coming through for me, was along the lines of if you don’t know where to go next. What now? Well, I finally realized that maybe when I didn’t want to be somewhere else, then perhaps I was meant to stay exactly where I am.

I learned about my own dimensionality. My flexibility. My loyalty. My ability to be a support to others. I learned (and am starting to believe) that the world “needs the medicine I bring to it” and that I am meant to be here. No reasons necessary. And I say this out of a place of darkness, fear, and loss, with unclear sense of direction. Some might even call it an existential crisis, or angst. But being able to say this was a step forward from an overwhelming undercurrent that had me feeling small, insignificant, and mostly a burden. I suppose all that stuff about pain transmuting is real, and like a snake, (ha it is the year of the snake…) a little bit of my old self had shed, and a raw but slightly evolved version of me was forced into existence. Sometimes, it is the things we dread the most, that help us to really take an honest look at ourselves and either keep doing the same things, or maybe take a different turn to end up somewhere new.

I also felt like this was a year of opening myself up to spontaneous and unexpected opportunities that came along. And the universe did not fail to deliver. This year, most certainly carried me along into chance encounters that I couldn’t have ever predicted, in a way that almost feels like it was meant to happen and was planned. (Kind of weird, but also, kind of amazing!)

I finally went on that Japan trip – my “one day” trip. I finally saw and entire field of sunflowers (it’s just flowers, I know, but something I’ve never gotten to do, and always wanted to see). I finally went to Portugal, took a stained glass class, went to a speed dating event (for those super curious, the event was grossly unsuccessful, but I did make a new friend). I went to a retreat. I finally took Scruffles to Acadia (I’m not so sure he loved it). Finally took a proper wine tasting class. Finally got to see Spain a small piece of its beauty. Took my parents to a soccer game. Bought more crystals than I need (those rose quartz ones better get to work). Saw a terrible production of Carmen (my favorite of all time, the irony). Attending a meeting as the PI for my very first study ever. (Which for me, felt like a reminder from my younger self, who used to think, “I’ll be one of these people here, one day.”)

This was a year of ups and downs. Darkness and light. Gains and losses. Pain and joy. Sunshine and rain (and maybe even a tornado here and there). So this was most certainly not a “good” year by any definition of the word. It was a transformative year. It was a painful year where I truly felt lost. And in that darkness and loss, the serendipity of saying “sure, why not” to things I would have never been brave enough to do or made the time to do, has actually brought me closer to what it is that I actually want to be doing.

I was scared, a lot of the time, and still am, and what I hope to carry forward is that it’s ok to do the things you want, even while you’re scared. We are all scared of failure, ridicule, and judgment, loss, something

I’ve accidentally practiced “rejection therapy” with a few of my patients, or simply, asking them to supply me with 3 “failures” of the week. So when I myself set out to “try to fail,” some of these leaps actually turned into some of the biggest and most transformative “failed attempts at failure” of my life. We truly do sometimes live within the limits of our minds and are simply too afraid to fail, so we don’t even push the boundary of what we can do.

I do feel that this year reminded me that the universe really is carrying us where we are meant to go. Sometimes, that closed door actually does truly mean we’re being redirected into a direction that aligns with our greater purpose, or is actually a better option for us.

I was rejected from a training program I applied to last year, bawled my eyes out, felt that it had stripped me of the identity of who I thought I was and was hoping to work toward, only to learn the following day, that something I never thought was even possible for me to do, had miraculously fallen into my lap. No effort, it just kind of showed up. That said, sometimes things that are meant come to us, find their way to us. That said, I’m excited for this year and how things shake out in my life. I’m less focused on the destination, and more focused on trying to enjoy the ride. I guess once you find the scenic route you’re supposed to be on, it is really not so bad. Finding it is the hard part!

Everytime I said yes to something that felt completely foreign to me, the universe somehow expanded my world and carried me through. I’m starting to think that life is like an escape room, except without a timer, and the hints come from our own intuition and attunement to the signs. Once you satisfy one room, only then do you get to the next one.

I’m hoping after this hard year, I can go into this new one and allow the universe to really conspire on my behalf. After all, “no rain, no flowers.”

XOXO,
❤ Kathy

On Being Enjoyed

For those who don’t know, I am on some days, a child psychiatrist, on other days, an obsessed dog mom, and on most days, a complete and total hot mess. Lately less hot, and more mess. What can I say? It’s life…. And life is messy. In true spirit of my waffling identity, I have certainly resurrected my psych-talk podcast listener meets Martha Stewart wine party prepping persona, which is exactly what this little thought piece was sponsored by.

Who doesn’t want their wine paired with a discussion about the various origins of trauma?

I was introduced to this wonderful podcast “This Jungian Life” which I listen to fairly religiously. One of the episodes I recently re-listened to explored childhood trauma, and the way in which children integrate their experiences of their parent-child relationships into their perceptions of themselves in their adult lives. After discussing some personal stories, and exploring the ways in which even children from what appear to be stable households experience trauma, the analysts shared ways in which they approach their patients. One of the questions that one of the analysts asked was “did you feel that your parents enjoyed you?” with a winded reference circling back to Winnicott. The quote: ”It is a joy to be hidden, but a disaster not to be found.” For some reason, this sparked a thought about about the common catchphrase “dance-like-nobody’s-watching,” innocently invites the reader to lean into their authenticity and completely ignore the fact that anyone might be judge-ly watching. Express yourself and feel emotionally liberated! But, for some of those who have not been “seen” or “noticed” or “enjoyed” as children, this can inadvertently activate feelings less to do with liberation, and more toward an internal sense of irrelevance, estrangement, or invisibility.

What does it mean to exist in the world of another, and not be enjoyed by them, as a child?

As an adult, we can discern when someone isn’t really super duper into us – the date never texts back, you don’t get the warmest thank you from a work interview, the friend connection starts to grow distant. There are signs – and most adults, generally, are equipped to pick up on some of them, and have the choice to stay or exit the situation. Less so as a child, and in developing and growing a sense of belonging in the world – it’s painful and confusing when the people that are intended to love you the most (enjoyment included), simply don’t.

There’s a Polish phrase, “cieszy się tobą” which is typically utilized to suggest that your partner is smitten, adoring, in love, or “in joy of” another. It’s one of those phrases that is usually reserved for romantic relationships, although when translated into English loses the meaning. If you Google Translate it, things like: “they are happy with you,” will be found, except, the phrase (in my person experience) carries a depth begging the question: does the person you are with derive joy from you? Everything that you are – are you enjoyed?

In my most recent Love Actually class, we discussed this Alain de Botton piece (and wonderfully written opinion piece (https://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/29/opinion/sunday/why-you-will-marry-the-wrong-person.html) on why you’ll definitely marry the wrong person (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EvvPZFdjyk). One of his many wise points is “We seem normal only to those who don’t know us very well…” and ultimately, he states that what we really seek is familiarity.

So…. What does it mean to be with someone that enjoys my anything? In fact… What does it mean to “be enjoyed” by another. I’m not sure I was particularly enjoyed by my family (in fact, I know I wasn’t), so on what metric so we base being enjoyed on? Hos frequently our friends want to spend time with us? The number of deep relationships we have? How successful we are at networking? How we make others feel?

Lately, I’m not so certain I’m enjoyed. Just to be clear, I firmly and wholeheartedly believe that we all have these uncertainties that come and go in our life seasons. Most people just don’t talk (or in my case, write) about it. I’ve been pondering if others enjoy my obsession with Scruffles? Is my preference for candle-lit ambiance over I-don’t-need-glasses-to-see lights a unique quirk of mine, or something annoying? Is my lack of texting followed by intense texting enjoyable? At what point are others sick of my you-can-do-it attitude about them? Do others actually enjoy who I am, or my kick-ass charcuterie skills? Or maybe, I’m asking the wrong questions altogether.

The irony of all of this, is that I started this blog scrutinizing and criticizing the concept of being anything other than ourselves.

Here I am, full circle, actually wondering if I am enjoyed by others?

I have to remember that I’m not a little kid anymore – I, and my friends and colleagues and family, have freedom and choice in their decision to share their time with me. I have the power to either let people in or not, and it’s up to me how I create the experience of being “enjoyed.”

A (surprisingly) long while back, I was invited by a dear friend to join her at a concert, and one of the song lyrics were “fall in love with someone that enjoys your weirdness, Not someone that tries to talk you into being normal.”

I suppose – where I am with this in this moment – is that my work on myself is less about worrying whether others are enjoying me, and more about being discerning to welcoming those that already do. Next step is to trust that to be the case.

Find your people!

When I see adolescents in my office, especially the ones who feel like there are 1.789 million things wrong with them – I feel a big part of their struggle is that they haven’t found “their people.” (Although some of them actually are really, really mean – one – called me a M’AM!! On purpose!! That might need some attention…) And that is actually the journey we are on in this world, we get to slowly unmask and show our weird, quirky parts, which allows us to “find our people” and work to surround ourselves around those who value and appreciate us. Being authentic is where it starts. “Being enjoyed” for the real you is way better than being enjoyed for the you that you think others want in the world. And we can all do a little better and appreciate the things that we enjoy about your friends, partners, colleagues? What makes them unique, important, safe, or special?

How do you let your people know you enjoy them?

xoxo ❤
Kathy

P.S. I do feel I owe thanks to the LA class who provoked me to write this little reflection piece. The authenticity that I have witnessed in the supportive sharing and receiving of personal, vulnerable, “embarrassing,” and intimate thoughts, feelings, and reflections has been incredibly moving. It fills my heart with joy and I feel honored to be a part of it. I hope that when my future self looks back on this, my heart can smile knowing that this was a little moment that was moving to the fall 2024 version of me.

On Becoming Precious

By pure accident, I came across this beautiful poem by Lisel Mueller (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/154099/in-passing) several times in the last month and this artfully written Nautilus article – and it only seems right to share.

In Passing

By Lisel Mueller

How swiftly the strained honey
of afternoon light
flows into darkness

and the closed bud shrugs off
its special mystery
in order to break into blossom

as if what exists, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious.

I was incredibly moved by the writer’s ability to capture the passage of time, in a sweet, barely noticeable, melancholic dance of words reminding us that rarely does even an echo of a moment return. I am, and always have been, drawn to the melancholic. Yes, I am enamored with Dostoevsky’s writing (on a side note, does anyone create characters with depth, dimension, and human range like that anymore? Asking for a friend…), have always love the sad and delicate movies, and seem to feel a soft and familiar comfort in the thought that time is fleeting, and nothing lasts – despite my many futile attempts to move time just a smidgen faster, and other times, slow it down – feet dug into the ground, refusing to accept that another year has passed.

Forever a lover of art, I have often browsed the galleries of museums, usually most drawn to the impressionist and neo-impressionist works, entrenched in the details all while captivated by the lack of details all at the same time, and ultimately enjoying the feeling that is evoked. Ah yessss… my love for the dichotomy of things that often cannot co-exist, actually finding a way of co-existing. (Some of us really do always long for things we can’t have…) I have often thought “this is how I remember the good memories of my life.” When I think back to the moments that I want to store in my very precious vault, I often feel they have been captured in the the delightfully pastel, foggy, flickers of “I can kind of remember it, I can’t remember all the details but enough, and it’s a good memory.” Moments of love, seeing something I’ve dreamed about, nights shared with friends, the joy of seeing someone at the airport, the fluffy love of my life, the last dinner with a friend who moved away… all of it lives in my head, but in a dazed sort of magical way that feels a bit like a fairy tale. I do often write about being in the present and savoring what time we do have, but what I think I often actually mean, is that I’d like be present enough to be able to remember as much as I can, and save the feeling in that moment to feel again and again.

I actually have kind of thought I was a bit odd in my sense of this, although, it makes sense – pair our brains with some chemicals and the right place and right situation and BOOM! Beautiful memory. In all honesty, I was quite certain that others remember similarly. Recently perusing the internet, I came across an article citing that memories “are not a true or false picture of the past; they are like a Monet lily pond.” (https://nautil.us/your-memories-are-like-paintings-774424/) Ok… Hold on. Science and art in one pargraph – sign me up! I had a teeny tiny basic and general (kind of, sort of…) understanding of how the brain works, although recent discoveries in the brain’s mapping, insights into the state-dependent nature of our brain’s processing, impacts of present-perspectives shaping our thoughts, and our brain’s natural positive-bias actually appears to confirm that we do, in fact, remember things through the lens of fantasy, in an imagined world, that may have never existed. Memories are less like photos, and more like paintings that we create in our own minds.

Think of something that made you smile in the last week, or a song that takes you back to when you were 16 – what are you taken back to? I bet you’re thinking about that cool thing you do with your friend, or the trouble you got yourself out of, or something you did with a sibling or a family member, and other memories come in. Your current mood and affective state, will actually affect how they are stored back into your brain again! And, you might actually change some details of that memory in the retrieval and re-storage process. Kind of amazing and terrifying all at the same time…. It’s unlikely that you can or will remember the very specific plants in the corner of the coffee shop (unless you’re me and you’ve become a not-so-secret plant mom), or the color of the frames of sunglasses someone was wearing, or the shirt that the kid in the stroller next to you had on – so our brains pick and chose which details are important and which are not. Which makes sense that memories are more like an impressionist painting, rather than a photo.

I have been in a reflective, meditative, and channeling my inner hermit space lately, and in exploring the dusty depths of my own attic of memories, there have been many moments in my life that were “the last time…” which I had no sense would be the last time. There have been others where I kind of knew were the last times, and actively tried to make notes of it. In the hazy memories, I truthfully can’t always tell which ones were more or less intentionally stored, but I can say that the things I have lost, often, seem just a bit more precious, and perhaps their absence is what allows me to see them through my “impressionist colored glasses.”

Interlude

When I started this blog in 2021-ish, I meant it to be a writing practice that I secretly hoped would eventually give me enough disciple, ideas, and experience, to allow me to write a book. Someday. As life got in the way, social obligations resumed, work took over, I started to write every few months, then maybe twice a year. Regardless, the ideas for the blog are stored in unfinished posts. “You, Me, and We,” “The Season of Pruning,” “The Precious Intimacy of Small Things,” “I’ll Miss You One Day,” and so on and so forth. No blog posts, and no where near writing a book – for now.

Unexpectedly, I did actually lose the site entirely for a couple of weeks. Apparently, there are a series of requirements to renew websites, and I may, or may not, have missed a step. Or all of them. Simple serendipities were no more.

The site became something I neglected, and the guilt of the neglect led me to try to tell myself I didn’t care very much if it existed or not. I learned very quickly that I do care. A lot.

Isn’t that true of life?

Sometimes, to lose something, is to learn how much it actually matters.

As someone who leans melancholic and has a penchant for pondering the passage of time, “The Tail End” (found here: https://waitbutwhy.com/2015/12/the-tail-end.html) really spoke to me in a deep and quite melancholic way. I think I came across this post in 2015 or 2016, and it has affected me in a way that no other post has. The author breaks down our life, assuming we live to 90 years old, in events, rather than time spent. The author cites the number of baseball games, dinners with family, card games with friends, swims in the ocean, books read, and so on, and describes why we are actually living out the tail end of our life.

What does any of this have to do with anything? Well, in addition to (almost) losing my site, Scruffles was diagnosed with Cushing’s Disease, a disorder related to overproduction of cortisol. Of course, this meant I angsted over reading 100’s of doggie studies, drove my vet crazy, and ultimately, panicked since Dr. Google told me that Scruffles life expectancy is likely shortened. (And here, I thought I’d never have to send him away to college….) We are at the tail end.

All of us have lost friends, lovers, family members, pets, acquaintances, so on and so forth. I think back to relationships that have ended and often wonder if knowing that this was the last supper (wine included, not made from water), or the last text, or the last call would have made any difference in the way I would have responded. Would I have wanted that? Would it have changed anything? Which of my current relationships with family, friends, colleagues, pets are in their tail end, and I don’t even know?

The threat of loss, or the loss of someone or something dear to me, often serves as a fulcrum moment. Have I learned any lessons in my 38 years on this Earth? I write so much about gratitude and presence, and yet, in my scattered ways almost cost me my “site baby.” I wonder in what other ways I have “paid” for my absence of presence, attention, or prioritization of time.

My site’s “serendipitous interlude” cured me of my ambivalence about it, and the “It’s become a graveyard of ideas, no one reads it anyway, doesn’t matter if it’s around anymore” quickly turned into “It’s mine, I made it, I don’t want to lose my little soul project!”

Interludes, in the glimmering and bleak cacophony of life, the never ending march of time, seem to incite anticipation of the next act, and serve as a harbinger. Life is a tapestry of precious and ephemeral moments, and we may never know when it’s the last one.

I am happy to be back.

XOXO,

Kathy ❤

New Year, Same Me

I traditionally listen to Rachel Brathern’s “From the Heart” podcast a few days leading up to the new year. Usually, I like to set some intentions, and go through my little clearing ritual – clean every little nook and cranny, burn some palo santo, reflect with gratitude, and infuse some happy wishes for the upcoming year. This is one of those pandemic rituals that stuck with me, so here we are, sending palo santo smoke signals from my tiny little NYC apartment. (I hope I haven’t accidentally sent something embarrassing like “I pooped my pants…”)

Now that I’ve stuck with it for a few years, my little processing and intention setting ceremony writings find their way into a little notebook that I use for all things spiritual and self-reflective. Over the last few years, I’ve written my heart out about hardships I’ve endured throughout the year, missed opportunities, and moments of joy and gratitude. Rachel’s podcast really helps me reflect on what I’ve done and what I envision for myself. This year, I haven’t finished the full ritual, but I did flip back and read my intentions for the previous years.

I’m so incredibly proud to report, that I successfully completed about 5% of the goals I set for myself!

(Come on, that’s success no?!) My biggest win was finally getting to see some of the world, and it seems that travel took a big chunk of my headspace last year.

So, in the “processing phase,” I couldn’t keep my mind focused on the thing I’m supposed to be focused on. Instead of reflecting, I kept anxiously wanting to set a list of 100 new bucket list items. I kept thinking about what I want to accomplish or change in the upcoming year. Eventually, I realized that most of my unrealized hopes and dreams from last year, should probably pack themselves up in a little suitcase and come along for the ride with me this year. It seems that as I’m getting a bit older, my goals are becoming less expansive, and numbered, but a bit more redundant. I think perhaps, dare I say, GROWTH has occurred?!

One of the lessons I feel I’m meant to take from the last year, is that I really suck at moving slowly and seeing things to the end. I get excited about projects, fervently start them, then get bored and give up, especially the ones that are slow and take a long time to build and grow. I also must admit that I do not handle things not moving on MY timeline. (Can we keep it moving please?!) I want it to get done, now – even if it means I sacrifice sleep or friend-time or dinner, or whatever it might be. It’s hard to change at baseline, and even harder since it has served me so well to this point in my life. What if I chill out and get FIRED?! (Serious thought that runs through my head, constantly.)

I bet I’m not the only one who does this, but I have a tendency to compete with myself on things that do not require competing. I am not going to be the next Van Gogh, but every year I set an “intention” that I’ll start an art practice that I know, deep deep deep down inside I fantasize turning into some studio that “makes it big.” Or say I want to write more, when what I really mean is “I want to writer a best selling novel.” If it’s not meeting that expectation, then it’s a waste of time and effort. So… just maybe… learning how to do things for the mere joy of doing them is where the focus needs to be, using one of those lofty intentions from last year…

So here I am, instead of starting new things, this feels like a year of going back to last year’s goals, gently . Maybe this year, I am meant to not rise like a phoenix from the ashes, but continue working on loving the little bits of me just a tiny bit more.

This year, it’s going to be a new year, with the same me.

XOXO,

Kathy ❤

Each Other’s Light

Before the end of the year – I promised myself to add some art on here. If you squint really hard and turn your head to the left, have some wine and look at it with just one eye – I promise it looks like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Try it!

One of the reasons I love my job is that I get to learn about myself – my limits, my fears, and my anxieties – though others. I happened to be in a session with a patient who spied with her little eye that we use the same digital art app. She showed me her art, and asked to see mine. (What dread! What embarrassment! What fear!)

At the end of our session, anxious and visibly trembling, she blurted out, “You’re the coolest doctor I’ve ever had! That looks like something hanging in a really cool contemporary house! You’re like, a real person, who I can actually connect with. Would you please be my therapist?” [Cue awkward pause as these sessions were only supposed to be a bridge until she connects with another provider] “I’ve always been afraid to say the things I want, but I’ve met with you a few times, and you make me feel safe, and comfortable, and like it’s ok to not be perfect.”

If only she knew how imperfect we all are, and how much her sincerity impacted me today. Sometimes, we’re just each other’s light after all.

XOXO,

Kathy ❤

Self-Love: A Tall Tale

I have had a long and complicated relationship with myself for a pretty long time. My official Facebook status, if anyone is using that anymore, would be “complicated – in relationship with myself.” I haven’t been one to be particularly confident in myself. I can certainly name more things I dislike about myself than things I like, I always think I have at least ten pounds to lose, I look at every freckle, wrinkle, stretch mark and gray hair and think of how disgusting I must be to others. How am I not able to take care of all of the things my life requires and still look like a glowing Beyoncé? The last time I FaceTimed with my mom, she reminded me to make sure I color my hair because my grays are showing and that I should consider a vacation in the sun because I am too pale. (Both are, in fact, accurate… In case you were wondering.)

My self-loathing expands from my physical attributes to my cognitive abilities and charm. I assume that anything I say in public is boring, offensive, or unsolicited. Even within my own group of friends, I tend to opt for the cleaner-upper and drink-maker over the fun, playful, easygoing guest-chatter-er. “Am I being too much or too little?” “Am I saying too much or not enough?” “Do I sound like a complete idiot?” “Does that person ACTUALLY think I’m funny or are they just being nice?”

I now know that much of this comes from my childhood. And of course. Adulthood. And probably also medical training. Medical training amplifies everything that isn’t perfect. Every patient interaction is critiqued with nebulous standards and changing expectations. Everything feels judged and there’s a constant reminder looming above our heads of how little we actually know. Even now, with the almighty “attending” title, I still feel like there are very few moments where I am not reminded of how much I don’t know.

Late at night is when my brain wonders if that thing I said at the dinner table 6 years ago is actually scrutinized by anyone else the way it is by me. And there isn’t actually a right answer because if yes, then please put me in a cave, like Jesus without the resurrecting part (and the gift to make wine from water) because how cringeworthy is that??? If no one remembers, then nothing matters. I’m going to take the subway and get off at the next stop – “existential crisis,” and reflect on my worthless contributions to society. (Nietzsche, Camus, Sartre, Kierkegaard – you guys want to come by for a drink? I hear misery loves company…)

One of the transient self-motivating phases was the “reading allllllllll the motivational things on the internet phase.” I used to tell myself,“if I read enough of these things, I’ll actually feel that way myself.” Well. Not exactly. Eventually. I got so sick of the mindfulness, self-love, rah rah keep at it, I couldn’t stand it. It started to all sounds the same and can be dwindled down to a few themes:

Don’t look back (but also don’t forget where your roots are and def overanalyze everything you did to not do it ever again)
Don’t stress about the future (because telling someone not to stress about the future is the best way for them not to stress about the future)
Don’t be too lazy about planning your future (but also don’t plan too much ahead)
Love yourself for who you are (and others will love you. Also, you learn to love yourself through others so you can’t love yourself until others love you first. Just try one and see where it goes??)
Set and maintain boundaries (except for when you don’t know how, or don’t do it, in which case, then you can just blame the other person for the problem)
What’s meant for you will find it’s way to you (without you having to do anything, no directions, nothing. We’re in the 21st century. Have you tried Google Maps?)
It’s ok to be sad/angry/whatever but don’t dwell in it (but also make sure to be in it long enough to feel it and process it and walk through it)
Much of who we are now, comes from our childhood (and maybe this little phase of our lives called adolescence? And adult experiences? Have we considered culture? Society? Ethnicity?)
Do the work on yourself for yourself (just remember, no one else matters and no one else is affected by you when you’re a complete raging bitch. Just you. Always.)
Just Be (almost like Just Do It – but without the doing part)

Although these were supposed to initially be motivating, I found that over time, I started getting annoyed with the messages. It felt like another failure. All the things that I SHOULD be doing differently, that I am not. Which made me wonder, where do we learn self-love and how do we get good at it? It’s not anyone else’s responsibility to teach me, yet, here I am. A thirty something year old woman (admittedly I have to do the math because I forget my age often and it’s definitely an accident though), who still hasn’t figured it out fully.

What I can say, is that I’m working on it. And what I have learned is that all of those messages are partly true, and partly false (hence the sarcasm). Learning self-love does in part come from accepting yourself, and also from your environment. Do your friends respect you enough that you don’t have to consistently remind them of your boundaries? Are you choosing people that mesh with you in a way that enhances both of your lives? Are your people supportive, kind, welcoming? Does your job value your contributions? Does your partner give you their undivided attention when you have something important to say? How does someone respond to your bids for their attention?

There is so much media in the world that says that you cannot develop self-love if you are in relationship with others. I’m not sure if I fully agree with that.

We cannot live in a vacuum of aloneness and self-help books, and assume they are healing us. We cannot feel the joy of being heard, if we aren’t talking to anyone else.

Scruffles, albeit an excellent listener, he is not much of a conversationalist. Do I think he loves me? Yes. Do I think he really gets who “me” is? No. He loves the guaranteed pats and belly rubs, walks and treats and the steadiness of us. It’s a start. But it’s not the same as the kind of love I receive from my friends. It is impossible to feel that what you have to say, is important to others, if you aren’t with others.

I am not denying the value and importance of self-love. The best model for learning is “see one, do one, teach one” and at the core of all of this, is the other. With that said, I have grown to love myself by the help and love of those around me.

My advice to my younger self would be: “don’t change a single thing, you’ll get to where you need to be, but you can’t do it alone, it’s totally fine if you are lost at any point, and please let someone else hold the light for you.” (Also – now is as good time as any to figure out which way north is. Your older self still doesn’t know. Just. Saying.)

XOXO,

Kathy ❤️

Coins from Heaven

I initially wrote this post a long time ago, and never got comfortable enough to share it. Maybe it felt a bit too vulnerable, too corny, too serious, too close to my heart, or simply too boring. No major “Aha!” moment here. No major wisdom. It’s probably the experience of anyone and everyone who has lost a loved one. Given that the anniversary of my grandmother’s death is approaching, I am having all sorts of feelings, and it seemed like maybe this could be a way to mourn her absence and celebrate her magic.

I often talk about my grandmother as being the light in the rocky and treacherous ocean of my childhood. She was sometimes more of a mom, than my own mom was. This is not meant as any offense to my mom, she did the very best she could being an immigrant with two children and very little English language skills. I respect her struggle, her hustle, her sacrifice, her discipline, and strive to be like her in so many ways. Grandparents, on the other hand, have the luxury of grandchildren usually not being theirs. If she got tired of me, she could return me back to where I came from, and go about her merry way.

“Grams,” as my sister and I called her, taught me the multiplication tables, sat with me when I did my homework, taught me my prayers, made sure I ate my dinner, didn’t let me get away with the old “my watch stopped, sorry I stayed out too late” trick, and let me snuggle up next to her when there was a thunderstorm outside. (I was, and still am, a baby when it came to Zeus throwing lightning bolts from the sky. I will proudly share with you that I have now graduated to my Scruffles taking over my grandmother’s role.)

It’s easy to see how and why she was one of my favorite people in the world. She was kind, she was patient, she was firm, she was gentle, she was caring, she was strong. She was, as cool people say on the internet, “all the things.” Folks, this woman escaped from Auschwitz, raised her children alone, was separated from her siblings both geographically and over time culturally, and she still figured it out.

Closer to her death, her dementia was quite pronounced, and I’m not sure if she knew who anyone was most of the time in the last years of her life. She would often get lost and wander in the street, or forget to eat, leave the stove on, and did not recognize most people. Ultimately, she was moved into a nursing facility and that was the last time I ever saw her. I remember the week before she died, my mother woke me up in the middle of the night, asked me to come downstairs. “Babcia dzwoniła i się pyta o ciebie!!!! CHODZ!” My grandmother called my mom, and in the middle of the night, specifically asked to speak to me. (Her favorite granddaughter, I’m convinced ;)). I was a brat, I was angry at my parents for everything and I was not going to comply with ANY requests coming from either of them. I told her that I was too tired to get out of bed and that I’d call her another time.

Of course, there was no other time. That was the last time anyone spoke with her, and the next phone call we received was that she had passed. (Yes, mascara stained tears are running down my face as I write this. Should have opted for the waterproof kind.)

I still miss her. Deeply. Countless number of times since her passing, I have desperately wished she was around. I wish I could share the big and little details of my life with her, tell her about my life in NYC, my heartbreaks, my joys, introduce her my beloved Scruffles (whom I am fairly convinced she sent to me), laugh with her, say the rosary with her, recite my multiplication tables, have tea together, play BINGO, and ask her for advice.

I’m not sure where I stand on religion these days, and although I was raised Catholic, I certainly have questioned my faith over the last 10 years. I still do. Is there really only one God? If that’s true, then does everyone think that their God is the one? Or, maybe it is just one God and we all interpret it differently? Or maybe there isn’t a God? Or maybe we just call God, “God” but it’s actually a collective understanding and evolution of morality and interpersonal connectedness. What if, my family picked the wrong one to believe in and I’m screwed when it comes to the afterlife? Or what if my friends picked the wrong one? Are they in trouble? Who knows? I certainly don’t have the answers, but I have to say, every once in a while, I do like to say a prayer, or pop into a church to adore the stained glass, mediate, and feel that sense of inner peace in the solitude and silence of the church. Other times, it’s nice to believe that there is something greater out there.

Despite my questioning, I do find comfort in certain elements of Catholicism. Rather, my family’s interpretation of it. I appreciate that Christmas Eve mass is an expected and ceremonious night filled with food, candles, formal attire, and beautiful singing. I appreciate the gathering of friends and loved ones, and most importantly, the mountains of delicious Polish cookies my momma bakes. I appreciate that our tradition includes setting an extra plate on the table for our deceased, so that they feel welcome to visit us that night, and the constant reminder that our loved ones remain with us in some ways.

Am I actually proposing that the ghost of my grandmother is following me around? It sounds creepy AF, but in some way, I like knowing that she’s around (somewhere – hopefully not the shower or my closet), checking in on me every once in a while.

I sometimes talk to my grandmother. I lay in my comfy cozy warm bed, thinking about what my conversation would sound like. Usually, I’ve probably had either a glass too much of wine or can’t sleep because I am lost, confused, sad or just need some direction. “Grams, if you’re listening, I really need you right now. I miss you, I don’t know what I should do and I need your help.”

Maybe I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, or maybe I’ve seen too many feel-good TV shows, but every once in a while, I truly believe that she actually does listen. I’ve been in a rut lately and have been asking for a sign that she’s there, that I’ll figure my stuff out. I took Scruffles out for a walk, and guess what I found. A handful of coins! I’m not sure if this just means that a Leprechaun lost some of his gold, a pirate was hiding his treasure in my neighborhood, or if my “Grams” just wanted to remind me that she’s got my back, and she’s still listening. I like that idea the most, and that it serves as a reminder to me that I’ll figure it out. Whatever it is. I always do.

Grams, if you’re listening: I miss you so much. Thank you for sending my Scruffles!

XOXO

Kathy ❤

After the Last Guest Leaves

Earlier in the year, I had a few weeks that were a flurry of social gatherings. Birthdays, dinner nights, wine nights and just a good ol’ catch up sesh. I love taking the time to create an elegant charcuterie board, make a nice dinner, light candles (in case you didn’t know, my love of candles parallels my love of wine), pour a glass of wine, and enjoy the night.

I have often talked about how I found myself in the moments of solitude during the pandemic, and that the time alone helped me try my hand at new things (sourdough bread anyone? How about some alcohol ink painted cups? Poached eggs on toast? Croissants?). It was both the loneliest and happiest I ever felt. Since then, relationships I had sustained or grown with friends were the ones that followed into post-lockdown era of my life.

I often think about the walls of my home and what they have witnessed (dum dum dum, cue the dramatic music). I often think about the laughs that I’ve had. The tears I have bawled. The conversations about life, love and everything in between. Candlelit dancing in the kitchen and the impromptu wine nights. Card game nights. The start of friendships. Squeals of laughter. Tarot readings. Birthday candles. Martini nights. Champagne to celebrate successes and milestones that have been reached. Many glasses of wine to soothe the crippling ache of a tired and tattered soul.

My home has been a place that has seen the sweet and sour morsels that make up life.

In the last few weeks of February, my home hosted several dear friends’ birthday parties. I was given the honor to offer my home to celebrate two very special people in my life. We had cocktails, dined, wined and champagned, shared in our joys, dreams, goals and accomplishments and most importantly, enjoy each other’s company.

“Holy crap, we are living in a dream. This is what we talked about wanting for so many years… And it’s actually real!!!”

After the last guest leaves though, is my favorite moment of the night. (It’s also usually preceded with a sigh of relief that the night was a success – “Ok, I think that went well??? Whew!”) I usually have some music serenading in the background, candles flickering, leaving dancing shadows on the walls, just as they are about to use their last breaths of the evening to illuminate my joyful dance of cleaning up. I usually take a moment to just take it in. It feels surreal to me sometimes, as if it’s a scene from a movie. And (judge me if you want… I’m fine with it) I feel like I’m the main character. My Carrie Bradshaw moments, without the Manolos. (those are a work in progress).

Even without the shoes – and this is a shock I’m sure – I have an overwhelming sense of contentment. The first moment after the evening where I can collect my thoughts and reflect on my feelings. I often think to myself how lucky I am to be floating in the sky so high above the city, the glimmer of the lights peering in through my windows, having just spent a beautiful night with my friends.

I always think to myself, “How lucky am I that I actually have friends to invite to get to clean up after?”

After the last guest, my time cleaning is not a chore, but an extension of the night.

XOXO,

Kathy ❤