I spent this past weekend being human at the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Healing. That is, I spent this past weekend letting go and not giving a fuck with Jennifer Pastiloff. Yoga instructor, author, and founder of the online magazine The Manifest-Station, Jennifer is known for her workshop, On Being Human, where women from all over come together to dance, to sing out loud, to write whatever comes to the page, and to share their deepest pains and enduring dreams. If someone were to ask me to choose a single word to describe Jennifer, that word would be lovable. But she’s more than one thing. She is energy, a safe zone, a kick-ass hugger and hand-holder, a super-fun dance partner, a really good listener, an empath. The list could fill my bookshelf.

A friend of mine, who has attended Jennifer’s On Being Human workshop year after year at Kripalu, had told me all about her. I  had also read Jennifer’s posts on The Manifest-Station, followed her on social media, and devoured her book, On Being Human, A Memoir of Waking Up, Living Real, and Listening Hard. Much of what she had to share – her sense of shame and guilt, not feeling good enough, the need to be heard and told “I’ve got you” –  made me think she had written the book just for me. Which is why, after months of inventing one lame reason after the other for why I couldn’t go, I finally decided it was time to get off my scared ass and drive the three-and-a-half hours to Kripalu this past weekend. Why I was so afraid to take Jennifer’s On Being Human workshop I can’t explain. Wait, that’s a lie. The truth is this: The unknown scares the crap out of me sometimes. I had no idea what my experience would be like in Jennifer’s workshop. But we only know when we do, right? So I did. Yes, I thought I’d shit my pants on my way to Kripalu, wondering if I really had it in me to let go and be vulnerable in front of dozens of women I had never met.

I did not shit my pants, but I did sweat, a lot. If anything, the 95-degree heat made it easier to say, “Fuck you fear.” It took too much energy to think, I don’t belong here … I can’t dance … I can’t sing … I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. And the heat melted my body into a let-go puddle. So I had no choice but to dance like a dork, sing “Landslide” and “Don’t Stop Believin'” out of tune while doing Downward-Facing Dog, sing into an orange crayon-turned-microphone, play the air drums with a crayon, cry, and, as Jennifer says, “let snot fly.” It felt good, damn good.

At the end of the weekend, I left with a backpack full of what I call “Pastiloff Vitamins.” I take them everyday, with a large glass of “I am good enough, and don’t fucking forget that.”

I even have some samples of her vitamins for you:

“Ask. Don’t let ‘no’ stop you.”

“Daydream for five minutes every day.”

“Go ‘beauty hunting’. Make something beautiful.”

“Shoulds are assholes.”

“Everything has to be moment to moment, because that’s all we have.”

“Be a human thank you.”

“Say ‘yes’ to yourself.”

“Trust in the timing of your life.”

“Invite ease into your life.”

“Find joy for no reason.”

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For some, the holidays can be hard, really hard. In the backdrop of all the holly-jolly, the eggnog and cookies, the faith-filled choral music, and Christmas carolers spreading good cheer through glittered neighborhoods, there are those of us who can’t help but feel a little sad as we think of loved ones we’ve lost over the past year. I lost my father in September, and my mother-in-law the day before Thanksgiving. So how do we manage our sadness, let ourselves be with the pain as it comes, often in unexpected ways and at unexpected moments? Things. There is meaning in things, not random any-old things, but things that keep us close and connected to those we wish were still here. For me, there is meaning in the necklace my father gave me for my birthday years ago, though that meaning didn’t become apparent to me until after he was gone. I remember feeling warmed by his gift at the time he gave it to me, warmed by how he had taken my grandmother’s pearl ring to a jeweler and had it made into a necklace for me. I don’t know why I didn’t wear it (maybe because it was so fragile), but I didn’t. I put it in my jewelry box and forgot all about it. Then, a few weeks ago, when I was going through old jewelry, I found the necklace coiled up in a knotted mess. Overwhelming emotion flooded through me as I carefully picked apart the knot then slipped on the necklace. At that moment, I missed my father more than I had in weeks. How strange it is that things like this mean so much more to us, (or is it just me that feels this way?) after a loved one is gone. Maybe it’s not as strange as we think. When we lose someone we love we do all we can, as in holding close to us certain meaningful things, to keep them alive, right? Unless it’s someone you’d prefer to forget, but I’ll save that topic for another day, maybe.

For my husband, he wears his mother’s hats she crocheted over the years. I wear them too. And we cuddle in her crocheted afghans. My husband also keeps left-over yarn she never had the chance to use, bakes Christmas cookies using her hand-me-down recipes, sings her favorite songs, and listens to recordings of her voice.

Sometimes things carry weight, emotional weight, but how lucky we are to have them at all, to know, for instance, that the necklace, the hats and afghans, the recipes, you name it, are present and enduring.

If you’re among the grieving this holiday season, I hope you too have that one (or two or three) meaningful things by your side to help you manage through the loss and pain and sadness.

And please remember …

I’m on your side.

I unabashedly admit that I have an anxiety disorder, two actually: generalized anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder. While I’m not always a good student of self-care for anxiety, I do try my best each day to find little things to slow my mind’s engine from revving too high. If you’re among the anxiety disordered, you probably get it – the overthinking; the fretting over this and that; the what if, what if, what if; and the hyper-vigilance, if you have PTSD. The upside to all this is: You’re among good company.

Anxiety disorders affect 40 million adults in the United States each year. These disorders are the number one mental health issue among women, and the second among men. No worries if it so happens that you haven’t had the fortune of being DSM coded with one of these disorders; if you’re among the countless numbers of us who are unsure about the future of our nation, that’s enough to make you go bonkers. And with the holiday season fast approaching, ugh! Talk about an anxiety disordered person’s nightmare – crowed stores, traffic, “Jingle Bells” following you everywhere, pressure to spend just the right amount on a yankee swamp gift. Having an anxiety disorder is sometimes all consuming, mentally exhausting, predatory-like. There are days when I think of my anxiety disorders as the worst roommates I’ve ever had. If you get what I’m saying here, are you wondering how to kick your roommates (or roommate) out of your head and body for good? I wish I could say I had the one-size-fits all answer, but, alas, I do not. However, I do have a self-care for anxiety practice that might help during those most difficult, wonky-crazy moments when you can’t seem to get out of your own way.

After treating myself to a massage/reiki treatment a last month, the therapist asked if I had ever had any surgeries to my pelvic and abdominal area. I almost choked on my tongue. Yes, I had had surgeries: three abdominal and two pelvic. “I felt an outpouring, like hemorrhaging from those areas,” she said.  This could not be good, I thought,  but I had to ask anyway, because that’s what anxious people do, ask and ask again, just to be sure. “No,” she affirmed. “It is not good. You need that energy coming out of you for balance, to ground you.” Yikes, I thought. How much had I bled? What blood type matches imbalance negative? How many pints of blood do I need to bring my balance count back within the normal range?

Of course, she didn’t leave me bleeding all over the place. She looked at me with kind eyes and said I needed to give myself  some love and attention, a bit of self-care for anxiety. Because physical touch alone helps to reduce stress and anxiety, she encouraged me to place a hand over my pelvic/belly area each night while lying in bed. Then, with my eyes closed, tell myself that I am good. I am good enough. I am okay.

And so that’s what I’ve been doing. Sometimes I do forget, but I make up for it during my ten or fifteen minute periods of meditation. During those self-care for anxiety moments, I fill my head with not only good enough, I open myself up to all kinds of friendly  words: smile, joy, yellow, puppy, sunshine, laughter, starlight, full moon, beach, ocean, green, breath, bare feet, grass, warm bath, love, hugs, candle, art, cozy, blue, hope. Certain words often circle around again, which is just fine with me – there’s no such thing as too many smiles, full moons, hugs, or puppies, especially puppies.

I now leave you to fill your head with a lavender bath, soak for as long as you need to with your hand over the part of your body that is bleeding the most, and give yourself the transfusion you deserve: maybe it’s a  field of purple Calla Lilies or a walk in the woods, a warm cup of chamomile tea, or a love note to yourself.

Be well my dear friends.

Oh, one more thing: Don’t fret over the lumps in the gravy this Thanksgiving, because, as my mother likes to say, “It will only get worse.”

Do you suffer from imposter syndrome, the belief that you’re not really a writer, a photographer, an inspirational speaker? And how often to you hear people say, “Just get over it” or “Stop feeling bad for yourself.” Do those responses make you want to scratch someone’s eyes out? Well, if so, you’re not alone. I get it, believe me. But that doesn’t mean self-doubt should be running your brain’s control tower. While I told myself this day after day, over too many years to count, I continued to let self-doubt into my mind’s home. Self-doubt followed me into the bedroom each night, into the kitchen while I waited for the teakettle to come to a boil, and sat next to me at the dinner table, at my desk.

But I recently kicked self-doubt out of my home, and double-locked the door, just in case it tries to break in with the slip of a credit card. I admit, though, I needed a lot of extra emotional muscle to help me follow-through with the eviction. The name behind the muscle is motivational powerhouse, best selling author, and award winning CNN commentator Mel Robbins. A writing peer introduced me to her work, and when I learned that she ran an online class called “How to break the habit of self-doubt and build confidence” I knew I had to sign up. I recently finished the last session (there are a total of 16), and I’m still energized by what I learned, by how much Mel’s class has changed how I think about myself. Believe me, if you take her class, I swear you’ll become a Mel addict.

Mel is honest from the get go, and shares her own difficulties with self-doubt and anxiety. At one point it became so debilitating for her she struggled to get out of bed most mornings. Finally, she came up with what she calls the “5 second rule.” From the moment she talked about her “5 second rule” as a solution to halt the self-doubt loop that plays like a skipping record through our brains, I was hooked. All you have to do is say “5-4-3-2-1” each time your mind is attacked by self-doubt, procrastination, anxious thoughts, worries. So if you can’t seem to drag yourself out of bed in the morning say, “5-4-3-2-1. Get up.” Say it every single morning. Say it each time you hesitate to send that email you’ve been wanting to send to your boss or friend or family member. Say “5-4-3-2-1” then get your butt in the chair, and write for five minutes (Mel quotes research that says most people will continue what they are working on for much longer; it’s the initiation part that slows us down.)

Along with her “5 second” solution to self-doubt, she has a lot more to offer, much of it backed my science: the traps that make us question ourselves, the connection between self-doubt, worry, and anxiety, the five steps toward self-confidence, and how to reframe anxiety into excitement. If finances are tight for you, no worries, you can meet Mel on YouTube  and watch some of her sessions on self-doubt for free. So no justifications, no saying “It won’t work for me” or “I don’t have time.”

One more thing from Mel: “No phone in your bedroom.” Why? Because she wants you to “engage in behaviors that put you in control of your thoughts.” When the phone is next to your bed, what is the first thing you’re going to do when you wake up? Look at your phone. “You’re dreams are not on your phone,” she says. “You’re priorities are not not on your phone. It’s other people’s garbage.”

If hard statistics are what you need to convince you to put the phone away, here it is: The average worker spends 6.3 hours a day on emails. According to a Time Magazine article, Americans collectively check their smart phones as much as 8 billion times a day. On average, individuals check their phones 46 times a day.

Let’s do this together: Put the phone away. Here, I’ll count with you: 5-4-3-2-1. Do it!

Every Thanksgiving I think about all that I’m grateful for, but this Thanksgiving is different, which isn’t to say I’m not grateful for a heated home, warm clothing, plenty of food in my refrigerator, my husband’s culinary skills, a fluffy pillow on which to lay my head every night, hot tea with local honey every morning, and, of course, family and friends. I am grateful for all of those things, and much more, including the time I cherish for writing. So how is this year different? The ever-widening wake of divisiveness ripping through our country, and beyond, has knocked the wind out of me with such great force that I’m finding it difficult to breath deeply these days, deeply enough so that I am fully sated with gratitude. (Just so you know that wasn’t easy to admit.) For as long as I can recall, no uninvited change of events, or individual, not even someone the likes of _______ (I still can’t say his name) has left me so winded.

But, as I write this somewhat depressing post (it gets better, I promise), I realize that, hey, it’s Thanksgiving, and I cannot, will not, let ______, or the divisiveness, continue to deprive me of the air I need to take full breaths. After all, if I don’t, what good am I? If I don’t breath in all the gratitude my belly can house, then I’m giving up. And isn’t giving up a selfish act? Just writing that makes me queasy. So, what next? My closest confidante tells me to act. But easier said than done, right? Maybe not. Maybe to act means starting small, even if small doesn’t seem like enough. Maybe to act means to listen – to others, all kinds of others. Closely. Maybe to act means to be proactive; to ask what others need before they have to ask for that need; to offer food or drink or a hat to people on the street before they have to beg for it; to speak out and give on behalf of others who have been tongue whipped into believing they have no voice at all.

I think I’ll act this Thanksgiving by asking my eleven-year old niece if she has any ideas about how to be proactive since  _______ was elected. Who knows, maybe she’ll come up with one, or two or three, that will knock the wind out of me – that kind of breathlessness I welcome.

I hope you, too, will follow along, and fully breathe with me, because, hey, I need you; no one can do it alone. With that, I offer you a heaping serving of gratitude for listening to me. Thank you. Wishing each and everyone of you a happy Thanksgiving.

P.S.

For dessert, here’s what else I’m grateful for:

My mother-in-law’s stories, and crocheted hats

The change in seasons

The awareness to listen

Sleep

Warm baths

Good wine

Good books

Flowers any day of the week

A lit candle

Things that make me laugh

Anything that makes me cry

A homeless man who says he likes my smile and to keep smiling

The time to volunteer

Visiting with my ninety-four-year-old neighbor

Pain (a reminder that I’m alive)

Relief from pain

My mother’s every-other-day phone calls

The nursing home staff who take good care of my father

My brother’s generosity, and humor; and his wife’s cheerful spirit

My three stepdaughters, who don’t mind my quirks

My niece, who still likes to play with my hair

My eight-year-old nephew, who still lets me give him smooches on the cheek

Chimes singing with the wind

Rabbits

The smell of a newborn baby

Holding a baby (someone else’s baby)

Walking barefoot in the sand or grass

Popcorn, lots of popcorn

Dark chocolate

My husband’s hands on my feet

My husband singing to me

A dog’s wagging tail

Personalized cards in the mail

All of those who have helped me become the writer I am today

Quiet time

Surviving

Being alive