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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In my recent Google search for stories about forgiveness, I came across  The Forgiveness Project. Founded in 2004 by journalist Marina Cantacuzino, The Forgiveness Project provides resources to help people explore and work through their own, unresolved grievances. The project collects testimonies from victims of all kinds of violence whose resilience acts as a powerful antidote to hate and brutality. The purpose of the project is an open-hearted one: to show  that “restorative narratives have the power to transform lives; not only supporting people to move on from harm or trauma, but also building a climate of tolerance, resilience, hope and empathy.”

My personal journey toward forgiveness started nearly 16 years ago, when I was struck down my an older driver at the Santa Monica Farmers Market. The driver, 86-year-old Russell Weller, confused the gas pedal with the brake of his Buick LeSabre and barreled through the market at upwards of 60 miles an hour. He killed 10 pedestrians and injured another 63 of us. My life came to a screeching halt the moment the Buick slammed into me, sending me airborne, my body hitting the pavement with a smack, jarring my brain, rupturing my spleen, and shattering my pelvis. At the scene of the accident, Weller was heard by witnesses to say, “If you saw me coming, why didn’t you get out of my way?” And he refused to offer a meaningful apology to any of the injured or loved ones of the deceased.

Given Weller’s lack of remorse, I didn’t know how to forgive him, if I could forgive him. Later, when I read about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, I thought, come on, Melissa. If people who have been victims of some of the most horrific crimes (the Rwanda genocide, for instance) can forgive their perpetrators, then why can’t I forgive Weller? He didn’t intentionally kill or hurt people. It was an accident.

Then I learned about the Forgiveness Project, and, once again, felt like crap about myself for my wavering approach toward forgiving Weller. Is it even possible to absolutely forgive? Is it possible to forgive one day, then unforgive the next? Is “unforgive” a word? Why do we forgive anyway? Who benefits from forgiveness? My head sometimes goes bonkers with such questions, and I wish I knew the answers. But I don’t. What I do know is that I am still a student of inquiry into forgiveness. My forgiveness journey is far from over; I’m not sure there is such a thing as “over.”  I’m fine with that. As The Forgiveness Project demonstrates, there are “no set rules or time limits.”

As a writer, the hardest part for me is getting the words on the page, meaning this: my brain manages to arrange precisely what it is I want to write, but once I sit my butt in the chair, and face the screen, my brain slams its door shut. If only I had the key to that door, quick access to the words so beautifully aligned in my head. But, alas, I do not have such a key. Instead, I keep at it, and sometimes find myself sitting in front of the computer for an hour before coming up with a sentence I’m half-willing to share with the world.

Herein lies the problem: I fret way too much over every single word I write. I worry too much about what others will think of me and my writing once they read my work. Sure, there are days when my fingers dance a smooth Rumba across the keyboard, but those days are few and far between. What do I do about this? While it would be nice if I did have a key for the times my brain locks me out, I might lose it. Then what? What I need to do is build my own door, open it up all the way, and invite into my writing home whatever comes my way. What I need to do is loosen up a little more, to be a little more brave, a little more willing to do a Rumba.

If I’ve learned from anyone what it takes to do the narrative dance with abandon, it’s my brother-in-law Chris. Though he’s not a writer, he does know how to let go and be himself. What I admire the most about him is his so-what? attitude. He doesn’t empty his mental gas tank worrying about what others might think of him when he shares what he needs to share in the moment. In other words, he is as authentic as authentic gets. As long as I’ve known him (15 years), he has spoken his emotional truth, and has blown me away with how easily and calmly he speaks about all things real and human without censorship or self-judgement.

Because Chris is a self-described non-writer, and usually prefers to engage in live discussions with people, rather than texting, emailing, or sending letters, I was shocked and delighted when he texted his siblings and other close family a brief synopsis of his experience during his recent road-trip from Vermont to Florida. (For context: Chris was his mother’s caregiver for nearly two years, the reason why he did not hike the Appalachian Trail. She lived at OLP for a year, and passed away on November 21, 2018)

Let me write this down and share it, as time has a way of at least dulling my memories. On my adventure to Florida, I stopped at Johnson City, Tennessee. The next morning, I left and started south on Interstate 26. It’s difficult to describe on paper the majestic vistas I witnessed. The sheer power of the mountains as I traveled through the Smokies, Cherokee National Park, and the Appalachia Trail. I could not help have thoughts of regretting my decision in 2016 to not hike the AT. All the things I could have seen and experienced danced through my head. Daydreaming was definitely prevalent, but reality set in and navigating Atlanta was on my mind. South of Atlanta my mind once again drifted, but this time it was filled with visions of Mom. I will only try to describe one of the many that popped into my mind that afternoon. I am sitting with Mom – the place could be in Florida or OLP (Our Lady of Providence Residential Care Facility). Mom is eating a cookie, or could be candy, or ice-cream, that part doesn’t matter. I am cooking Mom some fish and a veggie. I mention to Mom to save room for dinner as she takes another bite of her goody of the day. Mom looks at me and tells me that she’s not hungry. I say nothing as she looks at me, daring me to contradict her. When I say nothing, she goes back to what she was doing, but I can’t help seeing an impish little smile that tells me she has won again, and is still in control. That night, as I fell asleep, my only thought was that I have no regrets. Majestic Mom and the real memories outweigh the majestic mountains and the wannabe memories. This will the last time I write something like this.

During a recent family gathering, I asked Chris what he meant by the last sentence in his text. To be honest, I was afraid of what he might say. You see, Chris has stage 4 lung cancer, and anytime he mentions the word “last” my overthinking brain raises its worry flag.

When he gave me a long goggle-eyed stare, I wanted to curl up and crawl inside myself.

Then he said, “Because it took me all day to write it. It was mentally exhausting.”

He smiled (thank goodness), which gave me permission to smile too, and we both nodded in agreement at one another.

But here’s the pearl of wisdom Chris so kindly offered, and which I quickly hung on a sturdy hook in my brain: “I wanted to write something during my trip,” he said, “but my head wasn’t in the mental space. Yesterday it was, so that’s when I wrote it.”

Because I’m a writer, I think I should write every day, seven days a week. But there are days when my “mental space” is closed, maybe because it’s out of town for a long-weekend, or it’s come down with a bad cold and needs a day or two on the couch, or maybe it simply needs a timeout. I think I just might do that: take a timeout the next time I’m sitting at the computer, and my brain slams its door on me. Yes, I think I will do that. And not regret it.

Chris’s cancer diagnosis has smacked him in the face with his own mortality, and it doesn’t take much to physically and mentally wear him down these days, but I know he has plenty of pearls left. And I can’t wait to open up his next serving of oysters.

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!