Our personal regrets are powerful in how they work to shape us into the people we want to be. But our accomplishments are even more adept at molding us.
I’ve got an old suitcase bulging at the seams with regret. I don’t lug its oppressive heft around with me on the regular, but I do hold onto it because it’s packed with important reminders of unsavory venues I’ve visited—places I never want to return to.
I’ve never been able to comprehend it when someone insists, “I have no regrets.” I can’t fathom how that can be true. I wonder whether it’s a sentiment possibly born of faulty hindsight. Or perhaps some false bravado. I do understand, though, that we’re better served and better able to serve others by focusing on all that we don’t regret more than all that we do.
Continue reading “To Admit Your Regrets Or Not To; That Is The Question”
I typically tell someone I’m sorry for something 3 to 4 times a day. Lately, though, I catch myself before I apologize. Because I’ve realized in truth I’m not sorry, not even at all, and I’m not even sorry I’m not sorry, either.
Continue reading “No Longer Sorry: A Long Overdue New Rally Cry For The Warrior In Each Of Us”
Are you like me? Do you also have a secret (or a few) you don’t want to tell anyone? I get it. I do. One reason we choose not to share with others the toxic Twinkies our shame-filled secrets are, is we think we know how people will feel about us if we disclose our darkness. Because of the unsavory way we feel about ourselves over our missteps.
The night my husband confessed his affair to me, I learned volumes about secrets; including why we attempt to keep them and the negative effects of doing so. At 2:00am, too wracked with gut-wrenching guilt over what he knew he needed to tell me, he hadn’t yet been to sleep. The terror of having to tell me what he’d done had wired his brain to static awake. Long before he found the courage to speak, his palpably anxious energy woke me. Upon hearing me stir, he haltingly declared, “Jodie, I have to tell you something.”
Continue reading “Ending your too-long struggle with secrecy and shame: tell your hard story to break the heavy bonds of self-imposed silence and finally begin to heal fully.”
I was 10 years old when my ongoing sexual abuse at the hands of a male relative finally ended. I don’t remember how old I was when he began molesting me, only that I was too young to understand what was happening and what it was called. Or that it was criminal and demented and anything but ok.
My abuse ended not because I spoke up and told someone what was happening to me, but because my abuser was caught abusing another little girl. I so wish 6, 7, 8, or 9 years old me had been able to speak up, to put an end to the damage he was doing before he could do it to another.
I don’t recall the specific tactics my molester used to ensure I wouldn’t talk. Only that they worked for years. Had I not been asked point blank if he had touched me or hurt me I’m not sure if I ever would have disclosed the abuse of my own volition.
And here’s why.
Continue reading “The reason we end our silence and finally disclose our sexual abuse.”
I don’t typically give advice, because I don’t really have any. But also and mostly because I don’t think people like to be told what to do. And in most contexts, I think ‘should’ is a dirty word. I don’t mind making a call to action when I see the need for one though, and this, this is that.
Continue reading “Not Even Sorry, Not Sorry: A Long Overdue New Battle Cry For The Warrior In Us All”