That thing that almost killed you? Well, it didn’t. So now it’s likely your new purpose in this life.

My teenage daughter and I temporarily tatted up for an inspiring local event called IGNITE, some years ago. We got inked with one word that intoned what I was ever longingly looking for at the time—purpose.

The only thing I’ve ever truly wanted to be without any doubt was a mom. Beyond raising my children, and being lucky to be able to, I was never sure what my life’s purpose was in addition to being a loving parent. Or how to find it. The problem was more often than not, this left me feeling unsettled and unfulfilled.

Continue reading “That thing that almost killed you? Well, it didn’t. So now it’s likely your new purpose in this life.”

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.

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.”

The reason we end our silence and finally disclose our sexual abuse.

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.”