Toni Peters – Author

Tag: life

  • He Was Going Blind When He Wrote About Sight

    The help was there the whole time. I just couldn't see it yet. On Basil King, 2 Kings 6, and why boldness comes before proof.

    The help was there the whole time. I just couldn’t see it yet.

    There’s a moment in 2 Kings that I keep coming back to.

    The prophet Elisha is in a little town called Dothan. Overnight, an enemy king surrounds the place with horses and chariots and a whole army, sent for the sole purpose of capturing one man. Elisha’s servant gets up early, walks outside, and sees it. An army. Everywhere he looks. Between him and every exit.

    And he does what any of us would do. He panics.

    “Alas, my master! What are we going to do?”

    I love him for that, honestly. It’s such a human thing to say. He’s not being weak. He’s looking at the actual situation with his actual eyes, and the actual situation is terrifying. There is an army out there. He isn’t imagining it.

    Here’s what gets me every time. Elisha isn’t afraid. Not even a little. He tells the servant, “Don’t be afraid. Those who are with us are more than those who are with them.”

    Which, if you’re the servant, sounds insane. More than them? Have you looked outside? There’s nobody there. It’s the two of us and a very powerful, dangerous problem.

    But Elisha isn’t counting the same way his servant is counting. So he prays one of the shortest, most important prayers in the whole Bible. He doesn’t pray for reinforcements. He doesn’t pray for the army to disappear. He prays: Lord, open his eyes so he can see.

    And the servant’s eyes are opened. And the hills all around them are full of horses and chariots of fire.

    They were there the whole time.

    That’s the part I need you to sit with. The chariots didn’t show up because Elisha prayed. They didn’t arrive as backup once things got scary. They were already on the hills when the servant walked outside terrified. He just couldn’t see them from where he was standing, in the dark, with his heart in his throat.

    I collect quotes the way some people collect anything else. I find them in all kinds of places, and when one stops me, I keep it. This one stopped me. And when I went looking for the man who said it, what I found made the words hit even harder.

    Dry golden grass field with distant rolling hills


    Basil King was a priest. He was also going blind. He spent years watching his sight fail, agonizing over the day it would go dark for good, and out of that fear he wrote a whole book about conquering it. The Conquest of Fear, he called it. Which means the man who wrote about unexpected forces closing round you — forces you cannot see — was losing his own eyes while he wrote it. He knew something about facing a thing you can’t see your way out of.

    “Go at it boldly, and you’ll find unexpected forces closing round you and coming to your aid.”

    When I first read that, I understood it backwards. I thought it was a reward system. Be brave, and then the help arrives. Take the leap, and then the net appears. Earn the courage, and God sends the chariots to say good job.

    That reading took up precious rental space in my brain for longer than I’d like to admit. And it kept me stuck, because I was always waiting to feel brave enough to deserve the help. I was standing at the edge of the city looking at the army, waiting for the chariots to show themselves before I’d take a single step. Prove to me it’s safe, and I’ll go.

    That’s not how it works. 2 Kings 6 shows you exactly how it works, and it’s harder, and it’s so much better.

    The forces are already there. King isn’t promising that boldness summons them. He’s telling you they’re already closing round you, on the hills, whether your eyes are open or not. Boldness doesn’t create the chariots. Boldness is what you do before you can see them. That’s the whole thing. That’s what makes it faith instead of math.

    Elisha could be calm at the edge of that army because he already knew what was on the hills. The servant couldn’t, because he didn’t. Same town. Same army. Same morning. One of them was terrified and one of them wasn’t, and the only difference was what they could see.

    I want to say something about what God actually does in that story, because I think we get it wrong and it costs us.

    God didn’t give that servant what he would’ve asked for. If you’d handed the servant a pen and let him write his own rescue, he’d have written make the army go away. Or give us a bigger army. Or get me out of this town. Something to fix the situation he could see.

    God didn’t do any of that. The Aramean army was still out there. Nothing about the visible problem changed. What God did was open the man’s eyes so he could see he was already protected. He didn’t grant the want. He met the need.

    And the need underneath the panic wasn’t a bigger army. It was to know he wasn’t alone out there.

    I’ve come to believe that’s how God tends to work with me too. Not by rearranging the army I’m staring at. By showing me what was already on the hills the whole time. I keep asking Him to remove the thing in front of me, and He keeps opening my eyes instead. For a long time that frustrated me. Now I think it might be the more loving answer, because a rescued servant learns nothing, and a servant who’s seen the chariots is never quite as afraid again.

    He cares about the need. Not always the want. And the two are almost never the same thing.

    So let me ask you what I keep asking myself.

    What are you standing at the edge of right now, seeing only the army?

    The thing you haven’t started. The conversation you keep not having. The dream you’ve decided is too big, or too late, or too much for someone like you. You’ve done the math. You’ve counted what’s with you and what’s against you, and the against column is winning, and so you’re waiting. Waiting to feel ready. Waiting for proof. Waiting for the chariots to reveal themselves before you’ll move.

    They’re not going to reveal themselves first. That’s not the deal. The deal is you go — bold, unsure, heart in your throat — and somewhere out on the road your eyes get opened and you finally see what was there the entire time.

    The army is real. I’m not going to tell you it isn’t. The servant wasn’t wrong about what he saw.

    He was just wrong about it being the whole story.

    Go at it boldly. Not because you can see the chariots. But because they’re already on the hills.

  • The Weight We Inherited Series – The Name on the Roll

    I was scrolling through Ancestry.com, half expecting nothing, when a newborn looked back at me from a government form filed over a hundred years ago. Willie Lee “Pete” Carroll. My great-grandfather. The first time I ever saw his name in writing wasn’t on a birth announcement or in a family Bible. It was on a Dawes Commission enrollment card, filled out when he was days old, his entire existence reduced to a few lines on a federal record built to catalogue Native people for a government that was deciding, in that exact moment, who counted as Indian and who didn’t, who got land and who didn’t, whose blood was real enough to write down.

    A baby. Enrolled. I sat with that for a long minute before I did anything else.

    My Great-Grandma Carroll was the one who told me about our Chickasaw blood. Years ago. At a kitchen table, in passing, the way these things get told — as simple fact, no ceremony attached. I believed her. I just didn’t have proof.

    I’d messaged a second cousin about it once, back in 2023. One exchange. Then nothing, for three years, until this record surfaced and gave that old message somewhere to go. I sent it again: I found him.

    The blood I was raised to be proud of finally had a name and a date and a roll number behind it. Not a story anymore. Documented.

    I’ll tell you the truth about what that felt like. It was exciting. I love history, and I have always been proud of where I come from, and finding the proof felt like a door opening rather than one closing. Some people go looking for records like this and find grief waiting on the other side. I understand why. The Dawes Rolls were never neutral. They were a tool of policy, a way to measure people down to fractions, to decide who the government would recognize and who it would erase by paperwork instead of by force. That history doesn’t disappear just because the record happens to confirm something you wanted to be true.

    But I also know what it means to spend your life being told who you are by other people, and then finally find a piece of paper that says, yes, this part of what you were told is real. Willie Lee Carroll was real. He was a newborn baby in a basket somewhere, and a stranger with a clipboard wrote his name down on behalf of a government deciding what to do with people like him, and that single piece of paper is the reason I can trace my blood back to him with certainty instead of family legend.

    I’m not done with that record. I don’t think I ever will be. Every name on it is a door to another name, another question, another relative I haven’t found yet. That’s the part nobody warns you about when you start this kind of research — it doesn’t end with one answer. It opens into ten more questions, and you find yourself wanting to know all of them.

    This is where the inheritance gets harder to hold all at once. The blood is real. The pride is real. And the document that proves both of those things was written by people who saw my great-grandfather as a number on a roll before they ever saw him as a person. I’m learning to hold all of that together instead of picking just one part to feel.

  • The Fear That Connects Us

    The Fear That Connects Us

    If you shared your story with me, this post is for you. 

    Writing about your life requires a specific kind of courage — the kind that doesn’t roar, but trembles. The kind that doesn’t arrive fully formed, but grows in the cracks left behind by fear. The kind that asks you to tell the truth even when your voice shakes.

    I’ve learned this from the women who have opened their lives to me.

    Women from every walk of life — wealthy, poor, middle-class. Women of different ages, different ethnicities, different histories. Their traumas vary: betrayal, abuse, abandonment, the slow erosion of identity, the sudden collapse of safety, the quiet violence of being unseen.

    Their stories are different. But their fear is the same.

    Fear is the thread that runs through every story I’ve been trusted with. Fear of leaving. Fear of staying. Fear of being believed. Fear of being blamed. Fear of losing everything. Fear of losing themselves.

    And when you strip away the circumstances — whether the trauma was work-related, relationship-related, family-rooted, spiritual, or the kind of trauma that doesn’t have a name but leaves a mark anyway — what remains is the same shared experience:

    Fear.

    Not the dictionary kind. Not the kind you can summarize in a sentence.

    I’m talking about the real thing — the kind that lives in the body.

    Fear that smells like metal and adrenaline. Fear that tightens the belly and crawls up the spine. Fear that narrows the world until all you can see is the next breath. Fear that whispers, “We’ve been here before,” even when the present moment is safe.

    Fear is not weakness. Fear is memory. Fear is the body remembering what the mind has tried to forget.

    And yet — every woman I’ve spoken with kept moving. Sometimes in inches. Sometimes in strides. Sometimes stopping completely until she could gather herself again.

    But always forward.

    Because fear may shape us, but it does not have to decide our fate.

    These women — the ones who trusted me with their stories — have taught me more about courage than any book ever could.

    They taught me that courage is not loud. It’s not glamorous. It’s not a Hollywood moment.

    Courage is a whisper. A breath. A trembling step forward when everything in you wants to freeze.

    Courage is telling the truth about what happened to you. Courage is naming the thing that tried to break you. Courage is choosing yourself — sometimes for the first time in your life.

    Courage is saying, “This happened. And I’m still here.”

    Fear is not an idea. Fear is a presence.

    Fear has a temperature — cold at first, then hot. It has a texture — sharp, metallic, electric. It has a sound — the rush of blood in your ears, the thud of your own heartbeat, the quiet click of your breath catching in your throat.

    Fear sits low in the belly — a tightening, a twisting, a sudden drop like missing a step on the stairs. It crawls up the spine. It settles in the jaw. It clenches the hands.

    Fear narrows the world. It pulls the edges in. It makes the room smaller, the options fewer, the future shorter.

    Fear is the moment the body says, “We’ve been here before.” Even when the mind insists, “We’re safe now.”

    Fear is memory. Fear is instinct. Fear is the echo of every moment when power was taken, trust was broken, or safety was lost.

    Fear is not weakness. Fear is the body remembering.

    And yet — fear is also the moment right before courage.

    A Call to Trauma Survivors

    If you are reading this and you are a survivor — of abuse, betrayal, abandonment, violence, manipulation, neglect, or any trauma that left you questioning your worth — I want you to hear me clearly:

    You are not alone. You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not too much. You are not too late.

    Your fear makes sense. Your pauses make sense. Your survival makes sense.

    And your healing — in inches or in strides — is sacred.

    You do not have to rush. You do not have to explain. You do not have to justify the ways you protected yourself.

    You are allowed to move at the pace your nervous system can hold. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to rise. You are allowed to rewrite your story.

    And when you’re ready — when the ground feels steady enough beneath your feet — you are allowed to tell your truth.

    Not for the world. Not for validation. Not for applause.

    But for you.

    Because your story matters. 

    And because, as Mary Oliver taught us:

    “Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

  • How to Outsmart Your Own Brain (Harder Than the Algorithm)

    How to Outsmart Your Own Brain (Harder Than the Algorithm)

    Raccoon standing on a cluttered wooden desk in an attic room with books and various items
    A raccoon curiously investigates books and objects on a cluttered attic desk.

    How to Outsmart Your Own Brain (Harder Than the Algorithm)

    or The Raccoon in Your Attic

    Let’s get one thing straight:
    Beating the algorithm is child’s play compared to outsmarting your own brain.

    Algorithms are predictable.
    They like consistency, chaos, and the occasional trending audio.
    Your brain, however?

    Your brain is a raccoon. Think about a clever, nocturnal, emotionally dramatic raccoon who lives in your attic and rearranges your furniture at 3 a.m.

    And yet — this is the creature we’re supposed to rely on for creativity, courage, and getting our lives together.

    So today, let’s talk about how to outsmart your own brain.
    Or at least how to gently trick it into cooperating long enough to write a paragraph, send an email, or stop spiraling about something that happened in 1997.

    Step 1: Accept That Your Brain Is Not Always on Your Side

    Your brain has two primary goals:

    • keep you alive
    • keep you from doing anything remotely uncomfortable

    This is why your brain will happily let you reorganize your sock drawer for three hours but will stage a full-scale rebellion when you try to write a chapter of your memoir.

    Your brain is not trying to sabotage you.
    It just thinks “emotional vulnerability” is the same as “being chased by a bear.”

    Step 2: Give Your Brain a Job It Thinks It Invented

    Your brain loves to feel important.
    So instead of saying, “I’m going to write for an hour,” try:

    “I’m just going to open the document so you can look at it.”

    Your brain:
    “Oh, well, that’s harmless. I’ll allow it.”

    Five minutes later, you’re writing.
    Your brain is confused, but it’s too late.

    You’ve tricked the raccoon.

    Step 3: Use Bribery (Your Brain Responds Well to Snacks)

    You know who else responds well to snacks?
    Toddlers.
    Algorithms.
    Golden retrievers.

    Your brain is no different. Tell it: “If we write for 20 minutes, we get a treat.”

    Your brain doesn’t need to know the treat is just iced coffee or a walk outside.
    It just needs the promise of joy. Brains are simple like that.

    Step 4: Stop Expecting Your Brain to Be Logical

    Your brain will:

    • remember a mistake from 12 years ago
    • forget why it walked into a room
    • panic over sending an email
    • remain completely unfazed by global chaos

    It’s not logical. It’s emotional. It’s a teenage drama queen. It’s doing its best.

    Trying to reason with your brain is like trying to negotiate with a squirrel holding a stolen granola bar.

    Just… don’t.

    Step 5: Outsmart Fear by Making It Bored

    In my experience, fear thrives on attention. It loves drama. It loves a spotlight. The trick? The trick is to make fear so bored it wanders off to bother someone else.

    How?

    Do the thing anyway.
    Do it quietly.
    Do it without ceremony.
    Do it while fear is still mid-monologue.

    Fear hates that.

    Eleanor Roosevelt knew this.  She didn’t wait to feel brave. She acted, and bravery followed.

    Your brain will eventually catch up.

    Step 6: Celebrate Every Tiny Victory (Your Brain Loves Praise)

    Your brain lights up like a Christmas tree when you acknowledge progress.

    Wrote one sentence?
    Victory.

    Opened the laptop?
    Victory.

    Didn’t spiral into existential dread before coffee?
    Major victory.

    Your brain is trying.
    Reward it.

    The Real Secret to Outsmarting Your Brain

    Here it is — the truth about outsmarting your brain:

    You don’t outsmart your brain by overpowering it.
    You outsmart your brain by partnering with it.

    By understanding its fears and honoring its limits. By gently nudging it toward the life you want. By choosing courage even when your brain is screaming, “Absolutely not, we are not doing that.”

    Your brain is not the enemy.
    It’s the narrator.
    The protector.
    The raccoon in the attic doing its best with the tools it has.

    And with a little humor, a little compassion, and a few strategic snacks, you can lead it — step by trembling step — into the life you’re meant to live.

  • Reclaiming the Future: Why I’m Writing a Memoir About Abuse, Hypervigilance, and Healing.

    Reclaiming the Future: Why I’m Writing a Memoir About Abuse, Hypervigilance, and Healing.

    The Mask of the “Perfect” Survivor

    When people think of trauma, they often think of visible chaos. They don’t often think of the straight-A student, the hyper-reliable employee, the CEO, or the chronic people-pleaser. But for me, perfectionism and people-pleasing weren’t just personality traits; they were survival mechanisms born out of childhood physical and sexual abuse, and utter abandonment.

    If I was perfect, I was safe. If I made everyone else happy, I wouldn’t be left behind again.

    But as I sit down to write my memoir, I am reckoning with the massive, hidden cost of that response. Living in a constant state of hypervigilance takes a heavy toll on the mind and body. Even now, years later, I still battle the echoes of that hypervigilance in my day-to-day life. It is a war I am mostly winning, but it requires active, daily strategy.  There are moments when I must stop everything that I’m doing, take a few seconds to do a quick “check-in” on the way my body is feeling, and respond in a way that releases the tension. My body gets so tense and so on edge sometimes that I now experience chronic pain diagnosed as an “unspecified autoimmune disorder”. At lunch with a couple of girlfriends last week, I choked on a sip of water. My friend, Mary, started pounding me on the back, trying to help me get my breath back. Pain wracked my body every time she touched me. She didn’t know, and I didn’t tell her. But it was a moment that reminded me of a strange irony: I have to be intensely vigilant about managing my own hypervigilance (sounds crazy, eh?).

    Why I am Reliving This on the Page

    Writing a memoir is not just about recounting the past; it is about excavating it. It is incredibly difficult to put these lived experiences into words. So, why do it? [2, 3, 4, 5] 

    The purpose behind my book is simple: To show you that your past does not get the final say in who you become.

    Trauma tries to convince us that our ceiling has been lowered—that certain dreams are no longer available to us because we are “broken.” I am writing this book to shatter that lie.

    The Healing Framework

    In the book, I’m sharing not just my story, but the actual framework I used to heal and navigate a world that my body constantly told me was unsafe. I want to encourage others to realize that they can still become exactly who they were meant to be.

    • The Writer is still in there.
    • The Teacher is still in there.
    • The CEO and Entrepreneur are still entirely possible.

    Those opportunities still exist. They are still real. Your trauma might have delayed the timeline, but it cannot cancel the destination.

    It is Not Too Late

    If you are reading this and you feel exhausted from holding up the weight of perfectionism, or if your body is tired from being on constant high alert—I see you.

    I am writing this book for us. To remind us that it is not too late to put down the heavy armor of our survival mechanisms and step into our true calling. If you’re interested in my progress or updates, feel free to subscribe!I’d love to hear from you in the comments: What is a dream or a role (Writer, Leader, Creator) that you felt was lost to your past, but you are ready to reclaim?

  • More on Eleanor Roosevelt……

    More on Eleanor Roosevelt……

    What do we really know about Eleanor Roosevelt?

    Most people know the headlines: She was the wife of a President. She was outspoken. She was a published author. She was a global advocate for human rights.

    But beneath the public figure was a woman shaped by a childhood that taught her fear long before she ever learned courage.

    She grew up in a painful, unstable home. She lost both parents early. She was raised in an environment of criticism and emotional neglect. She learned to shrink, to stay quiet, to disappear into the background. Sound familiar?

    She was shy. She was introverted. She was fearful. Again….familiar to many.

    And that is exactly why her words about fear still land with such force. Because she wasn’t speaking from theory. She was speaking from experience.

    Fear: The Emotion We All Understand

    Being afraid is something every one of us understands. Fear is universal. Fear is human. Fear is the quiet companion that walks beside us in moments of uncertainty, transition, and truth-telling.

    Eleanor Roosevelt understood this deeply. She lived with fear — not as an occasional visitor, but as a constant presence.

    And yet… she became one of the most courageous women of the 20th century.

    So how did she make that shift? And more importantly — can we?

    How Eleanor Roosevelt Moved From Fearful to Courageous

    Eleanor Roosevelt didn’t wake up one day fearless. She didn’t wait for confidence to arrive. She didn’t wait for fear to disappear.

    She made a choice.

    A choice she made again and again, in small moments and large ones.

    1. She chose visibility over hiding

    Despite being naturally shy, she held press conferences, gave speeches, wrote a daily column, and traveled the world. Every act of visibility was an act of defiance – not against people or ideals – but against her own fear.

    2. She chose purpose over comfort

    She stepped into arenas where she knew she would be criticized — civil rights, women’s rights, human rights. Of course, she felt fear. She did it anyway.

    3. She chose action over paralysis

    Her most famous line — “You must do the thing you think you cannot do” — wasn’t a slogan. It was her personal mantra. And we can borrow it!

    4. She chose growth over safety

    She believed courage was built through repeated exposure to fear. Every time she faced it, she expanded her capacity, her ability and her influence.

    5. She chose meaning over approval

    She stopped living for other people’s expectations and started living for her own values.

    This is the shift. Not from fear to fearlessness. But from fear to forward movement.

    What Her Life Teaches Us About Our Own

    Eleanor Roosevelt’s story isn’t about perfection. It’s about possibility.

    She teaches us that courage is not the absence of fear — it’s the decision to take action anyway.

    She teaches us that fear is not a flaw — it’s a signal. A threshold. A doorway.

    She teaches us that the life we want is often waiting on the other side of the thing we’re most afraid to do.

    And she teaches us that we don’t have to be fearless to be brave. We just have to be willing.

    So What About Us?

    We’re all afraid of something. Afraid of failing. Afraid of succeeding. Afraid of being seen. Afraid of being misunderstood. Afraid of telling the truth about our lives. Afraid of stepping into the next version of ourselves.

    But Eleanor Roosevelt’s life offers us a map:

    • Start where you are.
    • Feel the fear.
    • Take the step anyway.
    • Let courage grow from the doing.

    Courage is not a trait. It’s simply a daily practice. Remember…Do one thing every day that scares you. You’ve got this!

  • Corporate Gold Watch… or Plot Twist?

    Corporate Gold Watch… or Plot Twist?

    Lately I’ve been having a very specific midlife crisis: realizing my career might not wrap
    up with the triumphant crescendo I always imagined.

    No farewell luncheon. No sheet
    cake. No “We couldn’t have done it without you.”


    Instead, the economy wobbled, AI strutted in like it owned the place — not to fire
    anyone, not yet, but to quietly rearrange the furniture and make you wonder how long
    your chair stays in the room. And suddenly my job feels less like a legacy and more like
    a sitcom that got canceled mid-season — storylines unresolved, character arcs
    abandoned, the writers’ room already moving on to the next thing.


    It’s disheartening. And if I’m being honest, it feels like my power is being quietly
    siphoned off while I’m still sitting at my desk.


    I grew up believing careers had arcs — beginnings, middles, triumphant endings. Our
    grandparents worked thirty-five years in the same place, collected their gold watches,
    and had retirement parties with punch bowls and potato salad. Their “high note” was
    built into the system. It was a covenant. You gave loyalty; the institution gave meaning
    back.


    That covenant is gone. Most of us know this intellectually. But knowing it and feeling it
    — feeling it in the specific, quiet way it arrives when you realize you might be on your
    last corporate chapter, and the chapter might not close the way you always assumed it
    would — that’s different. That’s a grief that doesn’t have a name yet.


    It’s not dramatic. It’s not catastrophic. It’s just… tender. A sensitive spot you forget about
    until something brushes against it: a reorg announcement, a younger colleague casually
    mentioning a tool you’ve never heard of, a meeting you realize you weren’t invited to.
    Small things. They accumulate.


    I want to be specific about what the fear actually is, because I don’t think it’s really about
    the party, or the watch, or even the applause.


    It’s about the question underneath all of it:

    Did it matter?


    Thirty years of showing up. Of solving problems in rooms where you were often the only
    one who looked like you. Of building things — teams, processes, relationships, muscle
    memory — and then watching those things get restructured, rebranded, or replaced by
    a software license. The fear isn’t just what happens next. The fear is: what if none of it
    counted?


    That’s the real bruise.


    And here’s what makes it stranger: AI isn’t my enemy. Not yet, maybe not ever — I’m
    still genuinely figuring out where it fits. But it has a particular way of casting a shadow

    over human effort, making work that once felt considered and skilled feel like the
    expensive, slow version of something that now takes eleven seconds. It doesn’t have to
    replace you to unsettle you. The possibility is enough. The question it plants — for how
    much longer? — is enough.


    I know the work mattered. But some days the knowing doesn’t reach the feeling.
    And then — I didn’t expect this part — something shifted.


    Not dramatically. Not with a lightning bolt of clarity or a TED Talk epiphany. Just a quiet,
    subversive little thought that crept in one morning while I was writing something for
    myself, not for work, not for performance, just because I wanted to:
    Maybe you don’t want that ending anyway.


    I sat with that for a while. Turned it over.


    Because here’s the thing about the gold watch ending — it was never really about me. It
    was about the institution’s need to close a loop, to acknowledge its own investment, to
    say you were useful here. The celebration was always, at least partly, for them. A ritual
    of release. A mutual fiction: we pretend it was partnership; you pretend the leaving
    doesn’t sting.


    What if I write my own ending instead?


    Not the version where I wait for someone else to decide what my contribution meant.
    Not the version where my worth gets calculated in tenure and title and the warmth of the room at the going-away party.

    The version where I’m the one holding the pen.
    I am a writer. I’ve known this for a long time, but I’ve treated it like a hobby, a side door,
    a thing I do when the real work is done. It has taken me until now — until the discomfort
    got loud enough — to consider that maybe the writing is the real work. Maybe it always
    was.


    AI will keep advancing — maybe as a tool I learn to use, maybe as a force that
    reshapes everything around me. The economy will keep doing what economies do.
    Corporate structures will keep optimizing themselves into whatever frictionless form
    they’re becoming.


    None of that can take away the thing I know how to do: make meaning out of mess.
    Find the shape in the chaos. Take a lived experience — the specific, textured,
    embarrassing, tender truth of it — and turn it into something another person reads and
    thinks, yes, that. That’s it exactly.
    That’s not a soft skill. That’s not a redundancy. That’s the whole point.

    My grandparents had their version of a high note. Thirty-five years, a pension, a party
    with punch bowls. It was real, and it meant something, and I’m not going to be precious
    about the fact that I won’t get that version.


    But I’ll tell you what I’m building instead.


    A body of work that belongs to me. A voice that gets clearer the more I use it. An ending
    — or maybe a beginning, the two look surprisingly similar from here — that I designed,
    not one I was handed.


    They can keep the gold watch.
    I’ll take the pen.


    And I’m already writing.

    Posts

  • The Fear That Connects Us If you shared your story with me – this post is for you.

    The Fear That Connects Us If you shared your story with me – this post is for you.

    Writing about your life requires a specific kind of courage — the kind that doesn’t roar, but trembles. The kind that doesn’t arrive fully formed, but grows in the cracks left behind by fear. The kind that asks you to tell the truth even when your voice shakes.

    I’ve learned this from the women who have opened their lives to me.

    Women from every walk of life — wealthy, poor, middle-class. Women of different ages, different ethnicities, different histories. Their traumas vary: betrayal, abuse, abandonment, the slow erosion of identity, the sudden collapse of safety, the quiet violence of being unseen.

    Their stories are different. But their fear is the same.

    Fear is the thread that runs through every story I’ve been trusted with. Fear of leaving. Fear of staying. Fear of being believed. Fear of being blamed. Fear of losing everything. Fear of losing themselves.

    And when you strip away the circumstances — whether the trauma was work-related, relationship-related, family-rooted, spiritual, or the kind of trauma that doesn’t have a name but leaves a mark anyway — what remains is the same shared experience:

    Fear.

    Not the dictionary kind. Not the kind you can summarize in a sentence.

    I’m talking about the real thing — the kind that lives in the body.

    Fear that smells like metal and adrenaline. Fear that tightens the belly and crawls up the spine. Fear that narrows the world until all you can see is the next breath. Fear that whispers, “We’ve been here before,” even when the present moment is safe.

    Fear is not weakness. Fear is memory. Fear is the body remembering what the mind has tried to forget.

    And yet — every woman I’ve spoken with kept moving. Sometimes in inches. Sometimes in strides. Sometimes stopping completely until she could gather herself again.

    But always forward.

    Because fear may shape us, but it does not have to decide our fate.

    These women — the ones who trusted me with their stories — have taught me more about courage than any book ever could.

    They taught me that courage is not loud. It’s not glamorous. It’s not a Hollywood moment.

    Courage is a whisper. A breath. A trembling step forward when everything in you wants to freeze.

    Courage is telling the truth about what happened to you. Courage is naming the thing that tried to break you. Courage is choosing yourself — sometimes for the first time in your life.

    Courage is saying, “This happened. And I’m still here.”

    Fear is not an idea. Fear is a presence.

    Fear has a temperature — cold at first, then hot. It has a texture — sharp, metallic, electric. It has a sound — the rush of blood in your ears, the thud of your own heartbeat, the quiet click of your breath catching in your throat.

    Fear sits low in the belly — a tightening, a twisting, a sudden drop like missing a step on the stairs. It crawls up the spine. It settles in the jaw. It clenches the hands.

    Fear narrows the world. It pulls the edges in. It makes the room smaller, the options fewer, the future shorter.

    Fear is the moment the body says, “We’ve been here before.” Even when the mind insists, “We’re safe now.”

    Fear is memory. Fear is instinct. Fear is the echo of every moment when power was taken, trust was broken, or safety was lost.

    Fear is not weakness. Fear is the body remembering.

    And yet — fear is also the moment right before courage.

    A Call to Trauma Survivors

    If you are reading this and you are a survivor — of abuse, betrayal, abandonment, violence, manipulation, neglect, or any trauma that left you questioning your worth — I want you to hear me clearly:

    You are not alone. You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not too much. You are not too late.

    Your fear makes sense. Your pauses make sense. Your survival makes sense.

    And your healing — in inches or in strides — is sacred.

    You do not have to rush. You do not have to explain. You do not have to justify the ways you protected yourself.

    You are allowed to move at the pace your nervous system can hold. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to rise. You are allowed to rewrite your story.

    And when you’re ready — when the ground feels steady enough beneath your feet — you are allowed to tell your truth.

    Not for the world. Not for validation. Not for applause.

    But for you.

    Because your story matters. 

    And because, as Mary Oliver taught us:

    “Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

  • When your job becomes a threat

    Most people don’t realize they’re experiencing workplace trauma until they’re already in the ashes.  We’re taught to push through and be grateful that we have a job. A remnant from the Depression Era perhaps.  We’re expected to be “professional” and even normalize dysfunction because everyone else seems to be surviving it.

    For me, workplace trauma slipped in quietly — day by day — until one day I woke up and realized I was in an unhealthy relationship with my job, and I didn’t recognize myself anymore.  This is how I spotted the trauma, barely before it broke me.

    My nervous system was doing the job my boss should have been doing.  I knew something was wrong when my body started managing my environment for me:

    I would become tense before opening my email or my heart rate would spike when a certain name popped up.  I would find myself rehashing conversations from the day in my head and found that I absolutely could not relax on Sundays because Monday was looming. Looking back, I recognize that I found myself quietly scanning for tone, subtext and danger.  This wasn’t simple “stress”.  This was my nervous system trying to keep me safe in a place that wasn’t.

     At this juncture of my life, I would recognize that I was abandoning myself to survive the culture.  For me, workplace trauma showed up as saying yes when I meant no or shrinking my voice. Not speaking up in conference calls or meetings. Staying silent to avoid being a target.  The thing that really stings now? I was tolerating behavior I’d never accept in any other part of my life.

    When I began editing myself to stay employed, the job was no longer just a job — it was a threat.

    I found that one of the most insidious signs was that I was being told that I was “a team player” or “so reliable” or even “the one we can always count on”. PTO? What was that?

    But what they really meant was that I didn’t push back, I absorbed dysfunction and I was willing to sacrifice myself for the system. Obviously, being rewarded for self-abandonment is a hallmark of a harmful workplace.

    I’m embarrassed to admit this now, but I couldn’t even tell the difference between my value and my output. Workplace trauma can blur the line between “I didn’t finish the task” and “I am failing as a human”. In my own experience, I started believing untruths. My worth was tied to my productivity, resting was being lazy and mistakes were moral failures. I worked for years in an environment where burnout was a badge of honor.

    I learned the hard way, at the cost of my health, that this wasn’t ambition, it was conditioning.

    Just like in an unhealthy relationship, I felt the hypervigilance humming through my body.  When nothing was happening (aka there wasn’t a metaphorical fire to put out) I was on edge and hyper-alert.  I always felt like I was waiting for something to go wrong – to the extent that sometimes I was just unable to exhale.

    This was my body telling me the environment was unsafe — even though my mind was still trying to rationalize it.

    Subtle but devastating, I stopped dreaming. I stopped imaging a future. A different job. A different life. I stopped dreaming of a version of myself who felt alive.

    Workplace trauma didn’t just drain my energy – it drained my imagination and with it my creativity.  I couldn’t picture anything beyond survival, I felt trapped.

    I was failing to recognize myself.  This is the moment most people finally wake up, but not me. For years, I continued to look at myself in the mirror and think that “I used to be confident”, “I used to be creative”, “I used to feel like me”.  Workplace trauma didn’t just harm my career; it caused harm to my identity.

    If any of this feels familiar, you’re not being dramatic – you’re in danger.

    Workplace trauma is real. It’s pervasive and it’s often invisible until you name it. Recognizing trauma early is not weakness, it’s wisdom.  The moment you stop abandoning yourself and start listening to your body you start to reclaim your voice, your boundaries and your future.

    Everyone deserves a workplace that doesn’t require sacrifice to our health, our dignity, or our humanity.

    And if you’re reading this thinking, “This is me,” I want you to know:

    You’re not broken.
    You’re not imagining it.
    You’re not alone.
    And you’re allowed to choose yourself.