Healing Your Kintsukuroi Heart; Part 2
LOW SELF ESTEEM IS A GATEWAY DRUG.
Taking Responsibility
 
This is part 2 in a series.  Click "Healing Your Kintsukuroi Heart" in the categories menu to go to the full series.
Click here for part 1 
 
Last week we identified that low self-esteem is the original “gateway drug” even if your challenges have nothing whatsoever to do with substance abuse. Click here to read the post.  I also said that, even if you don’t initially think it applies to you, I’d illustrate how it may - so stay with me. 
 
Today we’ll discuss how accepting this truth – that low self-esteem is source of our issues - can change this gateway drug into your gateway to healing.
 
LET’S EXPLORE SOME SCENARIOS:

• I over spent and I blew my budget.  And now I don’t have enough to pay rent.
• I am overwhelmed.  I don’t have enough time in my day to do half of the things I need to do!  But my friend asked me for a favor and I said yes.
• Instead of exercising and eating healthy just I sat on the couch.  I ate an entire bag of chips, half a package of cookies and submarine sandwich. 
• I’m busy!  I don’t have time to be nice.
• My best friend told me she wanted to go back to school.  And I told her what a stupid Idea I thought that was.  C’mon, at her age?
• I’m in a relationship with someone who verbally and emotionally abuses me. 
• Everything I own has to have a designer label on it where everyone can see it. 
• I went out with the girls for a drink last night.  YOLO!  I don’t even remember how or when I got home.
• I got into a relationship with a married man. 
• I slept with my girlfriend’s boyfriend.
• Every day I find a way to emasculate my husband.  It doesn’t matter if we’re alone or in public. 
• I blew the mortgage at the track.
• Who the hell does she think she is?  I gotta ask because...
• I screamed at someone in another car because they cut me off.  Then I gave them the finger and I told them where they could go. 
• You’re right, what do I know… I shouldn’t even try.
• I engaged in a battle with someone I don’t even know on Social Media. 
• I tell people exactly what I think, even if it hurts their feelings.  I’m honest like that.
• I spend hours, and hours, and hours on FB – watching a movie – shopping - cleaning the house - instead of pursuing my dreams. 

 
Do any of these statements – or a version of them – resonate with you?  Now read them again, but this time tack on the words “Because I feel so good about myself.” at the end.  For a clearer illustration you can watch the companion video by clicking here.
 
Now you get it, right?  It’s entirely contradictory.  Any type of behavior that doesn’t honor yourself or who you want to be, isn’t in service of your dream, or in pursuit of being or becoming the very best version of yourself, comes from a place of feeling “less than.”  People who truly feel good about themselves don’t think, speak, or behave in ways that are people pleasing, unhelpful, unkind, lack understanding or have a positive purpose – regardless of whether it’s directed inward or outward.  There’s no shame in feeling less than.  It just is.  And the sooner you can embrace that the sooner you can get on with doing something about making it better.
 
Note – don’t confuse an inflated ego with a healthy self-worth!  Ego is the opposite side of the same low-self esteem coin.  People who feel good about themselves don’t have to blow themselves up in an attempt to impress others.  A healthy self-esteem isn’t greater than or less than; It’s equal to.
 
SO, NOW WHAT?
 
I’ll tell you everything – step by step - in this series. Again - It’s free.   There’s nothing to buy to gain access to all of it.  If you’d really like you can read my book, Kintsukuroi Heart; More Beautiful For Having Been Broken, or order the companion workbook to this series, Healing Your Kintsukuroi Heart, both on Amazon, but you certainly don’t have to.  All you really need is occasional access to the internet and a pad and pen.  Oh, and a deep commitment to change… if only you could order that on Amazon!
 
HOW I AND WHY I CREATED THIS PROGRAM.
 
I had issues.  Big issues.  As I mentioned before, the specifics of how those issues presented themselves aren’t important right now.  I’ll talk more about them in a later video/blog.
 
Initially, I worked through my issues by taking the traditional route of therapy, medication*, self-help groups and talking with friends, which all worked and I still recommend.  But for me, they only worked for so long and only to a degree.  They were either too costly, didn’t go deep enough or they addressed the symptoms and not the root cause; I needed to dig down and truly change the way I looked at things and, most importantly, change how I viewed myself.  If I could do that, I knew my life would change. 

*Note - titrated off of my anti-depression medication with the permission and under the very close supervision of my doctor.  Never EVER replace the experience of another over the advice of your trusted health care professional!
 
Over the years I’d gathered inspiration through books and movies.  Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.  Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Under the Tuscan Sun (the movie).  AYear by the Sea by Joan Anderson.  Educated by Tara Westover.  Wild by Cheryl Strayed.  Love Warrior by Glennon Doyle Menton.  The list goes on. (All linked below!)
 
However, most of the books and films in this genre, wonderful stories that I have deeply loved (I recommend them all and have linked* all the titles above and below), came from a place so unique that, although fabulously inspirational were, for me, mostly unrelatable or unactionable – the experiences of the very fortunate or wealthy, or situations so extreme that very few people find themselves – offering remedies that were simply out of my reach.  I wasn’t in a position to take time away at the beach or travel around the world to find myself, I had to work!  I didn’t have extra money or a scholarship to an Ivy League school.  I deeply admired those who did and longed to be in their shoes, but I simply wasn’t. There were times when I couldn’t even afford to buy those books or a ticket to the movies, I checked them out of the library.  But I read them.  I watched them.  They inspired me and gave me something to shoot for! 
 
So, being a determined and resourceful little bugger and having the professional training, I devised a way to do these extraordinary things – to embark on a life-altering journey of healing – without leaving home and with rather ordinary resources.  These “ordinary” circumstances are what often stops women from doing something extraordinary.  You are my people and I am here to inspire you! 
 
I put myself on an intense minimalistic, at home self-retreat.  Exactly what I would do if I paid thousands of dollars to go away on retreat or soul searching quest.  I committed to addressing my issues via holistic wellness, intentional physical exercise, and the mind/body/spirit connection.  I tried new things.  I practiced yoga and meditation, and began living with defined intention.  I unplugged and sought peace, quiet, and solitude.  These things are easily accessible and available to all of us for free or at very little cost.  In fact, once I went into this wholeheartedly – a time of concentrated self-discovery and minimalism - I actually saved a ton of money.  This realistic vantage point is one way in which I feel this program is different; it's wholly accessible and meets you at a place where many of us find ourselves when starting over.
 
I know it works because I created it, I’ve applied it, I’ve lived it, I’ve practiced it and afterwards, the really poor life choices I’d been allowing to enter my life on a daily basis became inconceivable to me.  Not because I focused on changing those choices but because I changed how I felt on the inside.  The positive choices I began making became a symptom of how I felt about myself just like the negative ones had been. I didn’t work on the symptoms –I addressed the root cause of the symptoms.   I healed the person who was making them.
 
To be clear, I had to clean up the mess of some of those choices and so will you.  Not to worry, I’ll help.  I’ll give you the tools and we’ll go over all of it, step by step.
 
Now is your time to work on acceptance.  To ready yourself to embark upon a journey of deep and lasting change and true transformation.  Next week, we start the transformation.

Quote of the Day:
"The positive choices I began making became a symptom of how I felt about myself just like the negative ones had been. I didn’t work on the symptoms –I addressed the root cause of the symptoms.  I healed the person who was making them."  
Amie Gabriel
​
If you can relate to any, or all of these statements to any degree, I’ll see you here in the next installment.  Thursday, January 21st at 1 pm Pacific time.

Can you relate?  Are you considering participating in this program?  Please let us know what you think!  Comment below... I's love to hear your thoughts! xoAmie

Scroll down for the YouTube Companion Video! 
​
Read Amie's Book:
​KINTSUKUROI HEART; More Beautiful for Having Been Broken
​Order on Kindle or in paperback by clicking on the Amazon Affiliate Book Link below!
​*As an Amazon Affiliate I earn from qualifying purchases

TAKING THE FIRST STEP.
 
Is there something – or several things – that are preventing you from being the very best version of yourself and achieving your goals? 
 
What if I told you that all your counterproductive thoughts, words, actions, beliefs – whether they’re directed toward yourself, toward others, or both – all trace back to just one thing?  One single source.  And if you can embrace that idea, and heal that one thing, you won’t even have to try to do better in the future because directing your energy toward anything other than the most positive aspects of your life becomes unthinkable.
 
In this blog post we will name that one thing and talk a bit about what it’s going to take to heal it.  In a series of upcoming weekly blog posts and companion videos, I’ll be going in-depth and guiding you through the steps toward healing. Regardless of whether you decide to fully immerse yourself into this program or just glean insight and advice for self-improvement from the weekly posts, it will cost you no money and there’s nothing to buy or sign up for – just read the posts, watch the videos and, of course, take action.
 
Sound interesting?  Keep reading!
 
But first... In case we haven’t met,  I’m Amie Gabriel, holistic wellness expert, author, and former train wreck.  This is my program and I originally developed it to heal my own life.  It worked and now I’m sharing it with you.
 
CUTTING TO THE CHASE
 
Negativity, poor choices, an unproductive or unhealthy lifestyle.
I’m talking about the things that prevent you from being the very best version of yourself and achieving your goals. Things within your control.  These diversions and roadblocks can appear in your life in a multitude of ways, varying greatly from one person to the next so, for now, the specifics – how they present themselves in your life - don’t matter.  They are the SYMPTOMS and we’ll get to them later.  What matters right now is getting their root cause.  Their source. The one thing that allows them to present themselves to begin with.   Because when you heal the source, the symptoms take care of themselves.  How do I know?  Because I lived through it and this is exactly what I did to heal. 
 
COULD THIS BE FOR YOU?  HERE ARE SOME QUESTIONS:
 
Is there something in your life that isn’t working?  Something you’d like to change?  Are you lacking joy or just not feeling as happy and fulfilled as you’d like?  Are you stuck in grief over the loss of a loved one, relationship or other life circumstance?  Are you making poor choices or feeling unempowered?  Are you depressed or maybe not in not in love with your job, your level of fitness or your reflection in the mirror?  Is fear keeping you from moving forward?  Is there a goal you’d like to achieve but just haven’t made it happen?  Maybe things aren’t so bad – maybe you’ve already overcome some obstacles - but you just know things could be better and you want more.  Maybe you’re like me when I began this journey – I didn’t particularly want to put forth the energy required to transform but nothing in my life was working and everything needed to change – or maybe you’re somewhere in the middle? 
 
If you answered yes to one or more of these questions, keep reading.
 
WHAT’S IT GOING TO TAKE TO CHANGE?
 
Regardless of where you find yourself on the spectrum of challenges, there are a few common denominators that foster change.

• You’ve got to want it or need it.
• You generally have to give something up to achieve it.
• You’ve generally got to do something differently or new to achieve it.
• Number 1 generally dictates how far you’re willing to go on numbers 2 and 3.

 
Are you ready to embark on a life-altering journey of healing – without a ton of money and without leaving home?  Or maybe just find out more about it?   I have done it and, in this series - all at no cost – I will show you how.
 
WHAT I DID TO HEAL.
 
I healed by putting myself on an in-depth, at home, self-retreat - while working full-time - and I’ll share with you how you can, too.  Let me tell you up front, it isn’t quick or easy – a true commitment to lasting change on a very deep level rarely is - but it’s simple, entirely doable, costs little or no money, and is SO worth it. 
 
LET’S GET RIGHT TO THE SOURCE. 
And once we do, even if you don’t initially think it applies to you, stay with me – I’ll illustrate how it may.
 
So, what is the one thing that became damaged in your past that spawned – and allowed – any and all the negative behavior that followed?  Three words; Low Self Esteem. Low self-esteem is the original gateway drug.  No matter what your drug of choice is… even if your drug or choice has nothing whatsoever to do with drugs, it’s a catch-all phrase.  "Drug of choice" just means the manner in which negativity presents itself in your life.  And if low self-esteem is the gateway drug for counterproductivity to take root, then a healthy self-esteem – true self-worth - is the immunity.   In the next post/video Low Self Esteem is a Gateway Drug I will illustrate how low self-esteem is the original chink in the armor, regardless of how it presents itself or effects your life or to what degree; even if you think your self-esteem is just fine.
 
In the meantime, here’s the short version.
 
I promised myself I wouldn’t do that again… but I did.
I promised that this time I’d get it done.  But I didn’t
I know better, but…
 
If you can relate to any, or all of these statements to any degree, I’ll see you here in the next installment.  Thursday, January 14th at 1 pm Pacific time.

Can you relate?  Are you considering participating in this program?  Please let us know what you think!  Comment below... I's love to hear your thoughts! xoAmie

Quote of the Day
"When you heal the source, the symptoms take care of themselves."
Amie Gabriel

​Watch the Companion Video Below!

Read Amie's Book:
​KINTSUKUROI HEART; More Beautiful for Having Been Broken
​Order on Kindle or in paperback by clicking on the Amazon Affiliate Book Link below!

Check out the video for three big announcements for the New Year!  Let me know what you think in the comments!  xoAmie

Order Amie's book. KINTSUKUROI HEART on Kindle or in paperback by clicking on the Amazon Affiliate Book Link below!

​Thank you so much, xoAmie

The water rushes onto her head, washing her down, surrounding her with white noise and taking the last of the lather with it, down and away.  Fast down her shoulders and back, it cleanses her; when she shampoos her hair, when she soaps her skin.  Even the dark places where the soap can’t reach.  That place far back in her mind and deep in the pit of her gut where her past lives.  The place where, if she’s not very careful, her memories can make her dirty again.
 
The spigot makes a slight high-pitched squeal as she turns off the water.  She reaches for the towel that she placed, neatly folded, atop the shiny white toilet tank, right outside the combination shower and tub.
 
When she was first shown this small apartment three weeks ago, she was pleased to find the bathroom had all white porcelain fixtures and original tile.  She liked it.  No real reason at first, it just looked nice and crisp.  She quickly discovered that if you’re careful and keep it clean and wipe the water spots up before they dry, it always looks so shiny and new, though it probably dates back to sometime in the early ’60s.  Its outward appearance defied the years of abuse, the tears, broken glass, blood and scum it had, no doubt, endured.  And after all that, all it took was a good scrubbing and a buffing with a clean, dry towel and it looked sparkling and as good as new again.  It doesn’t escape her that a bathroom with white porcelain can keep a lot of secrets.
 
She takes the pale blue towel and lets it unfold.  As she buries her face in it, she inhales its freshness.  It was clean.  It didn’t smell of mildew or of someone else.  It was new and clean and it was all hers.  She patted herself dry and wrapped the towel tight around herself.  She gently pushed aside the white eyelet shower curtain her mother had given her and stepped over the side of the tub onto the matching pale blue bath mat.  The towels and bathmat, and nearly everything else in the apartment, were gifts from her mother for housewarming.  Her mother would have given her anything to keep her safe and warm. It’s how she was…  and she was just so grateful to have her girl back in one piece.  
 
She removed the towel from her tall, gangly frame, bent over at the waist and wrapped it around her head like a turban.  Sparingly she applied her lotion, walked into her bedroom and slipped on the clothes she had laid out for herself, making sure to keep a light on only in the room she was occupying.
 
Tonight, she would wear jeans, her new lavender V-neck sweater (that sort of looked like cashmere) and a pair of black boots with medium high heels.  She wanted to look nice but not like she was trying too hard.  She turned out the bedroom light, went back into the bathroom and quickly blow dried her hair and brushed her teeth.  As she put on her makeup, being careful not to make eye contact with herself, she began to wonder how she’d… “Stop it,” she said out loud, scolding herself.  Her chin dipped toward her chest and her hands dropped to the corners of the sink as a way of steadying herself.  She froze, barely breathing.  Thinking about anything other than the simple tasks at hand wasn’t doing her any favors (especially after what happened a couple of days ago).  She breathed, closed her eyes and, having gathered herself, softly said “OK.”  She finished by putting on a little apricot lipstick and a bit of gloss, ignoring the slight trembling in her hands.  She took her matching hand towel and dried out the sink and left it nice and shiny.  It was so easy to buff the surface and make it look pretty.  You certainly couldn’t tell that someone had just spit in it.  She neatly draped the towel over the rack so it would dry, and snapped off the light.  She grabbed the black dress coat that she had worn to her new job and headed out the door.  She hadn’t felt up to arranging a ride for tonight, so if she wanted to catch the 7:23 pm bus she’d better move.
 
After less than a minute’s walk down her street, she arrived and sized up the other people at the bus stop.  A woman, about twenty-five years old, held the hand of a little girl who looked about four.  They were both bundled up against the cold city night and the little girl’s dark eyes shone with a smile in the lamplight.  Upon her arrival at the bus stop the two women instinctively exchanged glances and a quick smile – safety in numbers.  A boy of about sixteen, who seemed deeply committed to communicating his taste in all things retro-punk via his posture and wardrobe, sat slouched over, hands jammed into pockets, feet propped on the seat of the bus stop bench and his butt on the backrest.  Lots of piercings, spiky black hair, unlaced combat boots and a leather motorcycle jacket that was way too thin to keep him warm in this weather.  I guess it’s not too cool to let on that you’re freezing your skinny ass off.  Anyway, he’s harmless.
 
The city bus rolls up and the doors slap open.  She lets the mother and child go first then she makes her way up the steps, dropping exact change into the fare box, and finds a seat where she calculates someone is least likely to sit near her.  She’d be there in ten minutes, although she doesn’t want to go.  The thought of it terrifies her.  If she goes, she’ll have to talk to people and she’ll have to tell them the truth so maybe they can help her.  She wanted to call out to the driver to wait.  She wanted, with every fiber of her being, to bolt off the bus and run like hell, but the only thing that frightened her more than going forward was going back to where she’d been.  She knows that, like the memories that haunt her, some ghosts are real. Some ghosts are real and they can hurt you.  So, she doesn’t call out and she doesn’t run.  She forces herself to stay quiet and to stay put and, although she’s scared to death, she goes anyway.  She goes because, despite her cool, polished exterior, she is desperate.  The driver shuts the doors and off they drive into the night.

Want to read the rest right now?
Order on Kindle or in paperback by clicking on the Amazon Affiliate Book Link below!

​Thank you so much, xoAmie

They were just going to get tipsy.  That was the goal.  Two childhood best friends, born two years apart but attached at the hip, as their mothers would say.  
 
They were eight and ten years old when they met on the school bus in a quiet New England town.  The younger girl moved in down the road from the older girl and they became fast and constant friends.  Around the rest of the world they were shy, gawky and insecure, but when they were alone together, they became relaxed and silly and bold.  The comfort they felt in each other’s presence allowed them to be their true, best young selves. 
 
They lived less than a mile away from one another on either side of a state park that the locals called The Castle, and the several hundred acres of woods that lay between them was their playground.  They fancied themselves woodland creatures and this was their kingdom.  It was their enchanted forest, full of folklore, fairies, and frogs.  They were princesses and tomboys in equal measure.  You were just as likely to find them knee deep in the Castle pond, catching fish and bullfrogs with their bare hands and running through the woods like wild animals (moms’ words again), as you were to find them singing Scarborough Fair in a round and pretending their horses were unicorns.  Like twins with a secret language, they knew each other’s thoughts, and like sisters, they could fight like cats and dogs.
 
Each turn of the season brought new adventure.  They belly-crawled through spring meadow grass, seeing just how close they could get to wild cottontails, and peered over the pond’s edge where gelatinous masses of frogs’ eggs hatched into pollywogs.   They caught fireflies in jars on warm June nights and found refuge from the hot afternoon sun under the generous shade of the pines.  They washed away the sticky New England air in the inground pool behind the younger girl’s house and in the dammed-up creek in the woods behind the older girl’s home.  They spent cool, rainy weekends listening to music and working puzzles in the older girl’s playroom, her mother making them lunches of chicken noodle soup and buttered bread.  They rode their bikes through the swirling autumn leaves, the older girl always riding faster down the hills.  They gathered up the cast-off plumage of oak, maple and birch into enormous piles and dove in, delightfully smashing crunchy handfuls into each other’s hair.  Though the houses on their road were few and far between, they knew all their neighbors and all their neighbors knew them.   They went trick or treating on Halloween night and caroling on Christmas Eve, flashlights and the moon through the bare arms of the trees lighting their way.  They built snow forts, and sledded down their driveways or any clear hill they could find.  Their childhood smelled like rich, sweet earth and decaying leaves, like horses and saddles, like skunk cabbage, bullfrogs and wet rocks.  It smelled like honeysuckle and hot tar, like melting snow and raindrops, like wood smoke and pine.  Their childhood smelled like the deep New England woods. 
 
When they had grown to adolescence, the woods offered cover as they gleefully spied on the boys at the private academy down their road.  Like secret agents, they moved from tree, to rock, to tree, silently inching closer to the edge of the grassy school grounds, straining to get a better look at their crush du jour.  On the rare occasions that they were discovered, they always had a well-planned escape route – like the time a big twig snapped loudly underfoot and gave them away.  It was an all male boarding school and when the boys clapped eyes on the two girls in the trees it was like ringing the dinner bell for hungry field hands.  One of them yelled “GIRLS!” and they all came running.  “Oh, nice move, Hiawatha!” one girl teased the other and they screamed and laughed with giddy horror as they stealthily disappeared into the trees.  The boys gave chase but the academy’s dorms housed young scholars from all over the state – meaning: this wasn’t their woods.  Once the girls had vanished into the forest, which they had come to know like the back of their hands, the boys had no prayer of finding them.  Plus, the boys weren’t allowed off campus.   
 
And so, it was.  There would be first dances, first kisses and puppy love, and like the safety and sanctuary of their beloved woods, their friendship remained.   Until one day the news came that the younger of the two would be moving away.  Far away.  A long plane ride away!  It was a leveling blow and there was melodrama and many tears, but the decision had been made.  In consolation their families promised that they could visit.  
 
The following summer, the promise of a visit was kept.  It was on this trip that the idea of their first foray into the forbidden world of adult beverages came up.  They were thirteen and fifteen years old, and they relished one other’s company as much as ever.  They had a sleepover at the older girl’s house, just like old times.  They sang every word of their favorite songs, giggled over crushes, debated the pros and cons of having short hair verses long hair, and stayed up to see if anyone good was on the late-night talk shows.  
 
“Have you ever had a drink?” the older girl asked.   
“Huh?”  the younger girl said.  
“A drink.  You know, booze!”  whispered the elder. 
“No!  Have you?” the younger replied.  
“No.”  And after a long pause, “Do you want to try it?   We can raid my parents’ liquor cabinet!”  Half intrigued but always afraid of getting in trouble, the younger girl said, “I don’t know.  I kind of want to but… what if we get caught?”  
“Oh, pfft!  We’re not gonna get caught.  It’s not like we’re going to get falling down drunk.  We’ll just get a little tipsy! C’mon, live a little!”  
“OK,” the younger girl agreed, “we’ll just get a little tipsy!”  She giggled when she said the word.  It was such a silly word and, by virtue, it felt pretty harmless.
 
They could not, however, just waltz over to the liquor cabinet and pour themselves a drink, so before they left the older girl’s bedroom, they had to have a plan. Having never “drank” before they weren’t quite sure how to go about it.  What should they drink and how much?  They didn’t know, so they decided they would just take a little bit from every bottle.  It was the best way to leave no obvious evidence of their theft, since no one bottle would look like it was missing anything when compared to the others. They also decided that, once poured, they should bring it back to their room to drink, to lessen the risk of getting caught in the act.  
 
It was late.  The older girl’s parents were asleep in their room down the hall and she needed to keep it that way.  She gently clasped the doorknob and turned it as far as it would go. Willing it into silence, she eased open her bedroom door. She could hear light snoring coming from her parents’ room.  They slipped out into the hallway, their bare feet on the carpet making no sound.  Barely breathing, they moved in slow motion as they crept onto the stairs, toes hovering for an instant just above each step before making contact. Freezing in place when they thought they heard something.  Regaining movement when the sound of light snoring confirmed the coast was clear.   Step... wait... step... wait... step... wait... They moved like ghosts.  
 
Finally, they made it into the kitchen.  The door to the liquor cabinet was one they’d never opened before.  They knew where it was and what was in it, and there was an unspoken rule that it was strictly off limits but, until now, they hadn’t cared; they’d been far more interested in where the chips and cookies were kept.  Tonight, that changed.  Tonight, they had a laser focus on the bottom corner cupboard.  Behind its door they imagined a portal into another world, a GROWNUP world.  They opened the door to the cupboard and stared at its contents for a minute.  In the windowless hallway, their eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness and, although they’d turned on no lights, the kitchen – with double windows over the sink - seemed bright by comparison.  They stared at the bottles; some tall, some round, some square, some with textured glass and some with smooth.  The low light of the moon through the windows glinted on the glass and danced on the surface of the various potions. It had already begun to intoxicate them. 
 
They grabbed two tall milk glasses and, silently working their way through the bottles, poured until each glass was about two-thirds full.  Then, armed with their contraband, they tiptoed back to the stairs.  
 
Once returned to the safety of the bedroom, they got right down to business.  They stood facing one another in the middle of the room, glasses in hand, eyes locked.  There was no turning back.  They were excited to cross a threshold and leave part of their childhood behind.  
“You ready?” the older girl asked. 
“Yeah,” the younger girl whispered, quickly nodding her head.  
They clinked glasses, whispered “cheers” and, bringing glass to lips, never losing eye contact, they each took their first tiny, timid sips. 
“BWAH!” the older girl said in a huge expulsion of air as her eyes flew open wide.  A shudder ripped through the younger girl’s body from head to toe, like a wet dog flinging off water, and she said, “Holy shit, it burns!”
  
They quickly gathered themselves and regrouped, looked at each other and nodded, indicating they were ready to go again.  They took a second tentative sip.  This time it went down just a bit easier. As the older girl pulled the glass away from her lips, she watched in horror and amazement as the younger girl kept going.  She tipped the glass back, gulping down the rotgut concoction like a third-year frat boy.  She chugged it all to the last drop without coming up for air, and with the bottom of the empty glass facing the ceiling and the rim still to her lips, she fell back on the bed behind her.  Arms splaying out wide, milk glass loosely in hand and staring at the ceiling, she just lay there, astonished, waiting to see if she was going to puke
.  
“Holy, shit!” said the older girl, laughing. “Are you ok?  How did you do that?”  
“I don’t know,” the breathless, younger girl said, and as a smile moved across her lips she added, “but it felt pretty fuckin’ good.”  
She started to laugh, softly at first then louder and louder and, as a feeling of complete and utter release came over her, she raised her voice and said, “Holy SHIT!” 
“Shut UP!”  said the older girl in a frantic hushed voice. And through her teeth she hissed, “You’re gonna wake up my parents!”  
 
Still lying back on the bed, the younger girl laughed and yelled out at the top of her lungs, “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT!  I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT ANYTHING!”  The feelings of self-doubt had left her.  The low-grade anxiety that had been her constant companion for as far back as she could remember was gone.  The worry of displeasing her father had vanished.  The fear of not being good enough and that nobody liked her had disappeared.  She felt free.  For the first time in her young life, the invisible, inexplicable burden she’d carried on her narrow shoulders and the soft pressure, like a hand on her chest, had been lifted.  Fears, pressures and weights that she didn’t even know were there until now, were gone.  Having no other frame of reference, she had no sense or awareness of something that had always been there... until it wasn’t.  
 
That night she never did wake up her best friend’s parents – and the trip to the liquor cabinet was just another one of their thousands of secrets – but she’d gotten way more than tipsy.  The girl who was shy and sweet and far too sensitive for this world had tasted freedom. And a demon had entered her young body leaving behind a key and a map.   
 
The next day the fear and the pressure were back but now she was aware of their presence… and a way to make them go away.

Next week's post, the last of the complimentary previews, Chapter Three; White Porcelain  on Thursday, December 24th at 10 am Eastern, 1: pm Pacific time

Want to read it all right now?
Order on Kindle or in paperback by clicking on the Amazon Affiliate Book Link below!

​Thank you so much, xoAmie

It was the darkest day of my life.  Not the day you might think.  Not the day my husband died.  It happened before that.
 
It was early April, the day my husband was scheduled for surgery.  That was the day the surgeon emerged from the operating room two hours late – two hours after the time the surgery was expected to end.  He ushered us out of the main waiting area and into a private, adjoining room and he closed the door.  That’s when he told us that he was terribly sorry but they had been wrong. What they were so sure was a blood clot against the portal vein in my husband’s liver was, in fact, a large tumor.  The cancer was back.
 
As the saying goes, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and in my pursuit of higher learning much time was spent on anatomy, physiology, and pathology.  I’d found the classes fascinating and I’d paid close attention.  I’d learned how the human body works, starting at the cellular level.  I’d studied the circulatory system; how a cell in the blood stream is transported through the body like a leaf swept along with the current of a river.  I understood what a tumor pressed against the permeable wall of a vein could do.  I knew that once the mutated cells were loose in the bloodstream there would be no stopping them.  I’d studied hard and I’d aced my tests.  And so, I knew.
 
The room started spinning and I couldn’t really hear much after that.  I remember I had to find a bathroom because I became physically ill.  When I returned to the little room, the doctor tried to explain what this all meant. However, my ability to hear and my level of comprehension were intermittent at best.  I became intensely aware of the sound of my own heartbeat echoing inside my skull, as though I’d run full speed up ten flights of stairs then cupped my hands over my ears.  Sandwiched between the deafening pulses of blood through my brain, I heard bits and pieces of the doctor’s attempt at optimism: “Start chemo… got it early… chances are good… still get a transplant…”  But I knew.
 
Only two other thoughts were running through my head. The first, oddly enough, was my deep concern for the people in the next room.  In an out-of-body moment of self-observation, I suddenly realized that I was no longer sitting in stunned silence, tears running down my face; I was now doubled over and I was screaming.  Reality was crashing in and because my body lacked the physical size to contain the enormity of it all, I had unknowingly morphed into a kind of human volcano, earsplitting wails erupting from my mouth.  I thought how that must be scaring the hell out of the people in the next room – who were waiting, as I had been, for their loved one to come out of surgery.  You see, what was coming out of my mouth was not a sound one would associate with humans.  It was the sound of mournful horror.  A primal manifestation of terror and disbelief.  It is the sound that would come out if the Earth cracked open and all of hell spilled forth.  Because, in that moment, I knew.
​
The other thought was this. We had been so hopeful, so sure, that this surgery was the opening of the door to recovery.  This surgery was the last hurdle to be cleared so my husband could get on the list for his liver transplant, and a long, happy, healthy life was ahead.  We were so close and we were so excited.  
 
But it wasn’t the case.  This, instead, was our worst nightmare.  Still, I knew one more thing had to be done that was even worse than what was happening now.  With this realization, I bellowed as I felt myself falling into the abyss.  
 
Somewhere within these hospital walls, the sweetest, kindest soul lay deeply sleeping, blissfully unaware.  In a few hours, he would be awake. How, in God’s name, would I tell this to my husband?
 
So, on the seventh of April, on a beguiling spring day, the lights went out, the walls closed in, the sky fell down and the rug got pulled out from under me, all at once.  It was the beginning of the end of the world.  And I knew.

Next week's post, Chapter Two; Tipsy on Thursday, December 17th at 10 am Eastern, 1: pm Pacific time
​
Want to read it all right now?
Order on Kindle or in paperback by clicking on the Amazon Affiliate Book Link below!

​Thank you so much, xoAmie

​Different ages.  Different decades.  Different circumstances.  There are specific events in our lives that shift our paths, write our stories and break our hearts, adding layers, depth and complexity to the clean-slated girls we once were.  
 
Each chapter in Part I of Kintsukuroi Heart is a non-fiction stand-alone story.  A collection of vignettes offering glimpses of the exact moment in a woman’s life when something happens, either by choice or circumstance, that changes her course.
 
In Part II we see how these experiences, though deeply personal and unique, are the threads that intertwine and connect us all, fostering compassion and empathy for one another and, hopefully, for ourselves. 
 
In Part III we see how, as women, like all forces of nature and works of art, our beauty is formed through refraction, revealed in dimension and contrast, shadow and light, our benevolence becoming both the result and the salve, the subject and lens.  The road may be beastly but the result, if allowed, can be spectacular.

​“Kintsukuroi: kin-tsU-kU-roi (noun) (v. phr.)  ‘To repair with gold.’ The Japanese art of mending broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum.  As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object rather than something to disguise, understanding that the piece becomes more beautiful for having been broken.”

“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”  ~Maya Angelou~ 

Next week's post, Chapter One; Waiting Room on Thursday, December 10th at 10 am Eastern, 1: pm Pacific time

Want to read more now?  I can't wait to share this book with you!
Order on Kindle or in paperback by clicking on the Amazon Affiliate Book Link below!

​Thank you so much, xoAmie

This is an exceptional time we’re living in. The new normal is anything but. Even the most resilient among us may need reminding that being relegated to our homes to stay healthy, doesn’t mean we should act as though we’re home sick.


This is especially important if you suffer from depression, the late winter blues or early spring blahs, you’re just not feeling great about yourself, you’re grieving the loss of a loved one/marriage/relationship but on the road to recovery, you’re in early recovery from any type of addiction or otherwise trying to change or manage your mood or behavior. And if you’re not prone to any of these things but suddenly find yourself removed for your normal schedule due to social distancing or a self quarantine you may be finding it difficult to adjust.


Even if you’re feeling pretty good about yourself right now but you have a tendency toward feeling otherwise - or just want to stay motivated - these little shifts in your morning self-care habits can make a big difference!


Some may seem like no brainers - some may seem ridiculously simplistic - but if you’re staying home and beginning to feel not so great about yourself for any reason, letting the smallest of things slip can start to add up and work against you.


Here is my top 10 list of a.m habits to help you feel good about yourself!

1. Get up! When it’s time to get out of bed in the morning, do it. Although lying in bed and reading for an extra 30 or 60 minutes on a Sunday morning can feel like a wonderful luxury and a reward for a long week, doing it on a regular basis doesn’t set the tone for a productive day. Try getting out of bed a little earlier than you have to instead of waiting until the last possible minute. Laying in bed too long isn’t a good habit

2. Let the light in. Once you’re out of bed open the curtains, pull up the shades and let the sun shine in. Even on a cloudy, rainy or dreary day the effects of natural light on your mood are well documented.

3. Make your bed. It looks nice, it sends a message that you’re up and ready to start the day, it gets your body moving even if just a little, and if you suffer from depression it may help keep you from crawling back into it for the day - I’m speaking from personal experience on this one! Plus, getting into a freshly made bed every night feels really great!

4. Drink a big glass of water. Before I have my morning coffee, I have my water. It wakes up my body and get things moving. Starting the day well hydrated - and staying that way - can make a big difference in how you feel.
​
5. Have a have a morning grooming routine even - and maybe especially - when you’re staying home. Keep up - or step up, now that you have the time - your wake up routine. Do it for yourself if no one else!

• After you bathe, moisturize your hands, feet and body. I prefer to bathe before bedtime but I moisturize morning and night. Don’t underestimate the power of clean, smooth soft skin. I’m linking my blog post on the subject here.
• Every morning (and after I get out of the shower at night) I splash three handfuls of bracingly cold water on my face, pat it very lightly with a towel and moisturize my still damp skin.
• I turn on the light on my 10x magnifying mirror, make sure the sleep is out of my eyes and there’s nothing else where it shouldn’t be (I’m looking at you nose and chin!) I have an eyebrow brush and quickly sweep it through my brows and see if they need a quick trim or tweeze.
• Brush your teeth.
• Girl, do your hair! Keep it shampooed and styled in a way that complements you, even if it’s pared down a bit from your normal going to the office regime. In between shampoos I tend to my hair and always check the back with a mirror to make sure it looks nice from all sides. Nothing says “well... I’ve given up” like matted bed head or a cowlick that has commandeered of the back of your head!
• Put on some lipstick and earrings. Most days I don’t wear make-up but even if I’m staying home, I put on an all day lipstick in a very natural tone. It keeps my lips from getting chapped and it helps me to feel polished. Then, I put on some simple earrings. This entire process takes all of 10 minutes (actually it took me 7 minutes 58 seconds including step 6... I timed it.) but it sets the tone for the entire day.​

6. Get dressed. Even if you’re not heading out the door, pulling yourself together can be really important. It takes the same amount of time to put on something presentable as it does to put on something unpresentable. For me, the goal is to present myself and my home in such a way that if someone unexpectedly came to the door, I wouldn’t feel embarrassed or feel the need to apologize or hide. Even if no one ever does. After all, we’re doing this for ourselves! They don’t call it self-care for nothing!

7. Move your body. Whether or not I’m going for a morning walk or run (and right now we’re self-isolating at home), I do a 5-minute yoga stretch (my video is linked here) with deep breathing. Try it. You’ll be surprised with what a difference it makes! COVID-19 Tip: Now that we’re socially distancing and staying home, extending this to a full yoga practice or morning stretch and guided meditation can help you feel wonderful. It’s also a great way to exercise if you’re housebound.

8. Make yourself a good heathy breakfast. I make oatmeal every morning. It couldn’t be faster or simpler. ½ cup of dry oats, a few dashes of cinnamon, a banana, ½ cup of water and 1 minute in the microwave. Bam, I have a hot, heathy breakfast in about 2.5 minutes. (2 minutes and 23 seconds… yeah, I timed this, too.)

9. Tidy your home. I grab my Swiffer’s (see below) and do a quick dust of the furniture and floor. If you don’t want to use disposable wipes to clean your floor you can substitute washcloths on your Swiffer floor duster, like I do (see below). Just poke the washcloth through the holes instead of the disposable cloths. It only takes a few minutes to freshen your surroundings. Nate Burkus said “Your home should rise up to greet you.” I believe that truer words cannot be spoken when it comes to your home.

10. Set some goals for the day. Even if one of those goals is to catch up on some much needed rest or practice self care, put it on you list and get it done! Why not use this time at home to try something new or return to something you love and have long left behind. Put it on the list and do it!


A special note for skeptics: Taking care of your appearance matters. Why? Because you’re insides and your outside are not mutually exclusive. They are connected and both are parts of the whole you. I’m not talking about hiding behind a mask or false facade, I’m talking about simple things to let you - and your natural beauty - shine!


If needed, remind yourself that self-care and self-esteem go hand in hand and are self perpetuating in both directions. The lower your self worth the less you’ll care about these things and the less you’ll want to put forth any effort. Conversely, the more you value yourself the more invested you’ll be in how you feel and care for yourself even - or perhaps especially - if no one else sees it!


Here’s a litmus test. Have you ever left the house praying you wouldn’t run into someone you knew because you felt you looked an embarrassing mess? How did it make you feel? Now how about a time when you left the house feeling like a million bucks? Better, right? My wish for you is that you present yourself in such a way that you don’t care who you run into even if the only person you encounter is in the mirror. You should feel that good about yourself every day. Like I said before, it takes just as much time to put on something crappy as it does to put on something cute. It takes the same effort to put on an attractive pair of slip on sneaks* as it does dirty old flip flops. So up your game! You can do it and you’re worth the effort! The amount of time it takes to run a comb through your hair and chuck on some lip color is negligible.


No matter how grand or humble your abode, your wardrobe or your presentation, keeping it neat can lift you up and allowing a mess can drag you down. It’s just that simple!

*COVID-19 Tip: Do not wear street shoes in the house and if you do, sanitize them with an approved EPA-registered household disinfectant linked here. Of course be careful that you do a color test before wiping the tops and let them air dry thoroughly before walking around your house - lest you ruin a good pair of shoes or track a bleach solution all over your carpets!

Hi! My name is Amie and I hope some of you may find this helpful. It's my experience, strength, and hope in dealing with depression and how I went from using medication to Mother Nature to manage my depression. It ids an excerpt from my upcoming book and was firsts published on Tiny Buddha ❤️🌎☮️🦋☯️

“I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.” ~John Burroughs

I sat on the front stoop sobbing, unable to move. Hunched over like a heaving dog hugging my knees and clutching a wad of decomposing tissues. About fifteen minutes before, I’d managed to get myself off the couch where I’d been parked, withered and absent, for the fourth consecutive day, and had made it through the front door.
Once there, I tried to stay upright, but like cool syrup I slid down the side of the wrought iron railing and down onto the steps. Now all I had to do was get up and walk to the mailbox and back and maybe I’d feel better. But I couldn’t do it. It was too much.
I hoisted my laden head from my knees and stared out the driveway to the mailbox about seven hundred feet away. It may as well have been ten miles… or fifteen feet. It didn’t matter, it was too far.

“Please just help me get up,” I pleaded to a somber sky. The help didn’t come and so there I sat crying, searching for the energy or the wherewithal to make myself move. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, twenty-five… the time oozed by thick and distorted.

It had happened before, more than once, and had overtaken me at varying speeds and intensity.  Sometimes it leached in with the change of seasons; like an inflatable pool toy left floating past the end of summer, sad and wilted, the air having seeped out in infinitesimal degrees. Sometimes I could fight it off, catch it before things got too grim. Not this time. I’d felt myself spiraling down, hot wind escaping me until I was in a deflated heap, slack and flaccid on the sofa.

It had happened a few years ago, although not this bad, and a chirpy classmate had suggested that I just “snap out of it!”
“Just… ‘snap out of it?’” I repeated.
“Yeah!! Snap out of it!”
“It’s not that simple,” I said.
“Sure, it is! Like the song says, ‘Put on a happy face!’”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“No, I’m not kidding,” she said. “It’s mind over matter. Just distract yourself by doing something that makes you happy. Stop thinking about it… you know, snap out of it!”
I looked at the woman through a haze of disbelief and deadpanned, “Just snap out of it. Gee. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Another friend enquired, “Why don’t you just ask for help when things get bad?”
“Because you can’t,” I said
“What do you mean you can’t? You just pick up the phone and ask for help. It takes two seconds!”
“I mean you can’t; not when you’re in the depths of it. That’s the insidiousness of it. When you need help the most is when you’re least able to ask for it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” the friend replied. “If you’re sick you call the doctor. If your car breaks down you get it to a mechanic. If you have a drinking problem you go to AA. When you need help, you ask for help!”
“That’s like telling someone who is trapped under a piano to walk over to the phone and call the movers,” I scoffed. “You simply can’t”
“Of course, you can! You’re not actually trapped under a piano and you’re not paralyzed, are you?”
“Well, no, obviously it’s a metaphor. But in a way you are… paralyzed, I mean.”
“Oh, come on… I think you’re being a little dramatic.”
“And I think you’re being dismissive and oversimplifying it.”
“Because it’s pretty simple. You just ask for help.”
“I don’t think there’s anything I can say to help you to understand how it feels. I just don’t know how to explain it if you’ve never experienced it.”
“Well, I think if someone needs help, they should just ask for it.”
I sighed and said “Maybe the name says it all. It’s a good name for how you feel. ‘Depression.’ There’s the word depression like a hole in the ground and you definitely feel like you’re stuck down in a hole. And there’s depression in the sense that something is pressing down on you. It absolutely feels like there is a physical weight holding you down. It’s inexplicably heavy. It’s heavy in your mind. It’s heavy in your lungs. It’s heavy in your body. Sometimes, when it’s really bad, it’s nearly impossible to move.”
“Nearly impossible… but not impossible,” my friend said. “You could still get to the phone.”
Okay… Whatever…

But that was then and now I was alone. No nonbelievers to convert nor pep talks to deflect.

Medication had worked to a degree and only for a while. The struggle to find the right prescription and dosage combined with the ever-growing list of side effects had proven too much. I also swore I could feel the drugs in my system, and they made me feel toxic, for lack of a better term, and I couldn’t stand it.  So, under my doctor’s guidance I’d titrated off my meds.

I’d discovered that, for me, the best way to loosen the grip of despair and keep it at bay was intense, intentional, physical exercise. As I slowly increased the time I spent walking, then running, my doctor kept close tabs on my progress. It had worked. It was my magic pill and like any prescription, I had to take it without fail or face a relapse.
I’d found that he more/less I exercised the more/less I wanted to, and the better/worse I felt; it was self-perpetuating in both directions, and over the past couple of months I had gotten lazy; my laziness turned into malaise, the malaise had become despondence, and despondence had gotten me here. Sitting languid and bleak between a spitting gray sky and the gravel drive.

It was late September in Mid-Coast Maine. The days were growing shorter and winter would not be long behind. The hibernal season was always a struggle and it was harder to manage my mood. The window of opportunity was closing. If I didn’t get ahead of it straightaway there’d be no escaping without medical intervention. I had to move my body so my mind could follow, it was the only way out and would happen right now or not at all.

I had to dig down deep, excavate some minuscule untapped reserve, the survival instinct maybe, and use it to push back against the darkness with everything I had left.
Okay. On the count of one… two… three… I took a deep breath in and with the exhale, slowly rolled forward off the step onto my hands and knees into the small dusty stones. I looked out to the end of the drive, toward the empty road and the stand of pines beyond, then hooked my eyes onto the mailbox. Just get there. Crawl if you have to, but go.

I crept a few feet forward on all fours, the sharp pebbles jabbing into my knees and palms “I think you’re being a little dramatic…” I rolled my eyes and set my jaw. Sitting back on my heels, I pushed with my hands and came up into a four-point squat. I sat there for a minute keep moving keep moving then, fingers splayed on the ground, I stuck my fanny in the air, grabbed hold of my thighs one at a time, and hauled myself up.

Arms crossed over my stomach and chest, stooped and shivering, I hugged myself. Move. Move your feet Taking tiny steps, increments of half a foot-length, I shuffled forward; right, left, pause… right, left, pause…  “God it’s so hard.” Keep going keep going…

Over the past couple of years I’d become an athlete, a trail runner. I ran twenty-five or thirty miles a week, up and down ski slopes in the summertime, yet right then I could barely move. There was nothing physically wrong with me, but depression is an autocrat and I’d fallen under its totalitarian rule. It forbade me from moving with my normal grace and ease and instead had me shackled and chained… but I kept going.

“You should die from this,” I breathed out loud. “If there was a true, proportionate cause and effect, feeling this bad should, in all fairness, kill a person.” Keep going keep going. 
“But it doesn’t. It squeezes the life out of you but doesn’t actually kill you.”

I was halfway to the mailbox.  I didn’t pick up my feet, just sort of slid them along, rocking back and forth like a sickly penguin leaving drag marks behind. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe.

“Please help me,” I turned my face upward and beseeched the misting sky. “Please give me a sign. I need something, anything, so I know this will be worth it. If you do, I promise I’ll believe it and I won’t give up.  I promise I’ll keep going.” Right, left, right, left. I was closing in on the letterbox, tears flowing. My body ached.

I got no sign, no random flash of light nor clap of thunder, just the sound of the breeze in the pines and my feet scratching in the pebbles.

When I was about ten feet away, I extended an arm, right, left, right, left, almost there… reaching…  fingertips touching the cold damp metal. “I did it,” I feebly cried. Maybe there’s something in the mail today… maybe that will be my sign. I opened the box and peered inside. Nothing. Just a flyer from the market with its weekly specials—not even real mail, just more junk.

But with or without a sign, I’d made it.

Oh… God… I turned around and, clamping my Kleenex and the stupid flyer to my chest, stared blankly back down the driveway to the house. Now I have to do it again. It was so far. “Just get it over with and then you can be done.”

I breathed in and started back… right, left, right, left, right, left, I resumed my melancholy march. My gaze was fixed yet something moving high in a tree caught in my periphery… a bird; a crow or raven maybe.

I paused and looked up, and there he was flapping his wings just a bit, arranging himself on his perch. The huge chocolate-colored body and glorious white crown were unmistakable, even at this distance.

Bald Eagles were common up here, but this was no ordinary creature and I knew it.  Strength, pride, power, Mother Nature to the rescue again. Yes, this was my eagle and I understood the message he brought. I sniffled, dragged my damp sleeve across my nose and cheek, and nodded. “Okay,” I whispered. “Thank you. This is good. I can do this”

I regained momentum. Right, left, right, left. I’m a runner, I’m an athlete, I eat hills for breakfast, Goddammit. Keep going. Hand outstretched, I grabbed hold of the railing and climbed the three steps to the house. I made it back, albeit barely, and let myself inside.
I got out of my wet clothes and wrapped myself up in my accomplishment and a fluffy robe. I would get a little something to eat, I thought, take a hot shower, go to bed, and watch TV.  I still felt like hell, but I did it. I would get some sleep tonight and first thing tomorrow morning, I told myself, I would go to the mailbox again… and maybe just a little bit farther.
​
                                                                           * * * *

When a person releases any type of toxicity from their lives or stops accepting their drug of choice, in whatever form it takes, after years of abuse, they discover all sorts of things about themselves that may have been masked by, or mistaken for, their addiction.

One of the things I unearthed when I got sober was a history of severe depression that I’d attributed to alcoholism; I was wrong, they weren’t one and the same. They were, however, mutually parasitic, two separate entities that fed off one another.

Which came first, the depression or the alcoholism, I have no idea and, frankly, it didn’t really matter to me. My substance abuse certainly exacerbated my despondency, but cessation didn’t cure it; I was left with chronic, sometimes debilitating bouts of despair.
My first twelve-step sponsor suggested we meet for weekly walks at the town reservoir, a three thousand-acre forested reserve dotted with pristine watershed lakes. It was to become a transformative practice.

Once a week, we walked and talked our way around a popular three-mile loop where I learned, among many other things, a quote that I believe helped save my life: “Move a muscle, change a thought.”

This quote introduced me to the theory that physically moving the body helps dislodge negativity and facilitates a healthy thought process. It also reintroduced me to my love of the woods, something I’d forfeited long ago to alcoholism.

The activity became so enjoyable that I began to seek out my new like-minded friends for a “walk at the Res,” building healthy relationships in a tranquil setting, eventually heading out on my own as well.

I’d walk the loop after work as the days grew long and hike for hours on sunny weekend mornings. I’d often catch glimpses of deer, even a doe with her fawn. It relaxed me and made me smile, which may not sound like much but for me, as sick as I’d been, it was a big deal.

Surrounded by the soft shapes and sounds of the forest, the whispers of the breeze rustling the leaves, the sound of water moving over rocks in the creeks and the birdsong in the trees, and the rich smell and feel of earth under my feet, I found the magical world I’d claimed as a girl and then left behind.

Being alone in nature I found peace and my very first feelings of joy as an adult. I’d forgotten that joy existed, let alone that it was something that might be available to me. Not to be understated, it also kept me occupied, away from dangerous environments and temptation.

As the happiness in my heart grew and my healthful body returned, I began going for short runs. It wasn’t easy, but I kept at it, physically challenging myself gradually, mindfully, and without impunity. The endorphins, already being released on walks and hikes, increased proportionately with the pace, the distance, and demand of the terrain.

I was feeling strong, happy, empowered; literally and intentionally changing the chemical balance in my brain. With the blessing and guidance of my therapist, I slowly replaced my antidepressants with scheduled, purposeful exercise, proud to be scaling my active participation in my recovery under the watchful eye of my doctor.

After several years, I traded regular visits with my shrink for the occasional tune-up with a sports physician.   Nature was at the center of my spiritual healing and running and hiking had become my medicine.  And like any medicine, if I kept taking it, it kept working and, well, if I didn’t…

                                                                                 ****

Day by day, I had allowed one excuse after another to erode my commitment to exercise and disrupt my healthy routine, but I’d just sloughed it off. “No big deal,” I told myself. “I’ll get back to it tomorrow.”

But my “tomorrows” were adding up and before I knew it, momentum was lost and the pendulum had swung. Then, my relationship fell apart. My conditioned response would have been to run it off; take my anger and pain into the woods and leave it there rather than turn it inward. But it was too late. My depression had already taken hold and gotten ahead of me, so instead of hitting the trail I’d spiraled down and hit the couch… and I stayed there for days. It was a very difficult lesson, but I learned it. I have yet to make that mistake again.
Today, nearly twenty years after my long journey to the mailbox, I have a million things to do. But first, I went for a run.

I know I need to make intentional exercise a priority, and to celebrate the small victories when all I can manage is a short walk. When you’re depressed it can be hard to see this, but small wins are wins, nonetheless.

If you’re struggling right now, I get it.  I know you can’t just snap out of it. I know it’s hard to ask for help. I know you might need medication, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But perhaps, like me, you’ll find it helpful to get out of your head, get outside, and get moving.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s to never underestimate the healing power of physical exercise and mother nature.

Please comment below, sharing your thoughts and experience. xoAmie

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“You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.” ~Rumi~

We all know it by heart but when was the last time you watched The Wizard of Oz?

At the end of the movie (Spoiler Alert!) Dorothy realizes that all the characters who helped her get home, Professor Marvel/the Wizard, Scarecrow, Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, were all aspects of herself that she'd been unable to recognize or claim; Intuition, Brains, Heart, Courage.  Glinda, the Good Witch, tells her that the power to achieve her goal was always within her, but she wouldn't have believed it until she was truly tested and learned it for herself. 

Glinda was right. It had been easier for Dorothy to believe in others - physical representations who embodied these CHARACTERistics - than it was to inherently claim her power.  Sound familiar?  She had to witness them externally, become friends with them, develop a deep trust and rapport, then, through recognition, embrace them as her own - that was her journey.   To see it through, she had to want something so badly - to get home - that she would face her deepest fears and fight every foe to make it happen. 
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The Longing for Home

Another point to ponder... is “home” a place on a map or a place within us... a state of knowing and belief where we come into our own, stand tall and occupy our space, and embrace our power?  Maybe it's both?  A physical location where we feel in sync with our surroundings... where the outside matches our insides.  Where people, place, and things align creating a powerful energetic vortex.   

Is the pull of Home our True North?  Is the homing instinct the call of Self?  Are the compass and the destination the same thing?  

Knowing our truth and purpose works like a rudder, keeping us stable and on course.  Once we know this it sharpens our focus and we're free to shine our light and do our thing, Wicked Witches, Flying Monkeys, and naysayers, be damned!

Like the girl said, "There’s no place like Home…"

Have you arrived Home?  
Was there a force that moved you to go looking for it? 
Was there an event that precipitated your arrival?  
Is there a physical place where you feel your power the most?

Please let your voice be heard and comment below!  Feel free to share this link, and don't forget to sign up to receive the latest posts!! 

xoAmie