Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Old Raspberry v. New Raspberry

    I used to think that transformation was produced via hard discipline. Strict rules. A checklist.

    I’ve learned otherwise in the last 6 months.

    To be fair, 6 months isn’t a terribly long time. No major life haul took place. There was no public announcement. There was no dramatic reinvention or some sort of epiphany that explained what I’d been doing “wrong” all along.

    But certain things in my life have shifted subtly, that I have learned to welcome as positive steps toward a change, more ground version of myself. Not necessarily who I am – just how I inhabit myself now.

    1. I pause before I respond. Six months ago, I reacted faster. Even if my responses to emails and text messages didn’t reflect how I was feeling, I had to actively deny myself the satisfaction of expressing myself. I don’t do that much anymore. What I used to overthink is now dwindled to a brief pause. There’s no internal conversation. My thoughts simply come to a rolling stop, only briefly, and the only question I ask is, “How can I be kind?” And then I answer that way. I don’t over-complicate it anymore. And that simple change has freed up so much time and sanity.
    2. More to that point, there are fewer paragraphs and more clarity. I used to explain everything. Now I say things once, and clearly. If it’s received, great. If not, I am okay with letting other people sit in their disappointment – even if their disappointment is with me.
    3. I allow neutral to stay neutral. A delayed reply is just that. A tone shift doesn’t automatically equal conflict. My nervous system’s knee-jerk reaction just to assume crises. But that is no longer the default.
    4. I want peace more than validation. I know now that peace is something one must practice. It is not inherently given. And I don’t need to be understood by everyone anymore. Walking in alignment with the person I want to be feels steadier than the short term approval in which I used to find my identity.
    5. I make smaller promises, which allow for stronger follow-through. Just like I now know that I can’t reach overnight success, I also know that black-and-white declarations aren’t typically viable. So instead, I practice consistency. I do what I say I’m going to do. And I rest when I say I will. That’s trust built quietly.
    6. I set boundaries that don’t wobble. I am not defensive. I am not aggressive. I just adopted calm limits that I don’t over-explain. And that feels much kinder.
    7. I rest without negotiation. Six months ago, I justified downtime, as if rest had to be earned. Now, I treat rest like maintenance – not indulgence.
    8. I have become accountable without collapsing. Lately I’ve been trying to admit mistakes without spiraling into an identity crisis. If I am wrong, I adjust and move forward. No trial required.
    9. There is less urgency to fix other people’s feelings. I have always had empathy, and that will never change. It is one of the few admirable things about me. But there is a difference between empathy and emotional outsourcing. I care – but I don’t comfort – especially if it requires that I break a boundary or change what I value in order to be accepted.
    10. My internal narrative is quieter. The voice in my head is softer. Less catastrophic. Less self-critical. It doesn’t draw conclusions based on how others treat me or mistakes I’ve made. That voice is more measured and more patient.

    My hobbies haven’t changed. I don’t have “new” personality traits. I’ve simply relinquished some bad habits, with the Lord’s help. And compared to six months ago, my life now is less scrambled. Less performative. Less proving. Better living.

    And those shifts – subtle as they are – feel like progress I can actually trust.

  • Breaking Raspberry Habits

    It seemed like a good idea. Yesterday.

    I made a decision at 9:12 p.m. A bold, responsible, almost admirable decision.

    “I am going to bed at 10:00.”

    I even said it out loud. To no one. Just the dog and the dishwasher.

    I listed the benefits in my head: Emotional stability. Less jaw clenching. Fewer dramatic internal monologues before noon. Maybe even peace, ultimately.

    I pictured Morning Me waking up gracefully at 6:00 a.m. No snoozing. No bargaining. Just light pouring through the curtains and a calm, hydrated woman stretching her arms like someone who has her life together.

    Yep. Seemed like a good idea.

    Yesterday.

    9:47 p.m.

    I brush my teeth early, which feels wildly efficient. I dim the lights, set out tomorrow’s clothes, adjust my ponytail. I feel smug.

    10:02 p.m.

    I am officially in bed.

    This is where it all goes wrong.

    Because now it is quiet.

    And in the quiet, my brain clocks in for a second shift.

    Did I respond to that email properly? Why did I phrase that text like that? What if that one comment from three years ago permanently altered someone’s perception of me? Should I Google the symptoms of burnout again?

    I reach for my phone. Just to check one thing.

    One.

    Tiny.

    Thing.

    10:14 p.m.

    I am watching a random mom on YouTube reorganize her pantry and somehow feel both inspired and inadequate.

    10:27 p.m.

    I am reading an article about sleep hygiene and do not miss the irony.

    11:03 p.m.

    Okay, now we’re really sleeping, and I put the phone down.

    My eyes are closed but my brain doesn’t get the memo.

    Since we’re here…let’s revisit every mistake you’ve ever made in chronological order.

    And midnight arrives firmly, like a judge taking the bench.

    Somewhere around 12:18 a.m., I finally fall asleep out of pure exhaustion.

    Morning.

    6:00 a.m. alarm.

    The sound feels violent.

    Morning Me is not glowing.

    Morning Me is betrayed.

    I hit snooze with conviction. 6:09. 6:18. 6:27.

    By 7:03, I’m negotiating.

    Sleep is important. You need rest. Maybe tonight you should go to bed early.

    Which seemed like a good idea. Yesterday.

    And every time I stay up late, I swear it is the last time. I swear I am done stealing tomorrow’s energy to soothe tonight’s restlessness.

    But there is something just so seductive about late hours.

    No one needs me. No one is emailing. There are no deadlines ticking. And the world is quiet enough that I don’t have to perform competence.

    Staying up feels like reclaiming time.

    But it costs me clarity.

    By 10:30 a.m., I am tired and dramatic and slightly fragile in ways that sleep last night would’ve softened.

    And yet, tonight at 9:12 p.m., I will say it again.

    I am going to bed at 10:00.

    And I mean it.

    I always mean it.

    Because I am not nonchalant about change. I am hopeful…in short bursts.

    And that hope extends to counting for something.

  • Caffeinated Raspberry

    I can never finish my coffee before it turns cold.

    This is not a metaphor. This is a documented behavioral pattern.

    Exhibit A: 8:02 a.m. As the workday starts, the coffee is poured. Confidence high. Inbox opened.

    Exhibit B: 8:04 a.m. 28 emails have arrived during my off hours, all of which create more questions – and less clarity – than communication from the day before.

    Exhibit C: 8:06 a.m. The coffee is abandoned while I search my desktop for a requested file, a file I know was saved yesterday as “XYZ_Revised.”

    Exhibit D: 8:11 a.m. I find five versions, saved as “XYZ_Revised,” “XYZ_Revised(1),” “XYZ_Revised(2),” and so on. I decide this is already the worst day of my life and hop down the consequential bunny trail, trying to find the right one.

    The coffee sits 9 inches away from my keyboard. Cooling. Judging.

    By 8:19 a.m., I am six tabs deep into Westlaw, three tabs deep into Google, and one tab deep into, “Are my eyes puffy because I am literally allergic to deadlines?”

    It’s now 8:23 a.m. when my phone chimes. It’s from my boss. “Quick question…”

    And never has a question been quick.

    The question is about a motion drafted a week ago – one I have forgotten about, as I’ve touched 103 files since then. To refresh my memory, I reread the complaint. I find, and correct, 4 formatting errors and double check the caption. I check the local rules to verify correct references, which then prompts the rhetorical question, “Am I, in fact, the weakest link in this entire operation?“

    It is now 8:41 a.m. Coffee status – room temperature. Spirit status – oscillating.

    Working from home is peaceful, in theory. It is certainly marketed as peaceful. “Maintain a work-life balance,” they say. And the idea makes people imagine soft sweaters and scented candles and efficiency.

    In reality, I am whispering, “Why are you like this?” to myself while toggling between an affidavit, a call with opposing counsel, a calendar prompt that reminds me a demand was due three days ago, and a phone alarm that is reminding me to defrost chicken.

    My brain does not process tasks linearly. It ricochets.

    I begin working on some discovery, which reminds me to set a Teams meeting, which reminds me to answer a voicemail, which reminds me to research a statute, which reminds me to question my life choices. Yep, overthinking is always on time.

    Back to the now cold coffee. I place the mug in the microwave and press 1:00. But I can’t watch the timer, because I’ve already thought of something else.

    The microwave dings and I don’t retrieve my beverage, which happens more often than I am comfortable admitting.

    At 10:12 a.m., I finally take a sip. Tastes like disappointment and productivity.

    And here is the ironic twist: I am very good at my job.

    My files are thorough. Deadlines are met. Case summaries are prestine. I catch things other people (including attorneys) miss. I anticipate arguments before they’re made.

    I just cannot, apparently, under any circumstances, complete the task of drinking 12 ounces of sweet caffeine while it is still warm.

    By noon, there are three half-finished drinks in various states of abandonment surrounding my workspace, like a timeline of my attention span.

    Morning ambition. Mid-morning hyperfocus. Late-morning existential doubt.

    And if liquids were measured in sustained temperature instead of ounces, I would be chronically and willfully under-caffeinated.

    But at 5:01 p.m., when I log off and mentally review the day, the work is done. Clients are satisfied. Attorneys are happy. Malpractice suits are still non-existent. And I consider all of that a win.

    I gather the cups.

    Tomorrow, I will try again.

    I will pour fresh coffee again at 8:02 a.m.

    And I will absolutely not finish it before it turns cold.

    But the motion will be filed.

    And honestly? That feels legally binding enough.

  • Changed Raspberry Purpose

    My old, broken vacuum has been recycled to fill a need besides suction.

    It was never a very good vacuum. Even when it worked.

    It wheezed more than it roared. It left a faint constellation of crumbs along the areas where the couches meet the floor, as if to remind me that perfection was never its calling. I bought it when money was tight and expectations were lower. It did what it could. Which is to say – not much.

    And when it finally broke, there was no drama. No sparks. No tragic last pass across the beige bottom that makes up my living room and bedroom. It simply stopped trying.

    So I replaced it.

    I researched it. I compared reviews. I exchanged notes with a fellow pet-owning homebody. And I got the shiny, upright, high-powered version of what a vacuum is supposed to be – efficient, dependable, unembarrassing. The kind of vacuum that leaves lines in the carpet, as if to prove its own competence.

    It arrived in a large, confident box. While the old one stood in the corner, unplugged and irrelevant.

    And according to my detailed decluttering memo – the tidy, no-nonsense checklist I wrote neatly in my journal – it should have gone out to the curb.

    Because broken things are supposed to leave. That’s the rule.

    But I didn’t throw it away.

    Instead, one afternoon, when the sun was being generous, and as my sweet puppy curiously but tentatively pawed in the direction of The Great Outdoors, I dragged the unfixable, tired, generic vacuum to the foyer and propped it against the open metal door.

    As it turns out, it is the perfect weight.

    It’s heavy enough to hold the door open but small enough to avoid tripping over. It’s sturdy in a way for which it has never been praised.

    It’s been standing there for four months now, not suctioning, not fixing, not over-performing.

    Just holding space.

    The door swings wide. The dog sits in the rectangle of the light, bathing in the sun without any need to brave the wind. The house breathes.

    And every time I walk past it, I think about how quickly we measure worth by function.

    If it can’t clean the carpet properly, it’s useless. If it can’t perform at full capacity, it needs to be replaced. Upgrade it. Discard it.

    There’s always a better model. Sleeker. Quieter. More powerful.

    And I know something about that feeling – the soft but direct suggestion that I should be less worn, less complicated, less…secondhand. That if I were built differently – upgraded somehow – I would be more impressive. More reliable. Easier to keep.

    There are versions of me that exist in expectation. The streamlined one. The unbroken one. The one with better filtration and fewer emotional hose leaks.

    But here I am.

    Not always in the best working order. Not always smooth. Not always what the manual described.

    And still – I hold doors open.

    I create space. I let light in. I anchor something softer to the ground.

    The old vacuum doesn’t know it failed at its original job.

    It just stands where I placed it and does the next small thing of which it is capable.

    It doesn’t apologize for the crumbs it missed. It doesn’t resent the upgrade humming efficiently in the corners of the master bedroom.

    It serves differently now.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    I haven’t decided if I’ll keep it forever. The commanding pull to declutter still fills my head space from time to time. But for now, it stays. A quiet reminder near the threshold.

    Broken things are not always done.

    Sometimes they just get reassigned.

    And in those moments, the work of holding the door open may be even more important than a clean floor.

  • Oversharing Raspberry

    There are days when I wish my chapstick contained super glue.

    Not permanently. Just…strategically.

    Like at 10:43 a.m., when I open my mouth to give a “brief clarification” and somehow deliver a seven-minute TED Talk with context, backstory, nuance, emotional framework, and three hypothetical scenarios.

    No one asked for that.

    A simple “Yes, that works” would have sufficed.

    But no.

    I had to pile on.

    “Just to clarify, when I said I’d send it, I meant after I revised it, and I revised it because I didn’t want the tone to be abrupt – not that you would think it was abrupt – but sometimes emails read more harshly than intended, and I just —“

    Stop.

    I do not stop.

    Later I replay it.

    Why did I say all that? Did it sound defensive? Do they now think I’m unstable? Is this how careers end?

    There are days when I wish my chapstick contained super glue.

    Applied gently at 9:00 a.m. Sealed until noon. Released only for legally necessary statements.

    And I don’t just over share at work either.

    Literally anybody: How are you?
    Me: Great! Well, mostly. I mean, I’ve been thinking a lot about patterns and personal growth and whether I overcompensate for mistakes by micromanaging my tone and —

    I could’ve just said, “Good.”

    The grocer who brings out my online order waves before loading my bags, and I find a way to deliver a weather analysis, an apology for being late, and a small confession about reorganizing my pantry as if the guy in the yellow vest at Wal-Mart is auditing my life.

    Silence scares me more than it should.

    If I fill it, maybe I control it. If I explain myself fully, maybe no one will misunderstand me. If I add the appropriate amount of disclaimers, maybe I won’t hurt anyone.

    And the twist? The things I say aren’t even mistakes. They’re just…unnecessary.

    Yesterday, I sent an email to my boss, to which he simply responded, “Looks good.”

    Two words.

    No dissertation. No emotional footnotes. No defensive appendix.

    Just…done.

    And I realized something unsettling.

    The world doesn’t often need the extra paragraphs I provide.

    It needs clarity. Confidence. Period.

    Sometimes I talk because I’m afraid that if I don’t narrate my intentions, someone will assume the worst, especially because I have given so many people reason to assume just that.

    But maybe that fear belongs to an older version of me.

    Maybe present day me doesn’t need to staple explanations onto every sentence.

    This afternoon, I caught myself mid-spiral.

    “I just wanted to make sure that didn’t come across the wrong way because sometimes people interpret tone differently and –“

    I stopped.

    I smiled.

    And I said, “That works.”

    And the earth continued spinning.

    No one gasped. No one dragged me to a metaphorical interrogation room. No one gave me a disgusted glance.

    My lips remain tragically unglued.

    But maybe that’s okay.

    Because the goal isn’t silence.

    It’s restraint.

    Maybe tomorrow, instead of super glue, I’ll just apply a thin pink-tinted layer of pause.

    Which is much cheaper. And far less dramatic.

  • Raspberry at Peace

    My Daddy used to tell me, “Life’s not fair and then you die.”

    It took 25 years for that to click. I am approaching 40 and still not incredibly wise.

    The Lord has really been dealing with my attitude lately. I was awake half of the night overthinking something I have dealt with for most of my adult life.

    It’s not an illness. It’s not about money. I didn’t commit a crime. But it is a situation I created by making bad decisions as a young woman. It is the consequence of a poor choice. It’s something I have fought with for the last 14 years, and I am so close to the finish line that I can almost smell sweet release.

    See, the world doesn’t forgive us as readily as Jesus does. Society operates on vindication. Your slate isn’t always wiped clean after you apologize to someone, and instead, that person stands by, metaphorical popcorn in hand, just waiting for you to fail, fall, cry, even break. Daddy is right – life is definitely not fair. The world is not fair. And people are generally vicious.

    And sometimes, in the name of fairness or justice, our sense of self-righteousness pushes us to argue our case. When we feel stressed or wronged or put out or even guilty, it is so easy to seek validation on social media or through friends. Somewhere on the internet, there is a quote or a caption to match every argument ever made on planet Earth.

    “…protect my peace…”

    I have heard it an awful lot lately. I’ve also been guilty of saying it.

    Everybody says they want peace. But most people don’t even know its true definition.

    It’s not just blocking people and posting quotes that suit your agenda.

    Sometimes it is sitting on your bathroom floor, weeping and praying that the Lord helps you catch your tone when you’re irritated. It’s choosing not to turn every disagreement into a debate. It’s actually listening instead of waiting for your turn to respond. It’s respecting someone else’s boundaries – not just demanding that yours be honored. It is forgiving others when you don’t “feel” like it. It is letting go of “the principle.”

    Peace requires self-control, the ability to remain silent, and the bravery to admit when you are the one escalating a hostile situation. It requires you to pause when you’d rather react.

    What I have come to realize is that there have been times I have said I wanted peace – but really – I wanted control. I wanted to be right. I wanted the last word.

    Peace is not something you receive through validation. Peace is something you study. It is something you practice. It is something you can provide to other people in the middle of chaos.

    Consider that when we pray for peace, the Lord may not automatically give it. But He may present you with opportunities to create it for yourself. Much like grace, I believe it is possible that He makes peace available to all of us. We just have to be willing to relinquish our human desire for control. And that may be the hardest obstacle to face.

  • Problematic Raspberry

    This isn’t a confession or a takedown.

    This is an inventory, taken calmly, without theatrics.

    I have been enough time blaming myself for things that were not mine. And that makes it easier, now, to name the moments that were.

    In an effort to close loops, as opposed to reopen wounds, I was the problem when:

    1. I avoided discomfort instead of addressing it. The eggshells I walked on, hoping things would resolve on their own, sent me spiraling. At times, silence, or flat out dishonesty, felt safer than a conversation or a boundary. And I let the choice to not address a situation do damage to my life and the lives of others.
    2. I explained instead of listening. When silence didn’t fit the situation, I did the opposite. I talked to be understood, when what was actually needed was curiosity. Yes, clarity matters. But timing matters more sometimes.
    3. I stayed because it was familiar, not because it was healthy. I confused endurance with commitment. But staying in chaotic relationships or situations is not “proving loyalty.” It is fear, dressed up as patience.
    4. I reacted instead of regulating. Many, many times, I have spoken from a place of emotion instead pausing to respond based on my values. And impact happened before intention had a place to catch up.
    5. I expected people to change without directly saying what I needed. What I assume is obvious sometimes actually isn’t. People are not mind readers. Unspoken expectations are not generosity. They’re guessing games, disguised as passivity.
    6. I overfunctioned until resentment built. I did more than was asked. I offered more than I had. And then I blamed other people for taking what I kept giving. That was on me, not them.
    7. I took responsibility for everything. Ironically, this was not humility. It was control. If it was all my fault, then it was manageable. But that belief hurt me. It hurt others, too, while also giving them a free pass to continue to behave in a destructive way.
    8. I confused being right with being relational. Opposite #7, at one point, accuracy mattered more to me than connection. Operating under the belief that everything was black or white, there have been times I have known with 100% certainty that I was correct. In heated discussions, I felt it necessary to shut people down, defend myself, and provide facts to back of my case. Sometimes I won the fight. But I lost the moment.
    9. I delayed boundaries until resentment set in. I used to bottle it all up, keep a running tally, and let things go too long, only to enforce limits too late and too sharply. Clear boundaries made early would’ve been kinder to everyone.
    10. I punish myself instead of learning. I still struggle with this one. I tend to replay mistakes long after they’ve taught me what they could. And I think I do that because I repeat some of the same mistakes over and over. That means, in my mind, there is documented evidence that I do not learn my lesson the first time. So, to counter that, I double down, tighten my leash, and isolate myself. Picture disciplining a teenager. The first time, a warning. The second, a lecture. The third, fourth, fifth, severe punishment, including but not limited to loss of privileges. I tell myself I don’t deserve friends because I hurt people. I tell myself I can’t enjoy things because I don’t deserve to be happy. I refuse my body rest until tasks are complete. I give those I hurt unlimited access to me in an attempt to mend fences.

    I have been “the problem” in certain moments.

    But those moments do not define me. They inform me.

    Accountability is not just about living in regret. It’s about living with clarity.

    I don’t need to forget these things. I also don’t need to relive them. I can hold responsibility and self-respect at the same time.

    That combination is what actually changes things.

  • When Raspberry “Lets Them”

    Society’s widely accepted “pop culture” therapeutic methodology has, in the last couple of years, adopted a new, seemingly simple solution to all of our problems.

    “Let Them.”

    Mel Robbins wrote a book in 2024, introducing a new approach to relationships and personal power. Its track record speaks for itself. It’s been a #1 New York Times Best Seller. The meat of the book suggests that those two words – “Let Them” – can free us from the burden of trying to manage other people.

    At its core, the “Let Them” theory consists of two essential parts:

    1. Give other people the freedom to be who they are, to think what they think, and to do what they do. Cease all attempts to control what is uncontrollable; and
    2. Focus on our own responses and actions and take ownership and responsibility for what we actually can control – ourselves.

    The book bases this theory on actual scientific research – research that suggests that 70% of the population at large lives in chronic stress, trying to control others, and stress rewires our brains, making us more likely to doubt ourselves, procrastinate, burn out, and struggle with comparison. The book explains that the humans are neither capable nor equipped to actually control another person’s thoughts or actions. It also reports, with statistics, that attempting to manage others creates resistance and resentment.

    Want proof in the pudding? All humans have a hardwired need for control. But adults can only control their own behavior – no one else’s. Having free will means that people only change when they choose it.

    In practice, the “Let Them” mindset theoretically frees us from victimization. When we adopt this way of thinking, we are allegedly able to slough off offense, thereby regaining power over our own lives.

    It sounds clean. Empowered.

    Let them misunderstand. Let them leave. Let them judge. Let them walk away.

    It is easy to do when you’re on a soapbox of self-righteousness. When, in your own head, you can justify your own actions.

    It is a lot harder, though, when shame is still sitting on top of your chest whispering, “What if they’re right?“

    My entire identity, with a few exceptions, has been built on the expectations of others. Make more money. Cook. Clean. Wear this outfit. Say this thing. Attend that event.

    All of those expectations are polite but pressured ways of saying, “Give me what I want. Bend to my needs.”

    And when I bent, it was with a grudge. Or it was dishonest. When I didn’t, I put my relationships with those people in jeopardy. I could never win. I could never rest. I never had complete dominion over my own life. My decisions were rooted in fear or overreaction or panic. Sometimes I made choices out of empathy for others. Sometimes I made choices that were misaligned with everything I know to be right, just so I could protect my routine, my sense of safety, and what few “good” characteristics other people thought I had. Other times, I made choices out of sheer, unprecedented selfishness, because I was sad, or because I needed excitement, or because I just wanted to “feel better” or distract myself from my own stress.

    None of it satisfied me.

    Living through the lens of others’ perceptions backfires. It is disingenuous, for one. For another, it is an impossible thing to manage, because the standards, opinions, goals, and circumstances of other people vary widely.

    But “letting them” doesn’t mean you’re healed. It just means you’re choosing stability, from this point forward.

    And here’s how I am slowly learning to do that.

    1. I separate facts from feelings. Until very recently, I adopted the concept of “your feelings are valid.” And insofar as feelings can be acknowledged, that might be true. But shame? That’s a feeling. It’s not a verdict. And just because I “feel” exposed does not mean I am necessarily guilty of what other people assume. The motives I have always had for the decisions I have made, while sometimes misplaced and/or misaligned, have never been ill-intended. And while it is understood that intentions do not always matter in comparison to our actions, I am not a malicious or crazy or evil person. Nevertheless, it is not my duty or responsibility to change or argue with those whose minds are made up.
    2. I leave room for others’ interpretations. It is impossible to edit someone else’s internal narrative. “Feelings” are impossible to debate. Now, I explain once, if necessary. Then I step back. Over-explaining is self-defense, but it’s not clarity. If anything, it’s panic.
    3. I allow discomfort without correcting it. Shame pushes us to want to fix, soften, even appease. Now I pause. I let discomfort exist in my own life. And I let discomfort exist in others’ lives. I am learning not to rush to repair something that (1) may not even need repair; or (2) may be better left alone.
    4. I try to remember that growth does not erase my past – but it does create room for more informed future choices. I have made mistakes. I have been immature. Reactive. Avoidant at times, overly attached other times. Shame wants those things to be permanent. But growth proves change.
    5. I don’t confuse silence with agreement. When accused of something, when called names, when placed in a figurative box that comes with labels, I once jumped to my own defense. I no longer do, or at least I try not to. But just because I stopped defending myself doesn’t mean I am guilty of others’ accusations. Sometimes my own peace is more beneficial.
    6. I leave room for disappointment. I exhaust myself when I try to control what others think about me. And not once have I ever been successful. Like everyone else, I am allowed to make choices that don’t center around the comfort (or even approval) of other people.
    7. I am learning to stop auditing my worth in real time. Shame pushes us to constantly scan. Was I too much? Too little? Did I say it wrong? It is not healthy or productive to live on trial inside my own life.
    8. I own what is mine – but only what’s mine. Accountability is powerful. Self-condemnation is corrosive. When evaluating my bad decisions, if I’ve apologized, if I’ve tried to repair, if I’ve learned from any given choice I’ve made and adjusted accordingly, I stop serving time for it – even if other people use those bad decisions as justification for their disapproval, hatred, or the like.
    9. I leave the door open for others to believe what aligns with their capacity. It is very easy to judge someone else’s behavior when life has handed us different sets of circumstances. It is easy for other people to assign to me the role of villain in their lives, because it protects their version of events. I have been guilty of doing the same thing. But we can change the titles others give us without breaking ourselves over and over.
    10. I am trying to trust who I am now – not what I was at my worst. This is the hardest one. Shame loves to freeze us at our lowest point. Shame’s goal is replay every mistake we’ve ever made over and over in our heads. But “letting them” requires a belief that there are no absolutes. We are more complex than our worst season. And we are allowed to evolve even if someone else will only ever see the bad.

    This concept – “Let Them” – isn’t indifference.

    I just choosing not to bleed in public just to prove I’m “good.”

    “Letting them” is my way of saying that I have faced myself honestly, that I am putting effort into growing where needed, and that I am not perfect, only accountable.

    That is enough, even if shame hasn’t packed its bags yet.

  • Raspberry Boundaries

    Tuesdays at 8 a.m.

    I look forward to going to therapy, even if I don’t necessarily look forward to getting up earlier than usual and paying a $35.00 copay just to talk someone’s ear off.

    Someone whose job I do not want. Someone who would be justified in secretly judging her patients’ “first world problems.” Someone who may not have much left to give herself at the end of every exhausting workday. Someone who has seen me cry more times than she has seen me smile.

    I didn’t start going to therapy to learn how to function. The truth is that I can function the way I am.

    But I don’t want to just function. I want to change. And I knew, after all previous, failed attempts, I would need to hire a professional to get there.

    I needed someone to read between the lines of every one of my monologues. I needed someone to listen, completely and fully, before jumping to conclusions. I needed someone to be a verbal handbook for healing. I needed someone to approach my emotion with empathy and logic. I needed someone to be objective enough to challenge me and understanding enough to analyze me without judgment.

    I need therapy because I want to be better. And I am self-aware enough to know that I can’t do it on my own.

    Today, we discussed boundaries.

    For a long time, I thought that boundaries and kindness were opposites. I thought, for one, that I had made too many mistakes and hurt too many people to have boundaries, or that somehow my screw-ups and failures voided any need I might have for the rest of my life. Secondly, I thought that if I said no or stepped back or held my ground that I was doing something unloving, especially if the person asking me to stretch was someone I had hurt.

    My entire adulthood has been a replay of the same scenario with varying circumstances – I create a standard by which others can access me. I believe it on paper and I rehearse it.

    And then I make a mistake, or I hurt someone, even if unintentionally, or someone argues with my set of standards in a way that I cannot logically refute.

    And suddenly the standard evaporates so that other people can be okay. I give up what I need so that the world around me can run more smoothly – even if I am breaking on the inside.

    I have a tendency to mistake remorse for redemption. And one of the ways I have expressed remorse is to extend unlimited grace to people who not only test – but cross – my boundaries.

    The “no” I feel in my head and heart suddenly becomes “that’s fine” or “sure,” because I over-claim responsibility for how other people view me. And because I have made so many mistakes that have hurt people, I over-extend myself so that my “no” is not added to an already long list of reasons why people do not like me, do not trust me, or are otherwise disgruntled with my mere existence.

    On Day 1, I told my therapist that I was the problem. I asked her if she could fix me. I begged for books, mantras, homework. I wanted to break destructive patterns. I wanted to shift my focus permanently. And I wanted a future that doesn’t involve anymore repeated failures.

    I still want those things.

    The course of my therapy has changed a lot in the last 6 months. After getting some background from me during our first few appointments, my therapist has since let me lead the discussion. And we have talked extensively about my relationships with other people. And not one time have I ever placed blame on anyone except myself.

    Until today.

    I didn’t feel good about it.

    This is about to reach a point of specifics I have tried to avoid on this blog. But I need to talk about it.

    There is a person currently in my life that I did not invite. This person – we’ll call her “Erin” – was forced upon me. Circumstances created by divorce, remarriage, and proximity have placed Erin in my path. She’s been around for about five years, the last four being pretty consistent.

    The first two years of dealing with Erin were a nightmare. I will admit to being guarded when I met her. I assumed the worst. And then Erin proved me right. The constant tug-of-war for control, the gossip, the second-hand harassment, the interference. I was always on the defense. I was emotional. I was on edge, anxious, and torn down. Erin made me question every good thing I have ever thought about myself, and there weren’t many of those to begin with.

    I certainly didn’t make things better, because, to combat all of the accusations and hostility, I matched Erin’s energy. I pointed out all of her flaws, and I didn’t hold back. I tried to validate my hurt by making Erin seem small.

    Two years in, the tug-of-war had ripped me apart. I realized that Erin and I were going to disagree about every subject based solely on opinions, personality differences, and principle. It didn’t matter if she made valid points. It didn’t matter if I made valid points. Our relationship was not one either of us wanted, and that was never going to change. Our respective needs to control our own worlds made it impossible for us to see eye to eye.

    So after two years, I did my best to avoid Erin physically. I blocked her number. I did my best not to discuss her with other people.

    But she lived in my head, rent-free. I replayed old arguments, stood on my metaphorical soap box justifying all of my behavior and none of hers.

    And that wasn’t healthy either.

    Over the weekend, I sent a text to someone with whom Erin is close. We will call this person “Alex.” It was a simple text regarding a vacation that I have scheduled.

    A backstory within a backstory – Alex and I used to be close. I cared for Alex and wanted our friendship/civility to remain intact. Erin’s entrance into our lives made that undoable, because Alex gave Erin full control of the relationship between us. Erin told me I was no longer allowed to call Alex, and that only texting was permitted. So when I followed that rule, Alex just gave Erin the phone, and Erin would respond to my texts on Alex’s behalf. An absolute nightmare on all counts.

    I didn’t receive a response from Alex’s phone to the text I had sent.

    But lo and behold, Erin called me. She called me after she told me 5 years ago not to call her or Alex. She called me after we’ve spent the last 5 years not-so-secretly despising each other. She called me after dragging my name through the mud, after reminding everyone that I am a terrible human being, and after crossing the line that exists between my reality and hers.

    When I saw Erin’s name on my phone, my heart sank. First, I thought I had blocked her. Second, I wanted to talk to Alex – the actual involved party – not Erin. Third, HOW DARE SHE?!?

    All of those thoughts occurred in about two seconds’ time. The following two seconds? The words “grace” and “forgiveness” flashed before me, along with a mental highlight reel of all of the times she’s accused me of being the problem in our not-even-wanted relationship.

    I answered the phone call. I didn’t want to answer it. But I thought not answering would create more problems for all involved. Since she controls Alex, she tries to control situations where Alex and I interact. Erin believes that she is protecting Alex from me. I believe Alex should act like a grown up and have grown up conversations. Since Alex does not, I believe Erin constantly oversteps. And by answering the phone call, I accepted the overstep. I shouldn’t’ve.

    Erin and Alex have a shared calendar that apparently Erin manages. So my notification to Alex about my upcoming vacation sparked the “need” for this phone call.

    I was monotone. To the point. And purposefully unaffected externally, even though I was physically shaking and panicky on the inside, to the point of feeling ill. Erin and I discussed the calendar, and that was it. “I manage the calendar and it’s really confusing. I just want to make sure Alex is where he needs to be,” she explained, with intermittent giggles I interpreted as an outward expression of disagreement with the vacation dates I provided, how I interpreted my contract with Alex versus how she interprets my contract with Alex. But she was not expressly rude or argumentative on the call. I will give her credit for that.

    Call ended. A 4 minute and 56 second unnecessary use of time.

    And it has occupied my mind ever since.

    So for 4 days, I have replayed it. What did I do that was right? What did I do wrong? Why did I even answer?

    This was the subject of my therapy today: BOUNDARIES.

    I told my therapist the above story, and she, too, asked me why I answered the call.

    “…because I am not unkind,” I explained tearfully.

    And we spoke for the remainder of my session about boundaries, specifically in relation to kindness.

    Kindness without boundaries is not kindness at all. It is self-erasure.

    I still don’t know if I get it. I just know I am tired of breaking myself so that others don’t have to bend. So I created a list (lists are my jam). I share it below, as a reminder that (1) boundaries are healthy when placed and followed correctly; and (2) boundaries preserve stability in all relationships, including relationships that are forced upon us.

    1. I don’t have to explain my “no” beyond what is reasonable. A clear answer is kind. A long explanation, which is often received as combative, is usually fear in disguise. I can offer clarity, not a defense.
    2. Managing others’ disappointment is not my job. I can empathize without fixing. And I can care without contorting. But discomfort does not mean that harm was done. I can understand Erin’s desire to be involved. I can understand her protective instincts when it comes to Alex. I can see how Erin would be disappointed, upset, or even angry about not having a say in my schedule. But I don’t have to accept her feelings as truth, and I don’t have to explain myself to her at all.
    3. I am allowed to protect my energy when I am already depleted. Saying, “I am not up for that today” is not rejection. It’s honesty. I am not required to sacrifice my capacity to appear accommodating. Knowing this now, I will need to put it in practice by not answering anymore of Erin’s calls. I am legally obligated to communicate with Alex. I am not obligated, legally or otherwise, to include Erin in any of that communication. If Erin’s reality is that she manages Alex’s calendar, that is great. But I manage my own schedule like a whole adult, and Erin’s approval is not only unnecessary – it’s uninvited.
    4. I do not have to engage in conversations that feel unsafe or circular. Respectful dialogue is welcome, but repeated pushing is not (like Erin’s phone call to me after setting her own boundary of “do not call me, ever” 5 years ago). Stepping away is not escalation – or at least not escalation that I cause. It’s discernment.
    5. I do not have to respond immediately to everything. Urgency is not always shared. I can reply when I am present – not panicked. This is a way to stay thoughtful instead of reactive. The vacation I have planned isn’t for another 5 weeks. The call from Erin did not have to be answered immediately, and looking back, I should have, at the very least, centered myself mentally before answering.
    6. I am not required to accept responsibility for feelings I did not cause. I pay attention to impact. I remain accountable for my behavior. But I don’t have to absorb emotions that belong to someone else’s expectations. Erin has never once asked for “my side” of stories she has heard about me (nor I her, to be fair). That only means her mind is made up. But how she feels about me is not even my business, let alone my responsibility, especially because her feelings are based on second-hand gossip and assumptions.
    7. I am not required to give unlimited access to my inner world. Depth can be offered slowly, with trust – not a demand. Privacy is not secrecy. It’s stewardship. I cannot control the fact that Alex loops Erin into scheduling. And Erin will, unfortunately, know my business it overlaps with Alex’s. But I do not have to acknowledge it.
    8. It is not healthy to tolerate disrespect in the name of understanding. Context explains behavior. But it doesn’t excuse it. Kindness does not require endurance. I will admit that the call with Erin went better than I thought it would. I expected Erin to argue my vacation dates with me. She didn’t. But again, the text I sent to Alex was sufficient. A conversation wasn’t necessary, especially not with Erin.
    9. I do not have to overextend to prove my worth. If I contribute, it should be because I want to, and not because I am afraid of being less valued. I don’t audition for belonging anymore. There are so many people who no longer want me in their lives because I have hurt them, and I am learning to accept those consequences. And I answered Erin’s call because I didn’t want her to have another negative thing to say about me. But the truth is that answering that call didn’t earn me any brownie points. Her hatred for me has not lessened. Our relationship has not improved. In fact, she probably got off of the phone and talked to Alex about how flawed I am in one way or another. And I do not feel any better even 4 days after that phone call. All that phone call did was let her know that I am willing to accommodate her interferences where Alex is concerned. Regardless of my failures, I was worth something before I answered, and I’d still be worth something if I hadn’t answered. What Erin thinks does not alter my value.
    10. I am allowed to keep my values intact, even when it costs approval. I can be gentle without being vague. And I can be kind in or out of silence. Alignment matters more than being liked. Now that I am back-pedaling, I know, 4 days later, that I would’ve felt better if I had honored my own principles about talking to people who are determined to misunderstand/misinterpret my every move. I failed myself by answering Erin’s call. In a panic and under pressure, I forgot that I matter, too.

    I am certainly not finished with this subject. And I will revisit this list with my therapist next week. But after 4 days of stewing, I hope that someday soon I will fully embrace the idea that boundaries don’t make us cold. They make us steady. They allow us to show up with sincerity instead of resentment and with clarity instead of exhaustion.

    And I do know this – kindness that costs me my peace isn’t sustainable. Too often throughout my life, I have bent, masked, and stretched myself so that others could tolerate me. I have given my time, my money, my permission, my forgiveness, my grace, and almost my sanity to people who not only take advantage of those things, but hold those things against me when I reach a breaking point. I have accepted what others say about me as fact as if they know me better than I know myself. I have nearly driven myself mad trying to be everything that everybody needs and then punishing myself when I cannot reach that impossible goal. I have created chaos in my life and the lives of others trying to force myself to be palatable at any given moment, in any given crowd, or with any given person. I have accepted others’ criticism as a challenge to change who I am and what I believe to suit their needs. And honestly, looking back, I feel sick and enlightened in equal measure. Not creating or maintaining boundaries has cost me important relationships. It has cost me sleep. It has cost me money. It has cost me precious time I cannot get back.

    That part of my life has officially come to an end.

    I hope everyone’s week is filled with happiness.

  • Not a Genuine Raspberry

    There are parts of myself I recognize easily now – not because they’re gone entirely – but because they no longer fit like they once did.

    It’s not rejection. It’s recognition.

    There are things that used to feel familiar, even defining, in my life. And somehow, they don’t fit anymore.

    1. Constant urgency – I used to live with a low hum of “I’m behind.” Everything felt time sensitive, important, and vaguely at risk. Now I am able to recognize the difference between urgency and habit. And I’ve decided that most things can wait.
    2. Overexplaining – I once believed that clarity would protect me from misunderstanding, conflict, or even being seen the wrong way. Now I know that people who want to understand don’t need me to narrate myself to exhaustion.
    3. Being needed – Being relied upon felt like a security blanket. Being needed was proof of my worth. But these days, I am more interested in being chosen, not required.
    4. Carrying other people’s emotions – I used to absorb moods, tension, disappointment – as if they were mine to manage. Now I pause. I notice. And I return what isn’t mine.
    5. Performing competence (or just performing in general) – Having it together all the time once felt important. Necessary. Now I am comfortable being capable without showcasing it.
    6. Staying to avoid discomfort – Leaving, stepping back, or disengaging used to feel like a failure. Now it just feels like discernment.
    7. Confusing intensity with connection – If something felt big, dramatic, or emotionally charged, I assumed it mattered more. If something or someone made me anxious I made it my mission to defend myself, change the circumstances, or “grease” it to death like the squeaky wheel I can be. But now I trust steadiness. Consistency beats chemistry – especially fake chemistry – every time.
    8. Self-criticism as motivation – I once believed that being hard on myself would keep me sharp. I also believed that challenging relationships would reveal my best self. Neither did. I was just tired all the time.
    9. Trying to be understood by everyone – I used to contort myself to be readable, palatable, and agreeable. Now I’d rather be honest and misunderstood. There are insults worse than “I don’t understand you.” Who cares? I don’t understand half of them either.
    10. Waiting for permission to rest – Rest used to feel earned. Conditional. Like the thing I was allowed to do after I checked all of my boxes. Now it feels like part of being a human being who has limits.

    What has replaced these things isn’t flashy. It’s quieter. More discernment. Less explaining. Deeper ease. Slower confidence.

    I didn’t lose myself. I just stopped carrying what never really fit. And honestly? That feels like growth I can live inside.