Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Raspberry’s most Raspberry

    Having once been told that “all women are the same,” I used to think “being myself” would feel louder. More distinctive. That the things that piqued my interest would be more interesting on paper, or that somehow my traits would make me “more” unique than the next girl.

    What I am learning now is that all women are definitely not the same. The truest parts of me are small, steady, and – not to be dramatic – kind of boring.

    And somehow that feels right.

    1. I like calm mornings. Not productive ones. Not aesthetic ones. Just mornings that don’t require urgency. I love being able to roll out of bed – in my big t-shirt – and warm up with the day.
    2. I prefer knowing what to expect. While surprises sound fun in theory, I prefer the practices of context, clarity, and at least a vague idea of the plan. Other people have mistaken it for micromanagement, but at my age, and at my current “leanage” toward anxious thoughts, I just like knowing what’s next.
    3. I enjoy repetition. The same coffee mugs (even if in rotation). The same routines. The same handful of reliable comforts – my big bathtub, my hairstyle, what I eat for dinner and in what order. Novelty is fine. But to me, familiarity is better.
    4. I think before I speak. And sometimes I think a lot before I speak. It’s not because I am unsure. It’s because I care about tone and eloquence. When my emotions are especially on edge, it is very likely that you’ll find me in a corner stewing about what I need to say, as opposed to actually saying it.
    5. I need time to warm up. To people. To rooms. To days. I rarely arrive fully formed. I need to settle in.
    6. I notice things quietly. Mood shifts. Energy changes. What isn’t said. I don’t always act on it. But I do keep mental notes.
    7. I am content with fewer, deeper connections. Big groups drain me, and that used to feel like limitation. But small, meaningful conversations restore me, and now, that is the preference.
    8. I do better without constant stimulation. Background noise wears me down. Silence gives me space to breathe.
    9. I process things internally. I don’t always have immediate reactions. Or words. Understanding comes after reflection – not during it.
    10. I feel most like myself when nothing remarkable is happening. When I am not explaining, performing, or fixing anything. When I’m just existing – unobserved, uninterrogated, unhurried.

    None of this is impressive. It will never make a highlight reel, and oddly, outside of some pretty cool things going on financially, I probably don’t belong in a highlight reel.

    But these are the conditions under which I am most regulated, thoughtful, and real.

    Maybe “being yourself” isn’t necessarily all about being more interesting.

    Maybe it’s just about being less fractured. Less rushed. Less explained. Less loud.

    And if that is boring, I think I am finally okay with that.

  • Ruminating Raspberry

    I have to be honest about something.

    I don’t like myself very much.

    It’s not a character flaw. It’s a pattern that makes sense given some of the things I’ve lived through.

    I don’t dislike myself because I am secretly awful.

    I dislike myself because I learned to see myself through the lens of harm, failure and fear, instead of context, growth and humanity.

    I have collapsed my worst actions into my entire identity. Instead of thinking, “I did harmful things. I regret them. I’m responsible for repairing what I can,” my brain jumps to, “This is who I am. This is what I am.” And when shame goes unresolved, it stops being about behavior and turns into self-contempt. I don’t hate myself for the things I’ve done. I hate myself because I believe I am the doing. And that’s a brutal place to live.

    I don’t allow myself the mercy I extend to everyone else. I understand nuance when it comes to other people. I understand trauma, unmet needs, fear, attachment wounds, and exhaustion. But when it comes to me? I go straight to sentencing. No mitigating circumstances. No developmental context. No nervous system explanations. Just the gavel. And that internal double standard has eroded affection for myself over time. Anyone treated that way eventually becomes someone I wouldn’t be interested in being around – even in my own head.

    I learned that love is conditional, fragile, and easily revoked. Somewhere along the way, love became tied to being good enough, not messing up, not being “too much,” not hurting anyone, and staying useful, stable and agreeable. So now, when I look at myself, I don’t ask, “Am I human?” Instead I ask, “Am I still allowed to exist without being rejected?” That makes liking myself feel unsafe, because if I soften toward myself, it feels like I’m letting my guard down in a world that has proven it can cause wounds.

    I mistake hyper-accountability for integrity. I care deeply about integrity, but my version has become punitive instead of principled. True integrity says, “I tell the truth, take responsibility, and continue growing.” My version has quietly and gradually morphed into, “If I ever fail again, I don’t deserve peace.” And living under that rule has created constant self-surveillance. And no one likes someone they have to police 24 hours a day, not even themselves.

    I am grieving who I thought I would be. I had an internal picture of the mom I wanted to be, the woman I thought I could be, and the life that would make sense of everything. When the reality didn’t match the picture, the grief didn’t get processed. I just redirected it at myself. And self-dislike often begins as unacknowledged grief that just wears armor.

    I don’t dislike myself because I am irredeemable. I dislike myself because I am honest, reflective, remorseful, and have a strong moral compass. I do not yet know how to hold accountability without annihilating myself.

    What I am learning is that the bridge between self-hatred and self-love is something I have missed. It’s called self-respect. It’s calm. Unromantic. Firm. It’s not, “I’m amazing.” It’s, “I will not abandon myself.”

    1. I am trying to stop narrating my life as a prosecution. Self-respect isn’t, “There’s the full list of evidence that proves I am defective.” Instead, it’s, “What happened happened. Now what is the responsible next step?” I don’t rewrite the past kindly. I just stop reopening the case every day. If my thoughts are not solving anything, I don’t argue with it. I just disengage.
    2. I am keeping small promises to myself, even when no one is watching. Self-love says, “I matter,” but self-respect just means that my word matters. I try to do the things I say I am going to do, even if it’s as simple as drinking water, or going to bed on time, or finishing a book. I don’t do this perfectly, but I try to do it consistently enough so that I can trust myself again.
    3. I am trying to stop using pain as proof. Hurting as much as I am hurting does not mean I am bad. Pain tells me that something is wrong, not that I am wrong. So instead of asking myself what is wrong with me, I am trying to ask myself what happened to me, or what need went unmet, or what fear is active in the moment.
    4. I am trying to tell the truth in real time, even when it is uncomfortable. Not necessarily confessional truth. Just present-moment truth. Things like, “I don’t know how to answer that yet,” or, “I don’t have the capacity to show up at my best right now,” or, “I am overwhelmed and need to pause this.” Self-respect does not demand eloquence. It demands honesty without theatrics.
    5. I have stopped rehearsing how awful I am. I don’t replay conversations to punish myself. I don’t imagine how others judge me for sport. I don’t mentally practice shame “just in case.” Because it isn’t helpful to mentally degrade myself as a form of vigilance.
    6. I am working to allow consequences without expanding them into my identity. I am learning to accept that some people won’t trust me again, some doors are closed, and some relationships are forever changed. I just draw the line at, “Therefore, I am permanently unworthy of peace.” Consequences are events. But identity is not up for retroactive sentencing.
    7. I am consistently choosing behaviors that don’t make tomorrow harder. Before self-love, self-respect asks, “Will this cost me more later?” And then I decide accordingly, with neutrality, not heroics. No self-flagellation. No grand vows. Just fewer self-betrayals.

    Self-love is at the end of the line. Self-respect comes first. Then self-trust. Then self-compassion. And eventually, affection. I am not behind. I am exactly at the stage where integrity is being built from the inside, not performed.

  • Raspberry’s Perfect Day

    What does my perfect day actually look like?

    Not the aspirational version.
    Not the productivity fantasy.
    Not the “I’ll do this when my life is different” model.

    This day would make me feel most like myself – steady, present, quietly content.

    It starts without urgency.

    I wake up without an alarm blaring me into consciousness. No rush. No adrenaline. Just a gradual awareness that I’m awake and allowed to be. The morning is calm. Not empty. Also not indulgent. Just unthreatening.

    And there’s coffee. But no pressure. Coffee is made slowly, and there is no optimal routine to live up to. I’m not running late. I don’t feel behind before the day even starts. And I sit on the couch and drink it, letting my brain warm up at its own pace.

    On this day, I have one meaningful thing to do. Not ten. Not a list designed to prove anything. Just one thing that matters. And it doesn’t really matter what the thing is. Maybe it’s trying a new recipe. Maybe it’s finishing my true crime series. Maybe it’s blogging. Maybe it’s a bullet journal project. Or finishing my book. Whatever it is, I do that thing without multitasking and without narrating it as a test of my worth.

    And there is space for reflection. But no spiraling. I think, because I always think. But I don’t interrogate myself. I just notice things on this day, and I let them pass without turning them into conclusions or accusations. Insight. Not criticism. That is the sweet spot.

    I feel emotionally safe. I’m not walking on eggshells. I’m not preparing for reactions. I’m not monitoring tone, timing or subtext. And the people around me don’t require that I live up to their expectations in order to accept me.

    I laugh. It’s unexpected. Nothing forced. Nothing clever. Maybe something catches me off guard – the neighbor’s farm animals across the street or a funny YouTube video. Maybe my dog runs into the wall again, as he often does when he gets the zoomies. Again, it doesn’t matter. Just something funny that catches me off guard and reminds me that I like being here.

    I move my body. A walk. A stretch. Enough movement to remind myself that I live in my body and not just my head. No goals. No metrics. No moral meaning.

    On this day, there’s writing without publishing. Thinking without concluding. Creating without explaining. No audience. No performance.

    I’m not misunderstood. But I’m also not performing clarity. On this day, I say what I mean, plainly. I don’t over-explain. I trust that being myself is sufficient.

    And the day ends quietly. No dramatic recap. No assessing what I should’ve done better. Just a sense that the day was lived, not optimized.

    This day doesn’t require me to prove I’m good or fix anything. I don’t have to anticipate rejection or earn rest. And I don’t have to be “impressive.” I only have to show up as I am – thoughtful, observant, funny, and most of all, a human being.

    On this day, that is enough. And honestly? That kind of feels like home.

  • A Flawed Raspberry

    Not once in my life have I ever been perfect. Nobody has.

    But I have definitely pretended to be perfect in order to be accepted.

    With honesty – below is a list of what I believe are my biggest character flaws. I am working through these, gently and slowly. And I am finding that consistency is more important than intensity.

    1. I over-function and over-extend when I am afraid of being abandoned. When connection feels uncertain, I explain more, give more, accommodate more. And I take responsibility for things that are not mine. None of these are forms of manipulation. But they come from fear + loyalty + a deep desire to be understood. On the flip side, this flaw only teaches others that I can carry the load alone. And then I resent it. A vicious cycle played out in real time, throughout so many of my former relationships with people.
    2. I confuse self-awareness with self-punishment. I am introspective, and that is a strength. But the flaw lies in the insight that doesn’t stop where it should. And it turns into replaying, self-interrogation, moral sentencing. Instead of “What can I learn from this?” my brain goes straight to “What does this say about who I am?” And that’s not accountability. That’s actually erosion, and it’s not beneficial.
    3. I stay too long out of hope. I see potential. I see nuance. I see context. So I wait. I explain. I give chance after chance after chance. And I assume growth will catch up. My flaw isn’t that I hope. It’s that I sometimes delay my own relief waiting for others to meet me where I already am.
    4. I intellectualize emotions instead of letting them move. I understand my feelings better – or – to a higher degree – than I actually feel through them. And those emotions turn into essays, patterns, conclusions, and eventually identities, instead of waves that I sit through, and waves that eventually pass. It is exhausting.
    5. I take responsibility for outcomes I don’t control. Have I mentioned I have control issues? So when something goes wrong, I believe, “I must have missed something.” And while that makes me dependable, it also forces me to carry baggage that I really need to leave on a metaphorical curb somewhere. I don’t yet trust that things can fail without feeling like I’ve failed.
    6. I am slow to trust ease, as opposed to tension. Chaos feels familiar. Hypervigilance feels competent. And peace feels suspicious. When things are quiet, my brain starts scanning for what I’ve missed. And it’s not drama-seeking. It’s just my nervous system, which has been trained in uncertainty.
    7. I expect myself to be better than human. I give others nuance, context, patience, and grace. But I expect myself to know better, sooner. I expect myself to heal faster. I expect myself to hold steadier. I expect myself to get it right consistently. I struggle to apply my own philosophies to myself. I believe them. I just don’t extend them to myself yet.

    None of these flaws mean I’m broken. They don’t mean I am unsafe. And they don’t mean I am unworthy of trust or love. They mean that I have learned to survive intelligently.

    And now I am learning how to live without armor, a transition that always feels awkward.

    I am not “too much.” I’ve been hard on someone who has been trying very hard for a very long time – me.

    And I’m working on changing that.

  • Off the Grid Raspberry

    The church I attend fasted from January 4 to January 25. The specific goal was to pray for the direction in which the church was heading.

    I decided to participate in the fast. However, I didn’t give up food. Instead, I uninstalled my social media apps. Facebook, Instagram and TikTok.

    I kept Pinterest since I don’t communicate with anyone on that app. I also kept YouTube because I use it to listen to ASMR videos at night and online sermons. I also kept Audible, because that’s not a social media app, at least not in my opinion.

    A terrible ice storm came through my area about a week ago, after the fast was over. So I reinstalled the social media apps in order to connect with people who live in my tiny little community, as to receive updates about road conditions, electricity restoration, etc. Moreover, my church and my son’s school post scheduling updates. So I thought it was necessary that I reinstall my apps.

    It wasn’t.

    I was without social media for 29 days in total, from December 31 to January 28. And this is what happened:

    1. My anxiety and depression decreased significantly. Having less exposure to the “highlight reels” of others forced concentration on my own life. Hobbies. Inner work. Growth. And that ultimately reduced my anxiety.
    2. I developed an improved sense of self awareness. I had more time for introspection which helped me better understand myself, my own perspectives, my opinions – and most importantly – why those opinions exist. I would argue that, for me, social media can be brainwashing at times.
    3. Comparison culture was canceled in my life. Not seeing was everyone else was doing broke me free from the measurement of myself against others, and thus improving my sense of self worth.
    4. My productivity increased. There were less time-wasting distractions which freed up lots of time for meaningful tasks. I read a couple of books, watched some decent movies, spent time with my family, all without worrying what I was missing by scrolling for hours.
    5. My level of focus increased. I gained the ability to think more clearly and keep the phone down in order to complete a task without distractions.
    6. I developed enhanced critical thinking skills. Less exposure to shallow content improved my ability to think more profoundly about ideas that actually matter.
    7. My real-life connections became a priority. I gained the ability to sit with family or friends, not just stare at people on the internet.
    8. I slept better. At bedtime, there was no mindless scrolling. I read my Bible and closed my eyes when I got sleepy without anxiety or a guilty conscience.
    9. I was better able to live in the moment. My observation skills improved and I began to embrace the present.
    10. My skill set expanded. I learned an accomplished so much in about a month. I have maintained a bullet journal and a prayer journal, kept up with my Bible reading. I read two other books, watched movies (and reviewed them), maintained the house, perfected my skincare routine, and worked on what I share with all of you. It was an amazing use of my time.

    I am still on my apps. The first day, I scrolled TikTok for hours and started to feel really terrible about it. So I am not sure they’re here to stay. I liked who I was when I wasn’t on social media. So I will continue to pray for direction.

    I hope you have an amazing week.

  • Raspberry Expectations

    This is not a list born out of disappointment. Instead, this was born out of clarity.

    At one point in my life, I carried a quiet set of expectations everywhere I went. I had hoped people would show up the way I would, care the way I cared, notice the things I noticed. I hoped for the same grace for my shortcomings that I extended to others for theirs.

    What I am learning, though, is that releasing certain expectations doesn’t make me colder. It actually frees me from so much anxiety.

    These are the things I no longer expect from other people:

    1. I don’t expect people to read my mind. Silence isn’t communication, even when it feels obvious to me. If something matters, I am learning to name it. And if I name it and nothing changes, I release it. It is as simple (and as complicated) as that. Clarity trumps resentment. Every time.
    2. I don’t expect the same level of self-awareness. Not everyone reflects constantly. Not everyone revisits conversations at 2 a.m. That doesn’t mean they’re careless. They’re just different than me. And how boring would this world be if everyone thought the same way I do?
    3. I don’t expect consistency from people who haven’t practiced it. Patterns matter more than promises. So I am practicing consistency for myself. And as for others, I let behavior speak instead of hoping words will grow legs. (This is not to say people can’t change, because they absolutely can. But some people don’t want to – see #1 as to how to release those people.)
    4. I don’t expect people to value what I value. Care looks different in different hands. Someone else’s priorities don’t have to mirror mine to be real or valid. The same goes for feelings, preferences, [insert thing here].
    5. I don’t expect closure anymore. Boy, oh boy, I used to. But some things just end quietly. Some things don’t end at all. And I’ve learned to make peace without a concluding conversation.
    6. I don’t expect accountability from people who avoid discomfort. Growth requires willingness. I can’t manufacture that for anyone else. And in the last 6 months or so, so many things in my life have changed – financially, physically, circumstantially. All because I knew things needed to change in my life. I was willing to put in the work. Some people aren’t. And until they are…
    7. I don’t expect people to show up the way I do. I give deeply, intuitively, thoughtfully. But that’s just my way. It’s not the universal standard. Letting go of this expectation has saved me so much recent silent disappointment.
    8. I don’t expect others to protect my boundaries. That’s my job. And I figured out that people will test what isn’t clearly held. That’s not necessarily malice. It’s just human nature. But it’s why boundaries need to be very clear. Always.
    9. I don’t expect understanding from people committed to misunderstanding. Explanations don’t work when someone only hears what he/she wants to hear. I’ve over explained far too much throughout my life, gripping tightly to the idea that if someone just understood, they would accept me. That is not the case. So now, I just let that be information. I no longer consider it a personal failure.
    10. I don’t expect to be everyone’s priority. And more than that, I no longer try to earn that position by over-giving. Mutuality does not need convincing.

    What I expect these days is honesty – from myself first. I expect clarity where possible and acceptance where it isn’t. I expect to meet people where they are – and decide accordingly.

    I thought that letting go of these expectations would make be bitter. But it hasn’t. It has made me calmer. Clearer. More self-respecting.

    I no longer wait for others to become who I need.

    I listen. I adjust. And I move forward – with my eyes open.

    Letting go of expectations for other people didn’t leave a void, ironically. It made room. For a long time, my expectations lived outward – how others would show up, understand, respond, repair. What I am learning now is that the only expectations that actually stabilize my life are the ones I hold for myself.

    And they’re not demands. They’re agreements.

    1. I expect honesty, even when it is inconvenient. Not perfection, necessarily. And not even flawless self-awareness anymore. Just the willingness to tell myself the truth instead of narrating around it.
    2. I expect myself to listen when something feels off. I don’t dismiss discomfort anymore or intellectualize it out of existence. When something keeps nudging me, I pay attention.
    3. I expect follow-through when considering my own boundaries. Nothing rigid. Just consistent respect. Because I can’t ask others to honor what I repeatedly ignore.
    4. I expect self-compassion when I fall short. Correction doesn’t require cruelty. And growth doesn’t require punishment. I expect myself to respond with care, not contempt. This has become a slow process, as I am my own worst critic. But I have figured out in the last few months that I am worth compassion, even if other people don’t extend it.
    5. I expect effort, but not over-functioning. I show up. I contribute. But I no longer carry what isn’t mine to hold. Not bitterness. Not financial burdens. Not workload.
    6. I expect pause before explanation. Not every choice needs justification. Not every feeling needs a defense. Silence has now become a complete sentence. And it has been so freeing.
    7. I expect alignment over approval. I no longer abandon my values to stay “liked.” Belonging that costs me myself isn’t belonging at all. It’s dishonest.
    8. I expect learning to be ongoing. I possess the “How hard could it be?” gene. In reality, though, I won’t always get it right the first time. So I need to stay teachable.
    9. I expect rest to be part of the plan. Rest isn’t a reward. It’s not something I earn after wearing myself out or depleting myself. Rest is a requirement. And it’s something to which we are all entitled.
    10. I expect myself to choose “forward.” I can’t live permanently in regret or rehearsal. I own what is mine, I adjust, and I keep moving.

    These expectations aren’t a guarantee that my life will ever be easy. They guarantee integrity. When I hold myself to what actually matters – honesty, care, alignment, responsibility – I stop outsourcing my sense of stability to other people.

    I don’t need other people to become anything different so that my life feels more grounded. I don’t need anyone else to change in order to feel safe – not anymore.

    And that, finally, feels solid.

  • Main Character Raspberry

    I don’t have main character energy in a cinematic sense. I can’t even open a can of biscuits, so I can’t imagine looking cool walking away from an explosion. There’s no slow motion walk. No flawless outfits. No dramatic “score” swelling behind me.

    And to be clear, I am only an underdog in ways I create for myself, by ways of insecurity, improper time management, and a long list of shortcomings I am slowly processing day by day.

    My “main character energy” is quieter. Observational. Occasionally inconvenient.

    1. I mentally narrate my life during every day, mundane tasks. Vacuuming the floor becomes a moment of reflection. Folding laundry feels symbolic for reasons I cannot always explain. I said to someone this morning, “I never feel like I’m doing enough. I always feel like I’m behind the 8 ball.” And I know now that feelings are facts (thank you, Christy the Therapist), but the feeling has to pass, nonetheless.
    2. I assume small moments are teaching me something. Losing my keys must mean I need to become more organized. An awkward pause is my internal nightmare. A missed turn might have saved me from having an accident. The “signs” are not always bad, but to say I overthink even the small things is absolutely accurate.
    3. I pause before responding like I’m choosing a line that defines me. A returned text as simple as, “Sounds good!” has context. After living in fear of being misrepresented or incorrectly perceived, I tiptoe over every word I say at times. I guess it’s a good thing that my life is quiet these days. I prefer that over constant scrutiny.
    4. I notice aesthetic details no one asked me to notice. Lighting. Music playing faintly in the background of a store or restaurant. The emotional “tone” of a room. I rarely comment on it. But I notice.
    5. I emotionally soundtrack normal experiences. Night rides in the rain = Janet Jackson. A warm spring day = pop. Tears in my pillow at night = Hillsong. Bubble baths = acoustic covers of 00s hits. There is absolutely no reason for this.
    6. I treat minor inconveniences like plot devices. Those things don’t happen to me. They happened for character development.
    7. I reflect deeply instead of reacting quickly. This is new. And it’s not because I’m wise. It’s because I’m rehearsing my inner monologue.
    8. I romanticize resetting my life at incredibly impractical times. Ever wake up on a Thursday and decide you need to redecorate your bedroom? Ever throw away half of your wardrobe because your graphic tees “just aren’t funny enough?” Ever spend $90 on items to do a craft project for something listed for $50 on Etsy? No? Just me? K thanks.
    9. I think about “who I am becoming” while doing objectively nothing. Sitting. Scrolling. Becoming.
    10. I feel like everything would make sense if someone else were watching. Nothing exciting is happening. Not technically. But it feels important anyway.

    This is not confidence.
    It’s not cool.
    It’s barely even noticeable.

    But it is presence.
    Awareness.
    Just me – quietly starring in my own life, with no audience, no arc, and no special effects.

    And if you knew me 6 months ago, and how often I let someone else decided who I needed to be to be “enough,” you’d note progress.

    Five stars.

  • Raspberry Confusion

    This week I have really tried to work on letting go of things I cannot control.

    **written in my bullet journal as a quiet reminder to myself that I should be focusing on the things inside the big circle, not the outer bubbles**

    I have an amazing job and a work ethic that trumps most others’, a beautiful home, nice car, a different Stanley for every day of the week.

    Combine those things with a never precedented desire for privacy, and on the outside I’m capable, rational, put together.

    (I make a point these days not to share my inner most struggles with people, as I have found that most either use it as a bargaining chip to get something from me, or, alternatively, turn my personal chaos into a subject discussed at their regular coffee klatches. Either way, I’m not interested. My life is more valuable than what others have to say about it.)

    So on paper, I’m reasonable.

    In practice, I’m intuitive. There are definitely patterns.

    And for someone who knows me well, this isn’t surprising. If you don’t know me well, I promise I am fine and I can be trusted with responsibilities.

    **For the most part.

    1. I need alone time after socializing, even if I enjoyed myself. I had fun. I laughed. And then my social battery ran out, and I now require solitude like it’s medically necessary.
    2. I can be decisive about big things and paralyzed by small ones. Major life choices? Where to live, big purchases, legal matters, career decisions. Calm. Rational. Thoughtful. Choosing a font? I need 20 minutes and a lot of reassurance.
    3. I overprepare for low-stakes interactions. I walk into casual conversation with back up plans and emotional snacks. On my way to a meeting at church last week, I rehearsed an “about me” monologue so hard that I got a headache. And we didn’t even have to speak in the meeting. Facepalm.
    4. I notice everything and then pretend I didn’t. Tone shifts. Facial expressions. The vibe. And I’ll turn it inward and never mention it.
    5. I love plans – as long as they remain hypothetical. The idea of making a plan, making a list, or setting a goal brings me joy. Executing them requires negotiation with my nervous system. And a lot of second-guessing and prayer.
    6. I take responsibility instinctively, even when it is not mine. If something feels off, I briefly assume it is my fault. It’s reflex, not logic. And I’m working on it.
    7. I am simultaneously deeply self-aware and wildly confused. I understand my patterns. But I don’t always know what to do with that information in real time.
    8. I crave calm but mentally rehearse catastrophe. While I am actively seeking peace, I run a continuous background scan for danger. Basically, it’s my exhausting way of multitasking.
    9. I care very deeply but express it quietly. I do not typically make grand gestures. But I remember things and I show up. Packing lunches for my family for work/school. Anonymous donations to those less fortunate than I am. Memorizing how you like your coffee. Finding out what your favorite dessert is and tracking down the recipe. Yet not making any of those things a whole production.
    10. I am confident and insecure in alternating waves. Sometimes within the same hour. Sometimes even about the same topic. I am learning to reassure myself, by myself. And I anchor my identity based on how much Jesus loves me, instead of looking at the perceptions of others.

    All of these things seem contradictory. And they probably are.

    But somehow, it works. Because I am making it work.

    For those who know me, all of this makes perfect sense.

    (It literally doesn’t. But thanks for pretending anyway.)

  • Raspberry Fear

    Fear has always had a strong voice in my life. It speaks quickly. Convincingly. And with urgency dressed up as wisdom.

    And for a long time, I let it lead. I didn’t trust it, but it was loud. What I can see now, looking back, is that my values were never absent. They were just quieter than my fear.

    And maybe this blog page is my way of turning the volume up on the right things. I am learning to let my values be louder than my fear.

    I’ve stopped using fear as my compass. Fear is really good at identifying risk, but it isn’t good at identifying truth. When I let fear decide, I shrink decisions down to what will keep me “safest” in the moment, and not what will necessarily keep me aligned in the long run.

    I am listening to what matters, not what panics. My values speak differently. They’re slower. Steadier. Less dramatic. My values ask questions like, “Is this honest? Is this kind? Is this consistent with who you’re trying to be?”

    I am choosing integrity over avoidance. Fear urges me to stay quiet, stay agreeable, stay unseen. It can also push me to seek validation from the wrong things or the wrong people. But my values ask me to be clear, even when clarity costs me something – like a relationship, for instance. I am learning that discomfort is somehow the price of self-respect.

    I am letting courage be ordinary. Courage does not always equal boldness. Sometimes it looks like moving forward, keeping a boundary, or telling the truth once and letting it stand.

    I am practicing values in small moments. Not necessarily the dramatic stands. But the daily ones. How I speak. What I tolerate. What I agree to when no one is watching. Because the fact of the matter is that alignment is built quietly. In small increments. Moment by moment.

    And I notice that fear gets louder when I am close to breaking a bad habit. When I am close to breaking through a destructive pattern. And that fear used to stop me. But now I accept it as a signal that something meaningful is at stake. Fear doesn’t mean I am wrong. I usually means I am moving.

    I am letting peace be the confirmation. When I act in line with what I believe – even if it’s not perfect – something in me settles. It’s not relief, necessarily, because sometimes it does hurt. It’s peace. And that’s how I know I’ve made the right decision.

    I can’t eliminate fear, so I reordered it. Fear still has a seat at my table. It just doesn’t get the final vote. My values decide what stays and what has to go.

    I am trusting consistency over reassurance. I don’t need constant certainty. I just need coherence between what I believe and how I leave. And it’s been really difficult to accept that.

    I’m choosing to be guided, not governed. Fear will always try to protect me. My values will help me become myself. And I’m learning, now, which one deserves the microphone.

    In my life, fear asks, “What if something goes wrong?”

    But my values ask, “What do you want to be if it does?”

    I am still not fearless. I’m just more clear-headed. So I let my values call the shots now.

    Have an amazing Thursday.

  • Raspberry Punish-No-More

    Since September, I have attended weekly therapy (minus two separate weeks – one because of illness and one because I legit turned my alarm off in my sleep).

    On one hand, someone to whom I no longer speak told me I needed “serious help.” On the other hand, I am an advocate of therapy.

    And there’s a third hand somewhere in the air that also knows I think and feel certain things I could not and would not share with an amateur.

    (Not only do I have control issues – but can you tell I have trust issues, too?)

    Today, we talked about two things: (1) The path to self-discovery; and (2) Self-forgiveness.

    I do not know when it happened, how it happened, or how I learned it, but at some point I deduced that in order to be loved, I needed to be productive.

    Make good grades. Clean the house. Make the dinner. Wear the dress. Pay the bills. Be available. Relinquish the boundary. And bend to every whim assigned by others. Maybe then (but probably only then) would I be accepted. Because as long as I was producing something, I couldn’t be dismissed.

    But as the cycle often goes, production without rest often leads to exhaustion and resentment.

    So while I’m cleaning, cooking, paying bills, and buying the gifts, I’m questioning my worth, and in the back of my mind, frustration is building.

    “I can’t – and should not have to – do this by myself,” replaying over and over in my head…

    Until I break. I stop. And I run.

    And I run to something often toxic and/or unhealthy, just so I can feel like “me” again, justified by the internal phrase, “I deserve to be happy.”

    The problem with running is that running doesn’t actually make you happy. It’s just a distraction.

    Running does not solve the problem. It creates different problems.

    So imagine my disgust when I stop running only to end up with two different sets of problems:

    1. The mess I made when I took off (i.e. – selfish, impulsive decisions, toxic relationships with people for whom I also ironically had to “produce,” and the once healthy relationships that suffered because I neglected them), and the subsequent clean up required, internally and logistically, in order to make things right.
    2. The cyclical process of forgiving myself for making the same mistake, over and over again, seemingly without learning my lesson, because apparently, I cannot learn from my mistakes after one go-round. I need to make that mistake 3 or 4 times just to verify that it’s actually a mistake.

    Facepalm.

    For the last six months, I have been making very intentional steps to remedy the first problem. Therapy. Journaling. Blogging. Reading. And most importantly, prayer. Praying for those I’ve hurt. Praying for those who have hurt me. Praying for answers. And praying for forgiveness.

    The second problem, self-forgiveness, is where I get stuck. And I figure that’s where a lot of people get stuck, especially those who have control issues like me.

    Punishing myself by replaying those mistakes over and over is, in the long run, a way to maintain control. It’s my way of preventing future mistakes. I subconsciously decide that I do not trust myself, and I place my decisions into a box that requires constant attention and cultivates constant second-guessing. And I also decide subconsciously that I simply do not deserve forgiveness until everyone else is okay. “When he/she forgives me, I’ll forgive myself,” thereby leaving my fate in the hands of others (which may not seem like control, but it is).

    But shame never fixed anything – my mistakes, most of all.

    Shame is, counteractively, unproductive. Shame freezes your pain and makes your circumstances permanent.

    So I asked my therapist how to forgive myself. I share the information I learned with you. It is cathartic.

    Self-forgiveness isn’t about pretending nothing happened.

    It’s just about releasing yourself from perpetual punishment.

    And while I used to think that forgiving myself meant erasing the past or minimizing harm, what I am learning is that it actually just means (1) telling the truth; and (2) refusing to stay imprisoned by it.

    No, these aren’t easy steps for anyone. But they’re steady.

    1. Tell the truth without embellishment. No minimizing. No catastrophizing. Just, “This is what happened.” Write it down if necessary. Forgiving yourself begins with honesty, not drama.
    2. Separate responsibility from identity. Acknowledging harm is not a character sentence. Making a mistake is something you did, not who you are.
    3. Allow appropriate guilt, but not permanent shame. Guilt can help guide repair, but shame keeps you stuck. If a feeling does not move you toward wisdom or change, it should not stay forever.
    4. Name what you’ve already learned. If you would not make the same choice today, that matters. And read this carefully: Growth counts even if consequences remain. Learning is not an excuse. It’s evidence.
    5. Acknowledge what you didn’t know then. Context isn’t justification, but it is clarity. We act with the tools we have in any decision-making moment. Understanding your past, and the capacity you had, creates compassion without denial.
    6. Make amends where possible, and release what isn’t. While you should repair what you can, you also have to accept that some things cannot be fixed, only respected. Self-forgiveness does not require universal reconciliation, and that’s as hard for me as it probably is for others.
    7. Stop resentencing yourself. If you have owned it, learned from it, and adjusted your behavior, you’ve officially become accountable. Continuing to punish yourself is not accountability. It’s just habit.
    8. Practice speaking to yourself like someone who is redeemable. Not lenient. Not indulgent. Just a human being. And another thing? If redemption is possible for others, it is possible for you.
    9. Trust the process and allow forgiveness to be gradual. Much like growth, self-forgiveness is not linear. You won’t wake up forgiven one random morning. This is something that requires practice, especially on days when self-doubt resurfaces. It’s a choice you have to make every day, in small steps. Rinse and repeat.
    10. Choose forward responsibility over backward obsession. I try to look at it this way: Self-forgiveness in no way erases the past. It frees us up to live responsibly now. And that’s the most meaningful apology I can offer.

    Self forgiveness does not equal forgetting. It’s just the act of releasing the belief that you must suffer forever to prove that you understand.

    Two things can be true at the same time – you can carry both regret and dignity. You can remember and move forward. You can be accountable and free.

    And you are allowed to begin again, without dragging a sentence behind you.

    I hope your day is going really well. I’m signing off to make baked spaghetti.