Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Raspberry Pictures

    The pictures hanging on my walls sometimes make me sad.

    They’re arranged carefully. Intentionally. As if balance could somehow soften history.

    A beach trip in 2021 – sunburned noses, wind-whipped hair, and everyone squinting at the same invisible horizon.

    Christmas morning in 2017 – wrapping paper mid-explosion, coffee forgotten on the counter, and joy so loud it almost vibrates through the frame’s glass covering.

    Back to school selfies in 2014 – stiff smiles and nervous hands and the kind of pride that sits high in your chest.

    If you walked through my house, you would think I have lived a charmed life.

    And I have.

    But that’s part of what makes it ache.

    The sadness isn’t reminiscent of the moments themselves. The moments were real, the laughter genuine, and the love emanating.

    But each frame feels like a time capsule sealed shut. A reminder that whatever lived inside that day is unreachable now.

    And the girl in the beach picture didn’t know then what she would break.

    The mother on Christmas morning didn’t know how quickly mornings would change.

    The woman sitting straight-backed against the park bench thought she had more time – more time to get it right, more time to fix what needed fixing, more time to be better before anyone noticed she was trying.

    Yet time did what it does.

    It moved.

    Even if the walls stayed still.

    Sometimes I stand in the middle of the living room, scanning longer than necessary. I trace the edges of the colorful frames with my eyes – memorizing expressions, postures, and the space between bodies.

    In a few of them, I easily recognize where I could have chosen differently.

    I see impatience behind a smile. Distraction behind celebration. An apology that should’ve come sooner.

    Regret is a quiet companion. It doesn’t shout. It whispers. You should’ve cherished that more. You should’ve protected that better. You should have been softer.

    And I should’ve.

    In that same quiet regret, I am slowly learning.

    The pictures are proof of love, not perfection.

    They don’t document the arguments that followed, doors that closed, words that landed wrong. They capture moments when everyone was aligned – arms around each other, eyes crinkled, standing close enough to count as belonging.

    The fact that I can look at them and feel pain means I cared.

    It means it mattered.

    There are still empty spaces on my walls. Blank metaphorical squares where frames could hang. Vacancies I am still not sure how to fill.

    But the walls themselves still stand – and are solid.

    And so am I.

    I can’t step back into those photographs. I can’t re-parent, re-say, re-do. I can’t warn the heavy-chested woman in the Christmas photo that life is more fragile than she thinks.

    But I can stand here – older, quieter, and humbled – and decide what kind of pictures I want to take next.

    Not perfect ones.

    Just honest ones.

    Maybe someday the sadness won’t hit first.

    Maybe I’ll look at those sweet faces – grinning by the pool – and feel gratitude instead of longing. Maybe I’ll see that even with the mistakes, even with the fractures, love existed there. A love that wasn’t erased by what followed, but instead, a love that simply changed shape.

    The pictures hanging on my walls sometimes make me sad.

    But they also remind me that the humans in them once stood together and smiled.

    And that means, at least once, I got it right.

    Even if only for the length of a camera flash.

  • 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.

  • 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.