On Non Alcoholic Beverages

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

20 months and counting. This is just my point of view and may not be suitable for all.

10/9/22

Today is 20 months without alcohol for me.

I’ve learned a lot about myself in the last 20 months, particularly about drinking.

I love to drink. Not just alcohol. Beverages. All kinds—coffee, tea, sparkling water, soda (diet ONLY), Crystal Light… and now non-alcoholic (NA) beer.

I’ve always loved the taste of beer. I think my first experience of beer was when I was around 7 or so. My family and I were coming back from a Sunday afternoon of fishing off the piers of Brooklyn, NY. We didn’t plan to stay out that long, and we had nothing to drink. I was soooo thirsty.

On the way home, we stopped for a family favorite—pizza at Spumoni Gardens. My dad stood on the pizza line with my brothers, and my mom and I were on the drink line. The beer for my father came out first. I had been complaining for hours about being thirsty. The soda was taking entirely too much time. My mom handed me the beer and said, “Just a sip.” I took the flimsy wax-coated cup off the tray and intended to take one gulp, but promptly downed the entire thing. My mom looked at me with horror.

“You liked that?” she asked.

“Yes, I was thirsty,” I replied.

The workers behind the counter handed us the sodas, and the pressure of the line moved us out to the general courtyard, where we sat with my dad and brothers.

My mom was still shocked when she said, “I need to go back on line to get the beer—Esterina drank it all.”

The rest of my family stared at me in awe, everyone asking how I could have liked the taste.

Geez, I was just thirsty, and it quenched my thirst is all. I didn’t understand the big deal.

I had also danced for 10 years—2–3 times a week for most of the school year. I would put on a pink leotard for ballet lessons and a black one for tap and jazz. I was always conscious of how that leotard fit. As I got older and started filling out more, I started to think about calories and the things I liked. I always loved soda, and when I realized that diet soda tasted almost exactly the same, I decided to never have non-diet soda again.

I may have had non-diet soda once or twice since then (I honestly can’t say), but it’s diet soda for me now. At least for the past 35 years, it has been.

As a young adult, I never chose alcohol as a beverage of choice unless it was some fruity, elaborate cocktail on a beach somewhere. Even then, I’d only have one—completely aware of the sheer number of calories the drink had.

But sometime in my early 30s, there was nothing but non-diet soda and beer as an option with pizza somewhere after helping some friends move. I was hot, hungry, and thirsty. I wouldn’t drink the soda, so I had the light beer instead—fewer calories.

And oh my gosh, was it good! Beer and pizza together was amazing. It was Miller Lite that our friends bought. So the next Friday for pizza night, I picked up a six-pack of Miller Lite. Light beer became a part of my life.

Well, fast forward a few years. I met my now husband, who introduced me to enjoying the subtleties of wine. That was a new area for me. Wine isn’t so easy to just have one when there is a whole bottle involved. The addiction took hold from there. Light beer turned into all kinds, and a little wine turned into way too much.

Now I’m 20 months from my last drink and am as happy as I’ve ever been. I don’t miss anything about it. But I do have to give a giant plug to NA beer. I love it! I love it like I love diet soda. All of my life since I switched to diet soda, I just don’t even like the taste of regular soda. It’s so sweet my teeth hurt. When it’s the only option, I’ve often taken a sip to be polite but let the cup sit full.

When I first got sober, one day after gardening I craved beer. It had long been a go-to after a very hot day or long hours of work. I remembered we had NA beer in the fridge, but I opted for the diet soda instead. It was just as refreshing.

The next day, I started telling this same story to one of the Aware Recovery companions who came to my house as part of the year-long program I admitted myself to. When I got to the part where I remembered there was NA beer in the fridge, she stopped me with some kind of urgency and almost yelled, “You didn’t have any, did you?!”

“No,” I replied—taken aback that she perceived I nearly avoided a relapse. What did I know? Was NA beer a gateway to drinking again? It seemed to be!

A few days later, I told another companion who was at the house about this treacherous near miss. This one told me that despite being in recovery, she is a bartender and has NA beer and mocktails all of the time. She treated the episode as no big deal.

I didn’t comment. I needed to mull this over. Maybe it was one of those things where there is no hard and fast rule—to each their own.

No one talked about NA drinks in AA. My husband ended up buying a few varieties to try himself, and they were always around the house. But it wasn’t until about a year ago this month that I dared try one.

At my first sip, I was convinced I had beer. I had to go to the fridge and read the can. It wasn’t one of those 0.0% ones. It did claim it was <0.5%. Again, I was scared about this little amount. I looked it up and read there is no way anyone can get drunk from that amount. You would need to drink 40 for any kind of buzz. Your body processes this tiny amount so quickly that even if you could ingest 480 oz in any short period of time, you still can’t get inebriated.

Inebriation-proof and tastes this good? It seemed as too good to be true—like the Diet Coke I still love.

I started drinking them and trying different kinds. They are so good. To me, as good as the real thing—but no buzz. No risk of slurring or not being able to drive.

Nothing came up on my very frequent urine tests with Aware, the breathalyzer, or at the addiction treatment center I went to for Vivitrol shots.

It took me weeks to even think about telling the third companion that I was drinking NA beer. She was the youngest of the group and seemed to be the most receptive to such an alternative thought. As soon as I told her, she piped up that she still goes to bars with friends and drinks soda or whatever non-alcoholic cocktail might be advertised on the menu. She has been doing that for years and never felt tempted.

Not long after, another companion was added to my dwindling number of visits (because I was nearing the end of the program), and this one had a whole list of NA cocktails up her sleeve. Additionally, she didn’t get the AA word that drinking any of these out of a wine glass was the road to ruin, so my guilt about even entertaining such a thought went out the window.

Now, I am not saying this is okay for everyone—to have NA drinks, beers, or mocktails, or to have them in traditional drinking cups. Perhaps if I didn’t take that pause when that first companion sort of scared me, it may have quickly put me somewhere bad. I’ll never know.

It’s often not possible to know when you made the right choice. Usually, you know when you made the wrong one.

But I’m still not saying it’s a great idea or alternative for everyone. It might not be. I am not an expert, and the only experience I’ve had is my own short-lived one.

Not long ago, I opened the question about yes/no to NA beverages to the local town Facebook recovery group I am in… and if one could get their proverbial head bitten off, I would have. Glad I only asked and didn’t tell them I did!! Not one person (not one) thought it a good idea.

The two biggest comments were:

1—When did we ever drink for the taste?
2—Mimicking the real thing will lead back to the real thing.

And I think that might be true for some people—but not all.

Everyone thinks they are different or immune to whatever the warning is. I took pause here and evaluated.

I’ve always had good discipline when it came to food, drinks, and calories. I do realize that drugs and alcohol are a different story and their addictive qualities make that nearly impossible to control.

But I am not having the real thing, and there is nothing addictive to it.

I’ve always been okay with knockoff food versions. My Diet Coke is an example, but there’s so much more. I switched to skim milk in high school when I had money from a job and a car to buy the milk. We only had whole milk at home. Did it taste as good? No, of course not. But it was better for me and good enough. Now I prefer it. But I don’t even drink milk anymore—only almond milk. Another switch that wasn’t as good at first but is now my preference.

Same with sugar substitutes. I never minded SnackWell’s or those fake types of sweets. I prefer making them myself. Yes, like the beer, they taste a little different—but not much. These kinds of things satisfy me without the guilt, and over time I don’t even like the original anymore. The same has been true for me all my life—from milk to tofu over meat.

So in answer to the responses to my question in the Facebook recovery page, I did drink for the taste, and never has the fake version led me back to the real thing. When I switch, I switch for good.

It’s been a full year now since I dipped my toe into NA beverages. So far, I don’t feel any closer to a road to ruin. Do I miss wine? Not really. There are zero good substitutes for it, and in the face of that reality, I am not even interested.

I haven’t really gotten very into mocktails—for the same reasons I never did before with hard cocktails or hard alcohol. The calories don’t seem worth it.

The growth of NA beer is pretty astounding. It is available everywhere. The only place I haven’t come across it is in the Bahamas. But everywhere else I have been since, it’s readily available.

What makes it even more fun is the lack of too many options. There are one to three available choices, tops. So I get to try the one or three varieties and never feel like I’m missing out on the dozen more I could have tried, like I often felt with the real wine or beer I drank too much of.

The truth is I love to drink. I like lots of drinks. I love the taste of beer, and I can have that taste without the consequences. It’s a chance I was willing to take, and knock on wood, it’s been a gift.

Not for a second in the 20 months and counting now have I felt like I was missing out on a thing. I feel great, and I love my life. I love my life without alcohol.

Yeah.

On the Importance of Food, Shelter and Clothing

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Most mornings and evenings I walk with my husband and our beloved black lab mix, Koji. In the morning, with limited time, we walk down the shore and back and observe the day awaken. In the evenings, we take a longer walk. Depending on the time of year, we are catching the height of the evening’s festivities, the daily wind-down, or the flat-out night in our neighborhood (summer to winter span).

This morning it is late September. The air is cool, and I wore my lightweight, dark blue raincoat I purchased in Maine a few years ago during an unexpected rainstorm while in Perkins Cove.

I already had my morning coffee. I wasn’t yet hungry. I was not stressing about what may be in my work inbox. My life felt content, and I was alive.

So very alive that my senses were more open.

I felt the crisp autumn air around me. I held my arms out and inhaled deep breaths. A few times in the past week or so, I was able to detect the smell of wood burning in a nearby fireplace.

I heard the dog sniffing. I heard the squirrels shuffling across the grass and their tiny feet crunching the dried fallen leaves. I heard water from the shore in the distance. I heard a lot of bird signals and whistles. Mingled into it all were the sounds of crickets and other unidentified woodland creatures. I closed my eyes to help my ears hear it all. What a song!

As we approached the shore, I noticed the early morning light dancing across the water. The sun hadn’t quite made its way above the horizon, but the light was creating a spectacular palette of color nonetheless.

I didn’t have my phone and asked my husband for his. I snapped a short video of the rippling water and rising sun. It looked beautiful through the camera, but more beautiful in real life. Nothing captures the moment like living, breathing, and appreciating the actual moment.

On the way back home, I contemplated nature with teeming life around me. I’ve been wanting to go back to being vegan. I do not need to eat so much. Some people have no healthy or good food options. Others have no food at all.

This got me thinking… How can you have an appreciation for life when you are hungry? When your body is so primed to keep itself alive, it is not thinking about other lives. It is telling you to feed it.

Sometimes I walk at lunch. Almost always after dinner. I thought about how I don’t always enjoy these walks so much. When I am not dressed right, when I am in a rush and worried about getting back to my computer, or when I am thirsty or hungry and fantasizing about what to eat or drink when I get back home is when I enjoy these walks the least.

I, like every other human, feel content when I have food, shelter, and clothing. Next up on Maslow’s pyramid is safety.

For years I did not feel psychologically “safe” with my husband. For reasons that belong to another blog, his perception of how to approach the issues in our lives brought a proverbial fire alarm in me. When I worry about work or the kids, or when I don’t feel psychologically safe, the ability to have my senses pick out subtle sounds and visual nuances is dulled. I don’t notice what the dog is doing if I am walking him, and then I’ll subsequently feel annoyed with him. I’m not present to those walks or my life when I don’t have the bottom of the pyramid covered.

As we continued home this morning, I contemplated how I felt safe—safe with my husband, who at that very moment of my quiet contemplation seemed to sense just that by reaching down to gently place my hand into his. I felt safe with him and in my neighborhood.

How can anyone feel safe living in the “hood” just a few miles down the road? How can you feel like the world is beautiful when outside your window is nothing more than buildings that block the sun? Where there might be a dangerous concrete jungle? Where the sound of birds and crickets is overtaken by honking horns, someone yelling, loud street signs, and overall chaos? If your walk to school or commute to work is fraught with fear and anxiety about being safe and what may greet you when you get there, how can you be comfortable and take a moment to appreciate life?

How can anyone thrive without life’s basics?

A flower cannot grow without a medium, sun, and water.

A human cannot flourish without food, shelter, clothing, and safety.

They just can’t.

Anyone who says we live in the land of the free and that anyone can make it is naïve.

I’d like to think that too, but people who don’t feel safe at home or anywhere in their surroundings during their day-to-day life are not free. They are prisoners of their own heightened senses that are keeping them alive. When a human is hungry, they cannot think of anything else but how to eat. When we are cold or too hot, our body turns other senses off to divert energy into keeping us alive. No shelter or an uncomfortable sleeping arrangement leads to sleep deprivation. No one thrives when their body is too tired to function.

I personally don’t know what to do other than what I already try to do. But I want to do more.

If you feel you have food, shelter, clothing, and psychological safety at the moment—perhaps just take a few seconds to stop and think about one thing you can do to lift the consciousness of others so they can be happier and more productive members of society too.

This morning I appreciated life. I wanted to be better, do better, go vegan. I felt that way because my needs were met and I was able to look past myself and help this beautiful world around me thrive. I wanted to protect nature. I wanted to bring other humans to a place where they could see and appreciate what I was able to at that moment.

Pay it forward. Forward this message. Activate and do something, anything… and give me some ideas back along the way…

Only we can help each other—our families, our neighbors, our communities. It starts with me. It starts with you.

If just one person does one thing to help raise us all as humans from reading this blog, then I consider that a success.

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Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On Rainbows

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

This morning I was doing mantras on my beloved mala beads off the Exuma Islands in the Bahamas on our good friend’s catamaran.

It suddenly started to drizzle, then rain—quite abruptly and hard. My husband, who was doing his own yoga on the other hull, and I ran to the back of the boat, where we were greeted with a beautiful rainbow.

Wow… it stopped me in my tracks. How beautiful. And how beautiful to see a full rainbow on the horizon. We are so lucky.

I couldn’t help but think of the state of Ukraine and her beautiful human citizens, who are not so lucky. These past few days I have instinctively wanted to use personal mantra to will something positive or hopeful for the outcome of this unnecessary war. But I also remembered that mantra is personal and will not work for anyone outside yourself. I briefly wondered, just then—as I have for the past several mornings—why we use group mantra to raise consciousness or send faith outward.

The answer was in front of me.

The rainbow. I marveled at the colors. The anagram of ROY G BIV that I learned around kindergarten. The order holds true no matter where you are.

About 10 years ago, while listening to a song, I contemplated the term “ultraviolet.” I then researched the meaning of colors and the length of their spectrums. As I started to get back into art a few years later, I considered the meaning of colors even more—the way they blend, and how a color wheel can seem continuous from red to purple, when it really is not. Purple to red is the only place on the wheel that isn’t quite part of nature. What happens between those two? Is there a real place between them?

White light contains it all. The earth bends the sun’s rays and we get the rainbow to the visible eye. But what is beyond that? We know about infrared and ultraviolet, but what is there that we can’t see or detect with the combination of instruments and our five senses?

Universally, red is considered basic and instinctive, while purple is considered spiritual and highly conscious. Red is larger and takes up more space on the rainbow. Purple is smaller and is only accessed by passing all of the rainbow’s outer colors.

What lies past purple, going inward?

What can’t we see?

I stared at this gem that appears when the elements of fire (sun) and water mix into the element of air, seemingly right into the element of the earth’s horizon.

The purple color starts to go within.

Going within is the key. It’s the path to something deeper, meaningful—not what is just a mirage or hologram, but what is real and cannot be seen or detected with our eyes.

We can all go within and quiet the mind of excuses, fears, worries, selfish desires, and so on, to find the right answer to anything—the answer that is ultimately right for the world, not just the human who is asking.

Those fears, excuses, and desires are the other “colors” you need to pass through in order to find the peace within.

The place within where the field—or maybe plane of existence—of the personal self does not matter. What matters is what is real and what is for the greater good.

So perhaps the question I wondered about—mantras for personal matters versus mantras for others—was right there in the rainbow. It is the bridge between the personal self and the greater good. I can do mantra to seek my own higher consciousness, which is ultimately for the greater good. Or I can chant with others in community for the greater good.

It all works if the intention is to leave all the material and selfish behind and pray for peace and harmony for all.

All.

Regardless of species, race, skin or hair color, or beliefs anyone was taught.

If you truly, truly go within, you too will know that none of anything material or visible matters if what you wish for others is what you want for yourself.

Just some of my deeper thoughts this morning.

Namaste.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

Chinese New Year and the Magic of Your Thoughts

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Last year, right around this time, a trip to the post office may have changed my life.

I was online and noticed a sign for stamps celebrating Chinese New Year. I picked up my phone to look up the date—Friday, February 12, 2021. I wondered why Chinese New Year wasn’t based on the calendar. Later, at home, I popped that very question into Google. I learned Chinese New Year was based on the new moon, and I read quite a bit about the traditions and celebration. Still, I wondered—why this time of year?

A few days later, during my morning meditation routine, I had some interesting thoughts. This time last year, I set an intention during my morning meditation to quit drinking. I would do some EFT (tapping) and imagine burning up the energies getting in the way of doing so.

For the New Year of 2021, I placed a Shiva statue on my meditation table and switched my daily mala mantra to “Om Namah Shivaya.” I also placed a wooden sign I painted above the door frame of my meditation space with this same mantra. Each morning felt fresh and new. I optimistically thought, “Today is the day I don’t drink.” By mid-day, I’d decide to drink, but that would be the last day. It was a futile merry-go-round, and I couldn’t seem to make it stop or find the exit back into the amusement park.

I needed a push. I chose Shiva for that push. Stick with me about why…

In yoga teacher training, I learned a little about Hinduism and the three main deities of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. They are the Creator, Sustainer, and Destroyer. In Ayurveda, they can be likened to spring, summer, and fall/winter. Shiva destroys the season of summer each year and ushers in fall, then winter. At some point, Brahma takes over and creation starts over. Spring begins. Simple enough concept.

This particular morning of 2/8, on my meditation cushion, I looked up at this piece I created in 2019. It may literally look like “Chinese” to anyone but me; however, it represents my own conglomeration of beliefs and knowledge regarding Taoism, Hinduism, Ayurveda, the seasons, the directions of the earth, time, and the color wheel. I thought about Shiva and my question of why Chinese New Year falls during this time of year.

While looking at my art, I saw how I incorporated the three primary colors with the three Ayurvedic doshas into four seasons. Was there a distinct point at which spring really begins and winter ends? A time when Shiva’s work ends and Brahma’s begins? How could it not be at this very time of year?

While the ground is frozen and the leaves are long gone, it’s only three or so weeks away from crocuses coming up. Clearly, flowers can’t pop up above ground without some underground work happening first. Buds are already on the trees at the equinox. Mother Nature silently begins her work as the days become noticeably longer, but it’s still very much winter. She must start around now, and why not with a mid-winter new moon? It seems like good timing to me. Perhaps that is when the bulk of Shiva’s work is done for the season.

Still with my conglomerate story?

Shiva is a “destroyer,” but is simultaneously known as a change agent or transformer. When Shiva is involved, it is apparent. In this famous statue, Shiva is shown dancing. He is known as the cosmic dancer, stomping and keeping the beat of the universe moving. The stomping and dancing represent moving things along, transforming life and matter, keeping it all going, and preventing it from being stuck. It’s why I was meditating and attempting to tap into this energy.

Side note: In Christianity, do you know who else is known as the Lord of the Dance?

This particular Monday morning of 2/8, I lamented how another weekend went by and I did not stop drinking. Chinese New Year was that Friday, 2/12—a new start, a new beginning. I would stop by that Friday with the Chinese New Year, no matter what.

I went through my morning routine—meditate, tap, mantra—with the strong intention of quitting the drink woven in. Be careful what you wish for, and even more importantly, how you wish for it.

That Friday did not arrive, at least not in the way I had planned. I wanted to stop by then, and by golly, some forces came in like a lion and made certain that by Friday I was not to be drinking.

I drank that Monday. Forces were with me. There were four very irritating things taking place around me—four really tough things that would irritate and worry just about anyone. Did I face them? No, I didn’t. I drank instead.

What happened next was immediate and undeniable. I had a strong and violent PTSD episode. It wasn’t the first time. I ended up in the emergency room until the early hours of the morning because I couldn’t stop hyperventilating during a panic attack. I was on a gurney, alone, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a pandemic, with a mask on and the future completely uncertain.

In that moment, I knew. What had happened would not have happened if I hadn’t been drinking. There could be no more “tomorrows” where I planned to quit. It had to be now.

I looked up a service I had seen advertised, where professionals come into your home to help with addiction. I submitted a request for information and began enrollment the next day.

The following days and weeks were incredibly difficult. I made a mess of my life. I didn’t live in my home again until April, and my husband and I didn’t live together again until June.

It was the worst of times. It was also the best of times.

I had asked for a Shiva-like intervention, and that is what I received. Not in the way I would have imagined, but in a way that forced me to stop and take a real look at my life.

I don’t know if anything else would have created the kind of pause needed to truly reflect, to understand how I got there, and to take responsibility for the mistakes I had made along the way.

At the same time, I realized that I had been preparing for this moment for years. Through therapy, spirituality, yoga, and self-reflection, I had built tools I didn’t fully realize I had. I knew how to breathe through discomfort, how to seek support, how to rest when needed, and how to process difficult emotions without avoiding them.

I had learned that life continues, that everything changes, and that acceptance is not the same as giving up. It is simply acknowledging what is.

It wasn’t easy, but it was easier than I thought it would be. I knew, deep down, that no matter what happened next, I would be okay—and eventually better.

There were also ripple effects. Others in my life began to respond differently, to reflect on their own choices, and to shift in healthier ways. The impact extended beyond just me.

Not everyone sees it that way, and that’s okay. I trust that there is something for everyone to take from these experiences, even if it’s not immediately clear.

The idea that what we are searching for may already exist within us resonates deeply with me. The universe doesn’t necessarily give us what we want in the way we expect. It responds to the intention behind it.

If the intention is grounded and sincere, the outcome reflects that. If it’s driven by fear or imbalance, that shows up too.

I’ve learned that being clear about what I want—and being honest about why I want it—matters. There’s a difference between wanting something and needing it to feel whole.

This past year has taught me how much easier life feels when my thinking is clear. Good and bad things still happen, but my response to them has changed.

I’m still learning. I still have instincts that pull me in different directions. But I’m more aware now that my experience of life is shaped by how I respond to what happens, not just what happens itself.

Namaste.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

Who in the World is “Modern” Technology for?

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I’m on a tear about technology today. It started this morning at work when I was asked to make two calendars from one our workgroup has on SharePoint. Simple enough, right? Make a new calendar, move what’s needed, and delete it from the old.

But no. It’s not that simple.

Without going into all kinds of boring details, there’s no longer a clear button to create a new calendar (which, by the way, used to be hidden—and knowing how to find that one was a feat in itself).

Now there are new apps that don’t even have names a normal human would recognize. After spending far too long searching, I found a “calendar-looking” app. I clicked on it and was asked to request access. Then I was given a link to check the status of my request.

About ten minutes later, I got an email from IT about my request. The app wasn’t approved yet—but I received another link to a help page for finding apps. That’s where I learned there’s a link to the “Classics.”

The classics are documents, calendars, announcements, group chats…

The classics? You mean what real, living, breathing employees actually use? Am I that old?

I just can’t with this stuff.

I thought I had finally learned how to use my “smart” TV. I know what the remotes do, how to add and delete apps, subscribe to channels—things my older family members still struggle with. Maybe my kids have it figured out, but I’m not so sure.

Then I went to watch a few holiday movies I had purchased. Turns out Fandango, where I bought them, had been sold. I spent about an hour trying to find my account, reset passwords, and locate my “purchased content.”

I never found it.

We just ended up watching what was free.

What was so wrong with owning something you could hold in your hand and keep in your cabinet? I still don’t know what happened to the movies I paid for.

My car is a 2017 Prius. It has a touchscreen and built-in navigation that never seems to work. Or when it does, I can’t figure out how to turn it off. I’ve tried every button, every option—there is no “End Route” or anything like it.

Sometimes Siri works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

I probably don’t know 80% of what my car can do. And this car is already years old. I don’t even want to think about what newer models can do that I’d never figure out.

Every time I get into my husband’s Tesla, I can’t even find the button I need because updates have moved everything around.

I look around and I don’t see many people using all these features with ease.

And when I do figure something out—it stops working.

I programmed Alexa with a morning routine, but the news app kept cutting out halfway through. It worked for a few days, then stopped. I changed the news source—same thing.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to play a song or album I know I purchased, only to find it gone from iTunes.

Family Share barely works. Apps don’t transfer. Music doesn’t show up. I’ve spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to make it work.

What is it even for?

We had a smart oven for a short time. The buttons were so sensitive that brushing it with your sleeve could turn it off. One of our cats walked across it and turned it on.

There was a lock feature—but then the “smart” features didn’t work.

I still don’t know why we bought a smart oven.

Same with our smart lights. They constantly unlink from the system. When you just want to turn on a light and forget the programming, they blink uncontrollably.

At that point, your options are:

  • sit in the dark
  • or pull out your phone and spend 5–10 minutes fixing it

We also have a Wi-Fi-enabled dryer. I have no idea how to use that feature—or why I would.

At work, I’ve seen hundreds of really useful tools built over the years—things that genuinely made life easier. But most of them have broken over time due to updates, moved systems, or lost knowledge when someone left.

I spend more time trying to fix what used to work than creating anything new.

Even here—on WordPress, where I’m writing this—I feel the same way. Every time I log in, something has moved or changed names. I’ve been using this platform since 2015, and all I really know how to do is write a post.

I know it can do so much more—but every time I try to learn, I hit a wall and give up.

This just isn’t cool.

This is a colossal waste of time.

The world is getting too complicated, and regular people can’t—and don’t want to—keep up with the constant changes forced on us.

Can we just… slow down?

Competition drives faster and faster innovation—but for what?

Just because we can create something doesn’t mean we should.

It reminds me of the industrial revolution. We figured out how to produce more and more, faster and faster. Then we created marketing to convince people they needed it all.

Now we work more to afford things we never needed in the first place.

Life didn’t necessarily get better because our homes got bigger and our possessions multiplied.

Maybe we need to pause.

Technology for consumers isn’t working as well as we think. People haven’t caught up—and honestly, the products haven’t either.

I wish the tech world would stop creating new things for a while and focus on making what already exists actually work.

I know humans thrive on innovation. Henry Ford said, “If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said faster horses.”

But right now, it feels like we skipped right past cars and are handing people spaceships they don’t know how to fly.

Honestly—if I’m someone with a master’s degree, living in a first-world country, and still struggling to keep up…

Who exactly are we building all this technology for?

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On Being Middle Aged

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

When I was a teenager, then a twenty-something, I thought middle age—or (gasp) older—was an absolutely dreadful place to be. Like many younger adults, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I knew better. I was always right. I did things the best way. Older people were out of touch.

I don’t want to be younger, nor do I look back at my own life or the younger beings around me with envy. I like where I am. I will even go to the mat and say I think middle age is the best part of life—after the crisis part, of course, if you are “lucky” enough to have a midlife crisis at all.

I’m 45. To some, that sounds like “only 45?” and to others it might sound like “45??? Gulp.”

The crisis was the worst and best part of coming to terms with life on life’s terms and with who I am. Not everyone will have one, and many who do will not change. With that aside, I believe that even without one, midlife is an awesome part of life.

The best thing is a combination of experience and health. If you reasonably take care of yourself, you can be fairly healthy during midlife. With almost 30 years of driving and workplace experience, these years are a sweet spot of cruising with confidence through otherwise tricky or unknown areas. There is no major physical decline yet, combined with good reflexes, memory, and the ability to pick up and respond to life’s surroundings.

By middle age, most people (not all, of course) are financially comfortable. There are fewer worries about paying bills, less interest in having more, staying fashionable, or climbing the ladder. It allows me to live and work with comfort. I’m old enough to be taken seriously, experienced enough to understand life and work dynamics, and still young enough to switch on a dime to learn new programs, policies, software, and phone apps.

Aside from my farsightedness slightly declining each year at my annual optometry visit, I’m in the best physical health of my life. I’ve learned to make sleep important, exercise a routine part of life, and make wise food decisions for the sake of my health.

Mental hygiene takes a front seat as well. I’m no longer embarrassed about having human responses to stress and pressure, so I don’t pretend they don’t exist. I take an active stance in dealing with those things. I no longer view self-care or downtime as a reward or something reserved for others, but as a necessity to keep myself fresh, healthy, and useful to society.

Speaking of embarrassment, caring about what other people think just isn’t a thing anymore. I’m not afraid to be myself or of failing. I know it’s a part of life, and if anyone else judges that, it’s none of my business. As long as my intentions are pure, I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. I actually enjoy realizing when I’ve messed up or been wrong—it feels good to acknowledge that to myself and to others.

I have enough years of cooking experience to cobble things together from my pantry that taste phenomenal. I try all kinds of art projects I would have once felt like a poser attempting. I love the way I dress, decorate, garden, clean, cook, love others, and live my life. I have go-to recipes, outfits, and ways to entertain that work. I am comfortable with the skills I have and aware of my limitations in the skills I don’t. I am completely okay with what I lack. No one can have everything.

When it comes to taking risks, I am excited to try new things. What’s the worst that can happen if I don’t like it? I just won’t do it again.

I believe I can now live life with a good balance of safety and risk. Being young is often accompanied by an irrational sense of invincibility. I see many older people living with too much fear of too many things. I might get to that point too, but right now I know I do not like the way fear feels. It makes me feel small and trapped rather than safe. Instead of succumbing to it, I live safely in my actions but am courageous enough to push through what a rational mind knows will be okay. That was not my experience in my younger days.

There is so much more to say, but I’ll stop here. Honestly, the midlife crisis and coming into what Richard Rohr calls “the second half” is what brought me to a really beautiful place where acceptance of what is is how I want to live. It was about 8–10 years of chaos, and something for another blog.

I do not know better. I am absolutely not always right. There are so many ways to do things, and different ways work for different people. Older people have wisdom, and our elders are our teachers.

So I will ride the tides and adjust the sails instead of fighting the waves and expecting days of perfection. And I will enjoy this moment—which will pass too—where I am grateful to be healthy and middle-aged.

Namaste.

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The Unassuming Pear

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

The pear has little to no reputation. It is in a few desserts. It isn’t as popular as the banana. It’s not used in any popular lessons (such as the famous non comparison- apples to oranges). It’s not considered exotic like a papaya or coconut, it’s not a popular “pick your own” fruit, was never “in” like the avocado, or so heavily used in food or drink like the grape that fields and farms are required to keep up with the demand.

It’s just an unassuming pear, which is why I chose to paint it. 

The pear is like almost every other living thing amongst us. And like most things we don’t give it a second thought most of the time. 

The pear, the apple, the banana, the trees that produce these fruits, the flowers, our pets, sea life and of course humanity all live through a cycle. It’s as natural as nature itself. Humans are the only ones who sometimes fear or fight it. The rest of the planet accepts it as the flow we live in.

The flow and these cycles are shown to us by nature and what governs living. Particularly through the seasons. 

The pear painting goes from left to right, top to bottom through it’s very own abridged life cycle.

Winter
Winter is when most consider their surrounding closest to death. Life as we know it rests and hibernates. We hunker down and wait out the storm, most of us complaining along the way and wishing away the time until spring.

However, in the midst of the storm, under ground, and right below the surface, Mother Earth is preparing for the next cycle. The frost and subsequent defrost are laying the ground work for what is coming. Perhaps we may even consider it to be where life truly begins.

Like the architect on an empty lot where a new building will one day stand, the architect is surveying the surroundings and mentally creating what will later manifest as a structure using what is available in that time and place to make it so. 

In that time where there appears to be nothing, there is a vision of the future bubbling right under the surface- waiting to be put into action once the sketch is complete.

Winter is the sketch. It’s the time to not do, but just be and know that the spring will come, and with it there will be work to do. 

Under ground the trees and perennials are preparing the seeds that will come forth in the spring. Compared to sentient creatures such as us humans, it is the time when the mother’s egg prepares to be fertilized. 

It’s actually where all the magic is taking place. All that we cannot see or understand in the material world. It’s that beautiful dark little slip of space and time where the spiritual world intersects with the physical one. It may be the most auspicious time of the year.

Spring 
The thaw. The flow of water and life. The sun is with us longer. Dirt is tilled. Seeds are planted. The egg is fertilized.

Of all the planted seeds (the seed of man and animal as well in the form of sperm), only a small percent actually sprout forth into life. The lucky seeds that mesh perfectly with the womb of mother/Mother Earth, the ones that happen to have the prime conditions that nurture it’s growth, are so very lucky. We take it for granted, but we are fortunate to be alive and to experience life. The spring is the time of rapid growth where what makes it lives through its early days to survive through to maturity.

If we are looking at spring through a seasonal lens, it’s the time we lay the seeds, nurture what is planted and help it along until its strong enough to be on it’s own for whatever reason it is here to be. 

Ayurveda calls this time “Kapha”. It’s cool, wet and dense, just like the earth in the spring. It is strongly rooted to its source; very grounded. It grows quickly, and puts on weight easily.

In the chakra system it’s close to the roots. It’s red in color like the root chakra. All life needs a strong root to connect to the earth and then hold it strongly enough to keep it safe but light enough to allow it to grow.

Through the lens of a human, it’s the time of fertilization and early growth until young adulthood. Baby fat, rapid physical maturation, rosy cheeks, dense, learning-growing, needing a bit more nurture and support from the source as the child matures. For the mother who housed the egg and was in rest during the “winter” of the relationship with her own child, the work arrives in the form of carrying the child and then helping it arrive safely in young adulthood.

The pear… it isn’t quite ripe. If it is off the tree, it will be light in color; tinged by that red root that held it close to the branch. If eaten it’s a bit bitter, not quite ready. It has yet to mature. It’s a child. It’s in the spring or Kapha cycle.

Summer
Sun. Teaming life. Hot. Moving for purpose. Lighter, a bit dryer & quick to inflammation. 

The earth and it’s fruits are mostly in full bloom. Growth slows but it’s at the peak of maturity. The seeds no longer need help- they have the ability to live on their own, fighting off bugs and weeds without much outside help. The result of those spring planted seeds are here doing and being precisely what they are meant to do and be.

In Ayurveda this is “Pita”. Hot, quick to fire. Sustaining of life as we know it. Chakra-wise it’s lighter, and yellow like the sun. It is the chakra of digestion. It gives and supports life by helping everything keep moving as it should. Like digestion it’s lit by “Agni” or that internal moving fire.

Humans are now young adults to middle aged. In their prime. Taking care of both the young and old. They have an inner fire to make things happen, to sustain life, get things done, and keep the world going. They are the largest source of income generation. They have the energy and drive to keep it all going. They are like the full summer blooms, doing what they were meant to do.

At this time the pear is ripe. Mission accomplished. It’s the time to eat it or bake with it. Despite its color, it’s tinged with yellow undertones.

Autumn 
The change. Colors deepen. The temperature starts to cool and the air is lighter and drier. The days begin to darken. It feels like a welcome relief. The trees start to relax and succumb to nature. The leaves allow themselves to deepen, change, and finally let themselves go. Before the leaves do let go, that tree never seemed so beautiful.

Ayurvedically speaking this part of the cycle is “Vata”. Whether you are a half empty or half full glass type of person, it can be seen as the time of death or the agent of change. The necessary change that needs to take place so the next cycle of planning and development can take place. Chakra-wise we move up the body to the color blue or the throat chakra. The throat representing voice. With a mature and wise mind, humans have less energy but are able to speak their truth and guide the next generation.

Humans at this part of life also begin to slow down and let go. They often feel colder and have a more deep and philosophical understanding of this cycle and their own part it in. They are closer to spirit and that magic time of “winter” so to speak.  Generally they have more trouble keeping on weight and become drier. The skin is tinged with blue and darker undertones. They are like the fall.

The pear, if uneaten, becomes darker too. Blue & brown undertones. Overripe. More age spots. Soft to the touch. But the sweetest and juiciest it will ever be if you can handle the mess! Another proverbial day or two in its own cycle and it just becomes a pile of mush. Mush to turn the seeds inside to something new perhaps? The opportunity to begin the cycle again as we head back into winter.

Circle of Life
It’s a beautiful cycle. It is nature. Each part has its very own purpose and feeds right into the next. There is no real beginning and no real end.

We should keep in mind that there is truly nothing to fight. Try… but we will not win. It’s easier to just understand nature and accept and open up to where we are are in it.

Nature is bigger than us. She will carry us through each awesome, perpetual, ongoing, self sustaining cycle so we can play our own special part.

Like the seed that created the unassuming pear, we are each a seed lucky enough to have made it. 

 

I painted two versions of this. One with the raw primary colors and the other with a softer tint of each.

Below I used photography and light alteration to show the same concept.

The original pear this blog was written about is the one to the bottom left of the first photo.

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https://esterinaanderson.com

On the Other Side of the Window

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

This first day of 2019, I sit in my dining room after a long run with a warm cup of tea in the sunshine, not far from our dog, who has also found comfort and post-holiday solace in a beam of sun.

Across the room are two potted plants I purchased this past spring. They are geraniums mixed with a few other plantings. They very happily lived on the front porch for the spring, summer, and early fall. As they began to die off when the weather cooled, I just happened to be reading a book where a woman in England talked about having her geranium plant for 13 years. She would bring it indoors each fall and back outside each spring. Instead of emptying the containers in the woods behind our home, as I normally would have done with these plants, I decided to try my hand at keeping these two lovelies alive through the winter.

This morning, when I opened the blinds to the new day and new year, I happened to see a little red bud on one of the plants. While I don’t believe the plant should be blooming, I was excited to see that my efforts are taking effect.

However, this afternoon while sitting in the same room I noticed the rose bush just on the other side of the window. It’s dead/hibernating in every way. There is also a little red bud on it that stopped growing mid-bloom during the first frost, and will never open to what would have been its full potential as a rose flower.
A close-up of green plant leaves with a blurred background featuring a small, reddish flower bud.
A potted plant with lush greenery sits on a wooden table near a window, with sunlight illuminating the leaves. A candle is placed on the windowsill, and a car is visible outside.

However, this afternoon, while sitting in the same room, I noticed the rose bush just on the other side of the window. It’s dead—hibernating in every way. There is also a little red bud on it that stopped growing mid-bloom during the first frost and will never open to what would have been its full potential as a rose flower.

The difference is the warmth, care, and attention I’m giving the geraniums. They get monthly plant food. They are shielded from the cold, just on the other side of the window. They have a fighting chance at survival. How is this not different from the way we treat others in the world?

Folks on the other side of the tracks. The homeless on the other side of the window from our homes, jobs, and businesses we frequent. The children who do not have the same opportunities to thrive to their fullest potential as many of their classmates, due to their home environment and lack of warmth and nurturing.

Last Thursday I drove down to Branford during rush hour. There was an accident on I-95 North at the ramp, and the signs on the highway suggested finding an alternate route. I followed my GPS, and a few turns later I didn’t recognize where I was or fathom how just a few turns away things were so different.

Suddenly there were really busted-up houses, apartments, and abandoned buildings. Check-cashing stores, pawn shops, rough-looking package stores, and one too many convenience merchants advertising the sins of the world. Folks were walking around hunched over with old clothes and hardly any outerwear. Drunken people around my age just wandering the streets alone or with another counterpart, barely aware enough to pay attention to oncoming traffic.

Just on the other side of town… as the rose bush is just on the other side of the window.

If the rose bush were also potted and brought in, the flowers would continue to thrive through the winter, just as they bloom nonstop in the warmer months.

I am fully aware that I’m not comparing apples to apples. The rose bush outside is a perennial and will resume its cycle in the spring. The geranium would not be alive next year if it were left out all winter.

But people are not flowers. We are born the same, not with such different gene sets like these two flowering plants. However, our circumstances often decide if we thrive or not. It’s the warmth and caring of our environment, town, parents, and community that determine if we bloom to our fullest potential or spend our lives just trying to stay alive.

It’s not fair.

Just on the other side of the window, the ones who are safe and warm have a duty to do something—simply because they have the power, energy, and stamina to do so. Because they can, I humbly believe that they should.

Peace ☮️

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Gingerbread Cookie (Yum) Lesson

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

It’s the time of year for holiday baking! For a few years I skipped it completely. My friends and family moaned a little, but we used whatever money I would have spent making cookies and sending cards toward charity. This year I decided to make some cookies—only a batch of each to keep it all super low key. Also, as long as a nice large tray of cookies would be dropped off at the domestic violence shelter where I often make donations, it would still be for charity.

Yesterday, while making gingerbread men, I experienced a little of a spiritual quest, where the words of many who’ve walked before me sank even deeper.

Monday I made the gingerbread dough and popped it in the fridge until I was ready to roll it out later. Yesterday I worked from home, and following my lunch walk, I decided to pull out the dough so it would be perfectly soft when I logged off for the day. The cold air outside left me craving the warm smell of cookies in my home.

When it was time to roll, the consistency was just perfect. I preheated the oven and set to work making tiny little people with a brand new cookie cutter I purchased from Zabars on Sunday morning (for an unbelievable price, by the way). They were coming out seamlessly.

I knew I was going to freeze most of them, so I didn’t want to frost them. Instead, I opted to make three little indentations with an appetizer fork on their bellies for buttons, as well as on their feet to mimic a little cuff. For the eyes I used the back of a lobster pick. I decided against a mouth, nose, or cuffs for the arms. It was a bit too much, as this year I’m keeping it simple.

As I decorated the first batch, I couldn’t help but notice how different each cookie already looked. I attempted to make them all the same, but the place in the dough where I cut and the ever-so-slight differences in the eyes, buttons, and cuffs made each beautiful little gingerbread person unique in its own way.

I popped the first two trays in the oven and set to work on the second two trays. It was immediately apparent that the dough was already slightly warmer and a bit more difficult to cut. However, making the indentations was easier.

The first batch came out, and I loaded the second one in. I let the first two trays cool for a minute before carefully removing them with a spatula onto the cooling rack.

These cute little confections puffed up in the oven and began to sink back down as I started to lift them. As with many cookies (especially complicated cutouts), a few broke a little arm or leg in the process. Some had less deep button indentations. Some just cooked a little more than others depending on their place in the oven and how thick the dough was. Despite my attempt to make them uniform, nature, chemistry, and my own artistic abilities made each ever so slightly dissimilar to one another.

Some had gotten so puffed that they combined with neighboring cookies. I had to carefully cut them apart so I didn’t break either in the process. For some, it was difficult to distinguish which overlap belonged to which cookie.

This is where my mind went on that short spiritual quest.

Like people and animals, these little cookies were all distinct. Where does one person really begin and another end? Those cookies that stuck together came from the same batch. Where they overlapped, it was hard to tell who was who, as they are made from the same stuff. And does it matter, other than to the eye, that they are separate? It’s all just cookies that will taste more or less the same.

Then I thought… what if somehow these gingerbread cookies became conscious? Would they form a society and create a hierarchy of “better” or “worse” cookies based on cut, color, consistency, button depth, etc.? How crazy would that be? Not too long before that they were just ingredients in a store, then my fridge, then in a ball together. Why would they create a structure in which some have dominance or perceived superiority over another?

What if they split off into groups and started hating one another? Hating one another so much so that they began destroying one another based on their own gingerbread beliefs. Wouldn’t that be kind of crazy? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of making the cookies in the first place? Why would they fight over differences rather than celebrating how each is uniquely different?

Why do we think we are any different?

We are all made from the same fundamental “ingredients,” shaped by different conditions, experiences, and influences along the way. Deep down, we are far more alike than we are different. It’s only circumstance, environment, and the unfolding of life that creates variation in how we look, think, and move through the world.

We were created from the same source and, in many ways, for the same purpose. Maybe instead of focusing on our differences, we should be celebrating what makes each of us uniquely beautiful.

Lessons from the Gingerbread People

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One of my cookies—

A PTSD Triggered Morning

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Morning of November 27th

Wide awake and pitch black. A quick look at the bedside clock reveals it’s only 4:40am. I still have over another hour to sleep.

My mind races with things I’m excited to do today. I don’t know how I could get them done, but I want to try to fit them in if at all possible. I would love to start the holiday baking. I have a scarf to finish and several more origami boxes for gifts to make. And definitely squeeze in a run. An appointment and work are the anchors of what I need to work around. I mentally strategize about how to make the fun stuff happen. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, looking back this crazy thought process was Clue #1 that I was anxious and trying to vet my energy in a positive way.

Then I remember it’s my husband Daren’s birthday! Maybe I should get up and make scones to surprise him with? I can do that, then maybe run before logging into work since I’m teleworking today. That would be a fine start to the day.

I forgo the attempt to go back to sleep and decide on birthday scones. Clue #2 that I wasn’t quite right should have been when I went into the bathroom for my Ayurvedic morning routine and didn’t quite screw a cap back on one of my oils before picking it up again… by the cap. Ugh, what a yucky mess.

I stumble downstairs in the dark, all set to make blueberry scones. The three cats are milling for breakfast and are so very underfoot. The sink is sort of full and the dishwasher needs to be emptied. I need to clear these things to bake—everything is in my way.

My heart starts to race. Clue #3. Things not going the way I expect. I take a deep breath and remind myself that nothing I am doing is truly necessary, has a deadline, and is only something I would like to do—not vital.

For a few minutes I feel calm and present as I put everything away, feed the cats, and rush over to open the blinds. Why am I rushing? Clue #4.

I also notice that last night we left a mess of pillows and blankets strewn all about the living room. Pet toys are everywhere. And there is cat puke to boot. I realize I’m rushing and that opening blinds can take place after I start to bake. Why do I need to keep reminding myself to slow down this morning? Clue #5.

I walk very slowly on purpose back to the kitchen and begin taking out the ingredients and supplies. I preheat the oven, start the coffee maker (how could I not have done that first thing? Clue #6), and begin assembling what I hope to be scones in a short 20 minutes or so.

Moments later my heart starts to race again. My breath is erratic. Clue #7.

Something is so wrong. But what?

Why, last Wednesday evening, did my son Tom snap at me when I asked him to keep the dog’s training collar on? I immediately get angry about this even though I didn’t at the time. The look of disgust on his face 10 minutes later when I asked him politely if something was wrong while I was in this same kitchen at this same counter, assembling the makings of a Thanksgiving dish.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Forget it, Ma! I’m taking the dog for a walk,” as he stormed out the door.

How dare he?

At the time I almost laughed it off. Immediately after the door slammed behind Tom, I asked my husband if I said anything wrong. He affirmed I had not in the very least. Hours later, while at his girlfriend’s house, Tom texted me to say he was sorry about snapping earlier and that he loves me. The whole episode was just not a big deal.

So why am I so upset this morning? Clue #8.

I start mixing the wet ingredients into the dry, being careful not to overmix. As I prepare the counter with a light dusting of flour before turning the dough onto the floured surface, I consider how much I cannot stand when someone accuses me of something I didn’t do and then gets mad at me for it.

Now my heart is really racing. I feel as if my life is at stake and I need to fight for it. Why am I even thinking about this now? Clue #9.

I continue to work, but my hands are shaking. I can’t concentrate. Clue #10.

I want to bring these things up with my son and husband. Unearth them. Find out what they were thinking. Clue #11.

There are two ways this story could go.

I could do just that… or I could remember that I have PTSD.

This morning, thankfully, I went with the latter.

In fact as soon as I came to terms with the very real fact that I have PTSD last summer it was an option at almost all moments when I had this feeling that something was just terribly wrong and at some point it started to feel like my life was at stake. My issue nowadays is that I always feel terrible when I miss the earlier clues. Sometimes I can catch them and breath or take a medication. But today I missed them all before I was fully triggered.

 

As I begin kneading the dough I thought more deeply about what I’m really, really feeling. I was likely triggered by Tom’s reaction simply by being in the kitchen in same way with the same light while it was dark outside. That trigger lead to thinking about my step-son months ago, but it really led all the way deep down into the child inside me that became frozen in a certain state 40+ years ago.

 

Being accused of something that wasn’t my fault, something I didn’t do, or something I couldn’t have possibly known was the norm. It often led to consequences where I was abused, sometimes very badly. My mom was often a bystander, not wanting to be abused herself. She would often look away or side with my father (the perpetrator). Someone standing by while I was unfairly accused hurt even more. Even though he didn’t mean it, Daren keeping his back turned or refusing to talk to me about the supposed wedding cake incident feels like a bystander not helping the child inside me in need.

 

Since this past summer I learned that long-term childhood abuse is particularly complex if it was at the hands of a caregiver, because as a child your actual survival is at stake. You need your caregivers to live. That terrified part of me has become frozen in time. I often handle situations like this and a handful of others that would have led to abuse in a similar manner. During the initial encounter I’m very strong. I act as if nothing is wrong, as I had to do as a child just to get through the episode. Crying wasn’t allowed, even while getting hit- in fact it made things worse. I learned to deal with an incident by being strong and doing whatever I need to do. The hurt, terror and anger always came later and still does until this day when an old wound is rubbed, some time has passed, and my body feels safe and I’m re-triggered. Which often enough strangely leads me to feel as if I’m in survival mode. My heart, my breath, the crazed thoughts. My lower brain’s alarm signals to me that I need to fight for my rights, get out, get even, I’m being wronged, etc.

 

We all have that lower brain (the reptilian one without higher rational thought-like a crocodile). Mine recognizes triggers that were necessary for survival long ago and all our lower brains possess the ability to shut down the executive functioning portion of the brain if survival really is at stake when we need to flight, flight or freeze. It’s how we are built. The problem with PTSD is that sometimes the danger is only perceived and not even real. If the person doesn’t catch it, they have an episode which isn’t pretty. When I’m already anxious before I’m triggered I’m far more likely to not notice.

 

While folding blueberries into the scone dough, my higher and lower brain were in conflict. The part that I innately identify as me (more or less the higher, rational thinking part of the brain) was telling myself I was alright, I’m only in my kitchen; totally safe- I am and will be ok.

 

This part of my physical symptoms of being triggered are where adrenaline has entirely flooded my body. I can feel it’s desperate need to be released. I start to boil with heat. I hyperventilate and often cry uncontrollably. The next few hours are always recovery. Sometimes this happens often – several days in a row. I’m told it’s normal as you are going through PTSD treatment to go through time periods like this. When a childhood trauma victim feel safe as an adult- however many years or decades later, the body begins healing itself through bringing up old cellular memories in order to rid the body of deep-rooted habits/reactions/etc that no longer serve it.

 

I put the scones in the oven and set the timer. I’m lost. What was I going to do next? Did I make the coffee yet? I’m dazed, I’m confused, I’m sad… I’m just overwhelmingly dysfunctional. Daren comes down. Today I can explain my full thought process. We hug. I cry. I can hardly pick up a cup without almost dropping it. The scones are ready. We enjoy them although I can’t finish even one.

 

Sounds crazy? Yes, I know. But overall, I’m feeling better day by day. I know I need to go through this to get over/past/through – however it’s best phrased “it”. I continue to be patient and greet whatever arises, being careful to not get suckered into false alarms. That’s the trickiest part.

But I’m OK. I’m enjoying the healing, one cell at a time.

 

Social Media Disclaimer:

Many people often ask me why I so freely share my troubles. I share because I’ve found shame for so long in not being perfect. I’ve felt for too long like damaged goods I’ve learned none of us could ever be perfect and to even try to entertain such a thing or put on that façade is a set up for failure and takes WAY too much energy. We all suffer and we can only gain strength with connection. So I’m living the change I’d like to see by normalizing what is after all very normal.

 

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