On How it Takes a Village

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Last Friday was my birthday. Before the invention of Facebook and smartphones, my family would always call. I would get a few cards in the mail from family, in-laws, and old friends. It felt very special.

For the past 12 years or so, it has been an avalanche of birthday greetings on social media, text, and messenger apps. The calls and cards are nearly gone. Times have shifted. It is very nice, but it does not feel as authentic. Quantity does not trump quality.

Every handful of people takes some extra time to write a few lines about how happy they are for me, or how they see my pictures and it looks like I’m doing so well. It is kind of them to put in the effort to reach out and say something specific to me. However, I realized last week that they are only seeing the façade that social media unwittingly enforces.

We’ve all fallen prey to believing what we see, forgetting that as humans we aren’t capturing painful moments with our cameras or putting out the dirty laundry for the world to see. Social media platforms are full of the good times, the beautiful moments, platitudes of gratitude, showcasing political affiliations, reacting to articles, asking for prayers for a situation, etc.

But how many people are being truly real? How many people do you see wear their heart on their sleeves or share with the world how they are suffering with personal issues? Or tell the world their worries about their loved ones (outside of disease or death)?

I find it ironic that when I talk to people off of social media that I do not know too well, they will comment that I wouldn’t understand something they are telling me because I don’t have issues with my family, that my kids went to college, or that I have a healthy life. I question why they think this, but it’s obvious that they see my feed where it’s tulips and daisies.

I’ve used my blog in the past to communicate more heart-wrenching stories. Honest truths about things I suffer with and unpleasant things that have happened. Most who read it thank me for being open because it helps them realize we are all alike and suffer similarly. Some others question how I can possibly put it all out there. I’ve even been accused of being too negative on my blogs.

Yikes. You can’t win.

I don’t post or blog for anyone’s benefit. I don’t post to make people feel good or bad. I post and write from my heart about what I’m experiencing in that moment. Life’s moments are not all good. It’s just as normal to feel negative emotions as it is to feel positive ones. So why pretend we are always happy and that everything is great?

I’m day 18 into sobriety.

On February 8th, I had an alcohol-induced mental breakdown and went a bit crackers. It has resulted in a situation I never thought I would be in. It damaged relationships and my self-esteem.

I’m getting the level of help I never wanted to ask for because I saw such things as something only other people needed. I believed that only a failed, broken person needs that level of support. Where did those beliefs come from?

They came from my environment. From stigmas. From the false belief that something is wrong if you aren’t happy because, look around at everyone else—they are blissfully happy. Even though I share the ways in which I’m not happy, most people still see the tulips and daisies.

Human connection is at an all-time low. We have so many platforms and mechanisms to communicate, but they strip away authentic relationships. It’s easier than ever to show the world only what you want it to see. When everyone does that, everyone else thinks they are the only ones who suffer and feel more alone and ashamed than ever.

We end up trying to live up to unrealistic expectations of what it means to live out a human experience.

I don’t want to do that.

I have quit drinking for good. I have PTSD, and it affects the way I perceive situations. When I drink and my brain slows down bodily reactions, it also slows down my rational mind’s ability to recognize that what is happening around me is not what my body’s fight-or-flight response thinks it is.

I need help—help to stop drinking and help to process old trauma that surfaces because it wants to be released and finds opportunities when I’m not paying attention to burst out.

I’m getting help. I’m not perfect. Not getting help sooner has done a lot of damage. Some damage cannot be undone.

It takes a village for each individual to be the best version of themselves. If a village has no real connection and only facades of perfection, the result is that people feel damaged, alone, anxious, and depressed.

Being real is what makes life and relationships real. Without pain, there is no opportunity for growth or change. Pain is part of life too. It’s real, and no one among us is exempt from it.

I am asking anyone reading this who sees me in real life to honor the fact that I am no longer drinking. I’m asking anyone reading to be real with me about your life or anything I’ve done and how it has affected you, positively or negatively.

I’m real. I’m imperfect, angry, sad, hurt, and suffering from my past and from an unhealthy way of dealing with it (alcohol). I’ve hurt others because of this and because I tried to deny it about myself. But I’m also loving, funny, kind, creative, thoughtful, and friendly.

I wrote a blog not too long ago about embracing your shadow self. We all have one. So let’s all embrace our own and learn to live with it, and forgive others for their shadow sides as we would like to be forgiven.

I’m asking to be a part of a real village, even if I have to create it myself 🙂

Peace

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

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On how what you pay attention to, pays attention

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

The first time I heard the line, “What you pay attention to pays attention,” I was sitting in a yoga teacher training session. The line felt so meaningful to me that I wrote it down immediately. Something in me understood it and knew it to be true.

At a surface level, it makes sense. If you pay attention to your pets, your spouse, or even someone you barely know, they tend to pay attention back. It could even be a stranger behind the coffee counter each morning—positive or negative, attention has a way of being returned. It doesn’t really discriminate.

But what about things that aren’t alive? Can they “pay attention” too? That’s where my curiosity was piqued, because I feel that in some way, they do.

This idea brought me back to a time in 2001, when my ex-husband, our two children, and I moved from Cape Cod to Naugatuck, Connecticut. At the time, I had my first real sense that there might be something to the idea of energy we can’t see.

We had been living in military housing, and after the movers packed up our belongings, we stayed for a couple of weeks in temporary housing on the base. The units were identical, clean, and fully furnished. When we first arrived, we were able to look at all four units and choose the one we wanted.

Around that same time, while staying with my brothers on Long Island, I picked up a book on Feng Shui from a bargain table at a bookstore. I had heard of it before, mostly in passing, but didn’t really know what it meant. As I read about the concept of “chi,” something clicked for me.

I started thinking about the temporary housing unit we had just left. Even though all four units were the same, I had a strong sense that the one we had lived in would feel different to the next family. It would still be clean, but something about it would carry the imprint of our time there.

When I mentioned this to others, they had more practical explanations—air flow, dust, things that couldn’t be seen but could be detected. That made sense, but I still felt there was something more to it.

Over the years, I’ve come back to that idea in different ways. What I’ve consistently noticed is how often things I pay attention to seem to be noticed by others shortly after.

I’ve always liked to keep a clean home. Even when I was busy, I made time for it, sometimes with help and sometimes on my own. When I had the time, I would focus on small, specific areas—corners, drawers, the tops of door frames—places that weren’t obvious but still felt important to tend to.

What struck me as odd was that later, without me saying anything, someone in my family would comment on that exact area. Not always the surface, but the object itself—a desk, a table, something I had quietly given attention to. It was as if the attention I gave it somehow made it more noticeable.

The same thing has happened in other ways. I’ve had moments where I noticed something about myself—like a pair of shoes I had worn many times but suddenly appreciated in a new way—and then someone else would comment on them that same day.

One of the more personal examples goes back to when I was younger. As my features were changing, I became very self-conscious about my nose. Many of the women in my family had a similar shape, and I didn’t like it. I focused on it in a negative way, and it seemed to draw negative attention.

Years later, I saw a woman with a similar nose, and it looked beautiful on her. It fit her face perfectly. That shifted something for me. I started to see my own features differently, and over time, others began to reflect that back to me in a more positive way.

It felt like I was being seen in the same way I was seeing myself.

To me, attention feels like a direction of energy. We can’t see it, but we experience it. It shapes how we move through the world and how the world seems to respond to us. Whether we are aware of it or not, it is always there.

What we focus on—what we think about, what we give time to—becomes part of the way we experience life. It also becomes part of how we are perceived.

I don’t always remember this, and I don’t always believe it in the moment. Just yesterday I had an experience that brought it back to the surface again.

I was out for a long walk in my neighborhood and passed a dog barking loudly behind an invisible fence. I knew I would have to pass the same dog again on my way back. The barking was disruptive to what had otherwise been a peaceful walk, and the dog itself seemed agitated.

I started thinking about energy and what it might mean to approach the situation differently. As I walked by again, I intentionally shifted my focus toward a sense of calm and openness. Almost immediately, the barking stopped.

For a moment, I felt like I had figured something out. But then the dog started barking again. It made me laugh, because I realized I had shifted from calm to control. I had changed the energy I was bringing into the situation.

When I returned to a more open, relaxed state, the barking stopped again and stayed that way as I continued down the street.

It was a simple moment, but a good reminder.

Life is a series of experiences like that—different situations, different “streets,” all offering something to learn. The way we approach them shapes what we experience in return.

If we move through the world with curiosity, openness, and a sense of care, it tends to feel different than when we approach it with tension or resistance.

What you pay attention to pays attention.

So it may be worth paying attention to what you’re paying attention to.

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

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On Halloween and Our Shadow Side

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

We were made from the universe, so we contain the same elements of the universe. The universe is both dark and light, and so are we.

But who are “we,” really?

If we can agree that we are not our liver or kidneys, even though they are vital organs, is it feasible to agree that we are not the brain either?

If we are not the brain, are “we” what is in the mind—the function of the brain? It would be analogous to saying that we are not detox, which is the function of the liver.

Hopefully the answer is no, because “we” are the substance that hears what the mind is saying. We are the part of the body that isn’t cells or physical substance. Just because it is only us who can hear what our mind is saying doesn’t mean that what the mind says is actually us.

Our mind is influenced by the physical world around us. Jingles in our head, the replaying of conversations, things we’ve watched, and the internal back-and-forth of competing thoughts all arise without effort. If we are able to notice them, then the part that notices is closer to who we are than the part providing the commentary.

That is, if we notice at all. The thoughts, songs, internal dialogues, arguments, and justifications are so constant that we often believe they define us. But that is not the case. Who we are is the witness to this chatter.

I’ll go back to the idea of the angel and devil. How can we claim to be only the “angel,” advocating for the right decisions, when the opposing voice is right there doing the same thing in a different direction? We may align with one side because it reflects our values or what we’ve been taught is right, but the other side still exists within us. It may not be comfortable to acknowledge, but it is no less real. That side is often referred to as the shadow, representing the parts of ourselves we don’t want to admit to having. It can exist outside of our awareness at first, but with attention and self-reflection, it becomes easier to recognize.

Neither the angel nor the devil is who we truly are. We are the part that notices both, and both will influence the decisions we make unless we learn to separate our identity from the constant activity of the mind. One way to begin noticing thoughts more clearly is through practices like meditation, but that is a deeper topic for another time.

The point here is that we are not our thoughts. It is as natural to have both “good” and “bad” thoughts as it is for the day to move between light and dark. Our physical bodies are part of the natural world, and they are governed by the same patterns. Both sides exist, and no human is exempt from this.

Some may have developed a deeper understanding of it, and many teachings point toward recognizing the difference between thought and awareness. Even without formal language for it, this idea has existed in different forms throughout history. We can think of this in terms of different layers of awareness: the unconscious, which regulates automatic functions and influences instinctive reactions; the conscious mind, which contains our thoughts and interpretations; and a deeper level of awareness—the part that observes all of it.

If we don’t recognize that we are not our thoughts, we tend to attach ourselves to the parts we prefer and reject the parts we don’t. We identify with what feels acceptable and try to hide what doesn’t, but that doesn’t remove those parts—it simply keeps them out of sight. Acknowledging the full range of what arises in the mind can create more clarity and allow us to understand what is influencing us, rather than reacting without awareness.

Accepting the presence of both light and dark within ourselves is not about acting on every thought. It is about recognizing that they exist and understanding that they are not the entirety of who we are. In nature, cycles of light and dark are constant. As seasons shift, we move through periods where one is more dominant than the other, but both are always present. The same can be said for us.

There are times of clarity and times of uncertainty, times when things feel lighter and times when they feel heavier. These shifts are not separate from us; they are part of the experience. During certain times of year, particularly as we move into the darker months, these patterns can feel more noticeable. The transition itself can be a reminder that change is constant and that both aspects are necessary.

Accepting that we move between these states can make it easier to navigate them. Not everything needs to be resisted or controlled. Some things can simply be observed and understood.

When I taught yoga regularly, I often used the theme of embracing the unknown during this time of year. I would invite students to consider what they might be avoiding and to allow it to be present, even if it felt uncomfortable. Not everything needs to be solved in the moment. Sometimes the first step is simply noticing.

Embracing the unknown. Facing what feels uncomfortable. Allowing space for both light and dark.

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

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Demystifying Yoga: Movement over Exercise

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

When I meet someone and they learn that I practice or teach yoga, they almost always feel compelled to share their own experience with it. Sometimes they’ve tried it and didn’t like it, sometimes they love it, and often they follow it with something like, “I’m not flexible,” or “I have an injury,” or simply, “It’s not for me.”

One of my favorite responses to that comes from the owner of the studio where I used to teach. She once said that saying you’re not flexible enough to do yoga is like saying you’re too dirty to take a shower. It usually gets a laugh, but there’s truth in it.

If you’ve never really tried yoga, it’s hard to know what it actually is. For many people, the assumption is that it involves twisting into complicated shapes or keeping up with a fast-paced class. In reality, it’s often much simpler and much more accessible than that.

Yoga is, at its core, movement and breath. The movements are often slow and intentional, and the breath becomes something you begin to notice and work with rather than something that just happens in the background. Most classes are designed so that people at different levels can participate in a way that works for them.

In my experience teaching, many of the students were older or working with limitations, and they kept coming back because they started to notice small changes. Those small shifts—more ease in the body, a bit more clarity in the mind—tend to build over time.

People often come to yoga after an injury or surgery as well. It can be one of the first ways to begin moving again gently. That said, it’s always important to be aware of your own body and any specific conditions you may have. A good instructor can offer ways to modify movements, but the most important guideline is simple: if something doesn’t feel right, don’t push through it.

Yoga is different from what most people think of as exercise. It’s not about keeping pace with others or pushing through discomfort to reach a goal. It’s about paying attention. The teacher offers guidance, but you decide how far to go. There’s no real concept of falling behind, because the practice is happening within your own experience.

Over time, that combination of movement and breath can have a noticeable effect. Physically, people often experience more flexibility, strength, and balance. Mentally, it can help with focus, stress, and overall awareness. But those benefits tend to come as a result of the practice itself, not as something you have to chase.

If you already practice, you likely understand that in your own way. And if you don’t, it might be worth approaching it with a bit of curiosity rather than a fixed idea of what it is or isn’t.

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

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On Being in the Dark

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

A light breeze blew in from across the street when I opened my blinds and cracked my bedroom window while it was still dark this morning. The sound of the Long Island Sound filled my ears as the semi-salty air drifted into the space where I stood. A bell buoy chimed in the distance. A nearby bird sang. The cool, damp air felt refreshing against my skin in the otherwise still, sleepy room. I took a deep breath and let it all in, appreciating the quiet of that moment in the dark.
I moved through my morning routine and into meditation. Since the clocks changed last week, it is dark again in the early hours, and for a short time we get to watch the sunrise earlier along the horizon. It had rained overnight, and the world felt just a bit more crisp—renewed. I chose a different space to practice this morning, turning off the lights and opening the curtains to let the darkness slowly give way to light.

I stumbled around to find my meditation pillow while carrying a glass of lemon water. My animals moved around me, a little confused and curious about the change in routine. As I felt along the floor for the doorstop, I struggled to find it and eventually had to put everything down to search more carefully.
At some point, I knocked over the water. I heard it spill and felt the dog walk through it moments later. I sat down on the floor, slightly defeated, and then laughed as I felt wet paws and kisses on my face. My mood lifted almost immediately.

There was a lesson in it.

We can’t see well in the dark. We can move through familiar spaces by memory and touch, but our sense of sight is limited. We don’t fully know what is around us—we only know what we remember from when there was light.

Nature ensures that we spend half our time in darkness. Depending on where we are in the world, that balance shifts across the seasons, but the presence of darkness is constant. It’s part of the rhythm.
In many ways, our internal world operates similarly. There is so much we don’t know—about situations, about other people, even about ourselves. When we don’t know something, we are, in a sense, in the dark. Often, we don’t even realize what we don’t know.

There is something humbling in that. Accepting that we are not always seeing clearly can change how we move through the world. It can soften certainty and make room for curiosity.

This becomes especially relevant when we form strong opinions or beliefs. Whether the topic is something as large as politics or something as small as a personal interaction, it’s easy to assume we understand more than we actually do. We operate from our own experiences and perspectives, which feel complete to us, but are still limited.

When we stay open to the possibility that we are only seeing part of the picture, it changes how we listen and respond. It doesn’t mean abandoning our views, but it does mean holding them with a bit more flexibility.

There are countless sources of information, perspectives, and experiences that shape how people see the world. Not all of them reach us, and not all of them are easy to understand. Accepting that we may not have the full picture allows for a different kind of awareness—one that is less rigid and more receptive.

After cleaning up the spilled water as best I could in the dark, I made my way back to my practice. My cats and dog settled around me as I sat, the door slightly open, the cool air still moving through the space.

Without relying on sight, the other senses became more vivid. I noticed the sounds—the birds, the water, the buoy, the distant hum of a car, the steady rhythm of my dog’s breathing. The feel of the air on my skin was more pronounced. Things I might normally overlook became clearer.
As the rain began again, a new layer of sound filled the space. Gradually, the darkness gave way to light, and with it, my attention shifted back toward what I could see. It became easier to rely on sight and, in doing so, easier to overlook everything else.

There is something in that as well. Our strongest sense can sometimes become the one that limits us the most.

My animals seemed to take the whole morning in stride. The change in routine, the spilled water, the unfamiliar movements—it was all simply part of what was happening. They adapted without resistance.

There’s something to learn from that.

When we accept that we don’t—and can’t—know everything, it becomes easier to move through the world with a bit more ease. We make decisions with the information we have, understanding that it may not be complete. That awareness can feel less like a limitation and more like a kind of freedom.
It allows space for learning, for adjustment, and for seeing things we might otherwise miss.
And perhaps that’s part of the rhythm, too—moving between what we can see and what we can’t, knowing that both are always present.

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

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On Holidays, Divorce & Surrender

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

The holidays can be a difficult time for many people. Those who are newly divorced or navigating the aftermath of a long separation are no exception. There are many reasons people struggle this time of year—loss, uncertainty, or simply the weight of change—but for this reflection, I want to focus on divorce, something I’ve now experienced over many holiday seasons.

It took me a long time to understand that the holidays do not have to remain difficult after a separation. That shift, at least for me, began with accepting what was, including my own part in it. That acceptance didn’t happen quickly, but it changed everything over time.

The loss of shared traditions, expectations, and future plans leaves a space that isn’t easily filled. When children are involved, that space can feel even more complicated and painful. What often makes it harder is not just the loss itself, but the feelings that linger—resentment, blame, or an inability to let go of what once was.

In my yoga classes this month, the theme has been surrender. Not in a passive sense, but in the sense of releasing resistance to what is already happening. Letting go of what we think should be happening, and beginning to work with what actually is.

That sounds simple, but it can be incredibly difficult to live.

Over time, I’ve come to see that in many relationships, when things fall apart, it’s rarely as simple as one person being right and the other wrong. In my own experience, there were things I didn’t see at the time. I was focused on responsibilities—children, work, daily life—and I missed signs that my partner was struggling. When I did begin to see them, I focused on fixing what was visible, not what was underneath.

Looking back, I can see more clearly now that there were unmet needs on both sides. I didn’t understand that then. I thought there would always be time to figure things out later.

There wasn’t.

When things finally broke down, I felt hurt and betrayed. But with distance, I’ve been able to recognize that the situation was more complex than I allowed myself to see in the moment. That understanding didn’t excuse what happened, but it did allow me to move out of blame and into something more productive.

That shift matters, especially during times like the holidays.

When there is ongoing tension between former partners, it doesn’t just affect the two people involved. It impacts children, families, and everyone connected to them. When there is even a small amount of cooperation or understanding, the difference can be felt by everyone.

This doesn’t mean every relationship can or should look the same after it ends. It simply means that holding on to anger or resentment tends to keep the pain active, while working toward acceptance can gradually ease it.

I’ve also come to understand that relationships change for many reasons. Sometimes people grow together, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes one person recognizes that something is no longer working before the other does. That doesn’t necessarily make one person wrong and the other right. It simply reflects where each person is at that point in time.

It’s easy to look back and wish things had been handled differently. It’s harder, but more useful, to look at what can be learned from the experience.

For me, that meant recognizing my own role, understanding where I had been unaware, and accepting that growth often comes through difficult transitions. Without that experience, I’m not sure I would have seen the patterns I’ve since worked to change.

The holidays can already carry a certain level of stress, even in the most stable situations. Adding unresolved tension to that mix only makes it heavier. It doesn’t have to be that way.

When we begin to let go of the need to assign blame and instead focus on acceptance, something shifts. It doesn’t erase the past, but it does change how we carry it.

Over time, that shift can make room for a lighter experience—not just during the holidays, but in life moving forward.

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

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You are the MOST important person on your gift list

Posted on by Esterina Anderson
  • You are the most important person to take care of. Give your time and attention to yourself first.

    That statement can be misunderstood, so it’s worth clarifying what it does and does not mean. It is not a justification to be selfish, ignore others, break commitments, or dismiss the impact we have on people. It simply means that without taking care of ourselves, we don’t have much to offer anyone else.

    It’s similar to a car that won’t run without gas. We need rest, nourishment, and experiences that genuinely support our well-being. That nourishment isn’t only physical. It can come from time with people we love, being in nature, quiet moments alone, creative outlets, or practices like meditation or prayer. The specifics are different for each of us, but the principle is the same: when we are depleted, everything else suffers.

    Taking care of ourselves is not about accumulation or external things. It’s about being filled in a way that allows us to move through the world with more clarity and energy.

    Giving to others is one of the most meaningful ways to experience that sense of fullness. When it comes from a genuine place, it often feels better than receiving. It allows us to share what we have—our time, attention, care, or presence—in a way that connects us to others.

    This kind of giving is not about obligation. It’s not tied to holidays, expectations, or social pressure. It happens when we recognize a need and respond to it naturally, without keeping score. It’s an extension of having something to give in the first place.

    At the same time, there is an important distinction to be made. Not all giving is received in the same way, and not all of it is sustainable.

    There was a time when I spent a great deal of energy trying to give to people in my life—family members, friends, colleagues—in ways that weren’t recognized or appreciated. It wasn’t something anyone asked for. It was something I chose to do, often out of a desire to make others happy or maintain relationships. Over time, it became draining.

    That experience made something clearer to me. There is a difference between a simple “thank you” and a deeper sense of gratitude. Gratitude carries a kind of presence and appreciation that goes beyond acknowledgment. It has a way of continuing forward, often showing up as care, respect, or a desire to give in return, not necessarily to the same person, but outward into the world.

    When giving is consistently met without that kind of awareness, it can start to feel one-sided. Over time, that imbalance depletes rather than connects.

    This doesn’t mean we stop giving. It means we become more aware of where our energy goes. Giving where it is received with appreciation tends to create a cycle that continues, while giving where it is not can quietly drain us.

    In that way, taking care of ourselves and giving to others are not separate ideas. They are connected. When we are grounded and supported, we are better able to give in ways that are meaningful. And when we give in environments where it is received, it reinforces that sense of balance.

    Learning to recognize that difference has been part of my own process. It has shifted how I think about where I place my energy and how I choose to give it.

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

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Soap Operas & Modern Times

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Flashback to March 4, 1997—North Shore University Hospital in Long Island.

I wake up (or think I do) in a recovery ward. Everything is a blur. Voices are talking around me—about something… me? There is one voice I recognize.

“Mag her.”

Mag her?

I realize the “her” is me. The voice is Dr. Seaman, my OB/GYN.

As my mind slowly clears, I remember: I had a scheduled cesarean section. I was conscious during the procedure, my then-husband by my side, as our firstborn son Thomas—breech—was brought into the world.

More than 22 years later, I still don’t know how aware I truly was in those moments. What I do remember is my blood pressure spiking and being in the high-risk maternity ward, hearing that phrase—“Mag her.”

The “mag” was magnesium. To this day, I don’t know why. But I do remember what was on the TV.

Days of Our Lives.

Kristin DiMera had just had a baby too.

In my foggy state, I was oddly captivated. I wanted to see my son. I remember a brief moment of him on my chest, flashes of a camera, and then he was gone. I was in pain. And the show became a strange, steady distraction.

A week or so later, home with a newborn, exhausted and in pain, the TV was on again. The same characters. The same storyline.

My husband went to change the channel, but I stopped him.

I wanted to see what happened next.

And that’s where it began—my quiet, unexpected relationship with Days of Our Lives.

Over the years, it stayed with me.

When Thomas was little, I’d watch on days off while working as a cook in the Coast Guard. Later, as a military wife and reservist, I’d put both kids down for naps, make popcorn, pour a Diet Coke over ice, and settle in.

In 2002, when I started working full time, I moved to VCR tapes. Later, DVR. Now, streaming. The format changed, but the habit remained.

Sometimes I watched daily. Sometimes weeks went by. But it was always there when I needed it.

The characters became familiar—almost like extended family.

The Hortons, Bradys, DiMeras.

The town square, the Brady Pub, the traditions, the chaos. The comfort.

Yes, there were the ridiculous storylines—possession, comas, people returning from the dead. But woven in were real things: loss, addiction, depression, relationships, identity.

And strangely, it helped.

At different points in my life, the show mirrored something I was going through.

When Jack and Jennifer were getting divorced, I was too. I remember feeling like a failure. Then one night, I turned on an episode and saw their storyline unfolding the same way. It felt… oddly comforting.

Years later, after a difficult stretch with my own mental health, I returned to the show to find a character struggling in a similar way. Again, it helped.

When addiction, illness, or loss showed up on screen, I didn’t feel so alone in my own experiences.

It’s easy to dismiss soaps as melodramatic—and they are. That’s part of their charm.

But beneath that, there’s something else.

They tell stories about being human—messy, imperfect, resilient.

And sometimes, seeing that reflected back—even in a fictional town like Salem—can be grounding.

A few days ago, the show jumped ahead by a full year. Curious, I looked it up and learned there’s uncertainty about its future.

It made me pause.

Because while the show has changed over the years—and so have I—it has been a quiet thread through so many seasons of my life.

I don’t watch it the same way anymore.

But I still understand what it gave me.

Familiarity. Distraction. Comfort. Perspective.

Like sands through the hourglass… so are the days of our lives.

 

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On our Five Star World

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

A few weeks after moving to a new town, I went to a local salon to have my roots touched up.

I was on the fence about getting a haircut. I loved the cut I had, and it had only been six weeks. But when they asked, I said yes anyway. I’m not sure why.

From the moment I walked in, something felt off. The place was quiet—too quiet—and not in a peaceful way. There was an old television playing dated shows at a volume just high enough to be distracting. The products they claimed were “organic” didn’t seem to match what I saw on the shelves, and when I asked about them, I didn’t get clear answers. Still, the couple running the salon was kind. Really kind. And maybe that’s what made it harder to trust what I was seeing.

At one point, while waiting longer than expected for the color to process, I had the sudden urge to just get up and leave—with the smock still on and dye in my hair. I didn’t. I stayed. I didn’t say no to the haircut either, even though every instinct was telling me to.

The result was exactly what you’d expect when you ignore your gut. I ended up with a haircut I didn’t want, uneven ends, and a lingering feeling that I had watched it all happen in slow motion.

For a few days, I let it go. The couple was nice, and I didn’t want to be critical. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something bigger was bothering me. It wasn’t just the haircut.

Around the same time, we had purchased a new refrigerator that we hadn’t seen in person before ordering. It arrived with multiple small issues—nothing catastrophic, but enough to make daily use frustrating. The ice maker wouldn’t stay in place, the door didn’t always close properly, and the overall design just didn’t quite work. We also replaced a coffee maker that had lasted for years, only to return the new one within weeks. It looked sleek, but it was difficult to clean, didn’t pour well, and left us wondering how something so basic could be so poorly thought through.

There were other moments too—small ones, but consistent. A return process that took far longer than it should have, a service experience that felt disorganized, and restaurants with glowing reviews that didn’t match the reality. Individually, none of these things mattered all that much, but together they started to feel like a pattern.

I began to wonder whether the bar had shifted, or whether we have simply stopped being honest about it. We rely heavily on ratings and shared experiences to guide our decisions, yet five stars has come to mean something closer to “good enough,” or sometimes just “nice people trying their best.” Kindness absolutely matters, but it doesn’t replace quality.

At the same time, I understand the hesitation. It’s uncomfortable to leave a critical review. No one wants to hurt someone’s business or livelihood, and there is always a human on the other side of that feedback. But without honesty, the system doesn’t really work. If everything is five stars, then the distinction disappears.

So I went back and wrote a few thoughtful, honest reviews. Not harsh or emotional—just accurate. What worked, what didn’t, and what someone else might want to know before making the same decision. It felt like a small thing, but perhaps it’s not. It may be one of the quieter ways we shape the world we move through—not by complaining, but by telling the truth.

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On the Chakras

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

More often than not, we find scientific “proof” that ancient wisdom passed on through generations—once considered ignorant, hokey-pokey nonsense—turns out to be true. How did they know?

This painting I created is my artistic interpretation of the manifest and unmanifest world. The colors symbolize the manifest world, and the shades of tan, white, black, and gray represent what is on the other side. The colors also represent the chakras.

As humans, we know very little that can be scientifically proven regarding the spiritual world or how conscious life appears and disappears. The energetic body is something that some scientists explore, but again, there is no definitive “proof.”

Eastern philosophies and their ancient texts explain that just as there is a visible physical body, there is also an accompanying invisible energetic body. It is just as complicated and intricate. It has systems, nodes, and channels, as our physical bodies do. Energy can get blocked just as an artery can. Emotions are energetic. They can become stuck and, if not released, go deeper into our being and eventually manifest as physical pain.

Mental health professionals do this type of work and exploration. Yoga is deeply connected to the energetic body and helps energy flow more freely through the practice of physical postures (asana). Hence my interest in the topic. Additionally, my interest in art and color piques my curiosity about how color is combined in various ways.

The chakras are something that has always fascinated me, long before I understood, practiced, or taught yoga. The first time I heard about them, they simply made sense to me—almost as if something deep inside already knew, even though my mind questioned the idea.

For anyone who doesn’t know about the chakras (I was well into my 30s before I ever heard of them!), they are seven main energetic centers in our bodies through which energy flows. They start at the base of the spine, in the tailbone area, and move upward through the body to the crown of the head.

Later, while completing a 500-hour yoga teacher certification, I learned more about the broader energetic system, but the chakras remain the most widely recognized and are depicted in many texts and images throughout history.

The chakras have colors—seven in total—and they coincide with the colors of the rainbow. Their flow is vertical (unlike my art piece). Like the koshas and other systems I’ve learned about through my business education, they remind me very much of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. It also reflects a kind of evolution, beginning with basic physical needs and moving toward higher consciousness and self-actualization. In the chakra system, if something is blocked at a lower level, energy cannot flow upward.

An illustrated diagram of the seven chakras in the human body, highlighting their locations, colors, and meanings, featuring a meditating figure at the center.
An infographic illustrating Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, represented as a pyramid. The levels from bottom to top include Physiological Needs, Safety, Love & Belonging, Esteem, and Self-Actualization. Each level describes the needs necessary for personal development and fulfillment, with keywords highlighting concepts such as basic survival, security, relationships, confidence, and growth.

The chakras are energetic. Over time, I’ve noticed that when I am in emotional pain, there is often a physical sensation located at a chakra point. It often points me in the direction of where I may be blocked.

I’ve studied and read many spiritual and religious texts. I don’t hold a strict belief in any one system, but I have developed a personal understanding of the physical and non-physical worlds—the tangible and intangible. The part where we are alive and moving through this world, and the part that remains unknown. What happens to our consciousness or spirit when the body dies? What is it before we are born? Is it even real?

My artistic expression of the spiritual life cycle is depicted here. Like the Yin-Yang, part of our existence is in the manifest world and part in the unmanifest.

The colored lines represent the manifest world—the world where white light refracts and we perceive color.

The neutral tones represent the unmanifest world. When all colors are combined, they create what we perceive as brown. Adding white lightens it to tan, while black darkens it. White contains all colors, while black represents their absence. Together they create gray—still without distinct color. At dusk, when we are between day and night, color fades, and only form remains.

Our physical life is surrounded by this unknown. Before birth and after death, there is something beyond our current understanding. Perhaps it is not empty, but instead contains everything in a different form—blended, unseen, or beyond our perception.

At least to our current senses. Perhaps with another sense, we would perceive an entirely different world.

The chakras in this painting represent the physical living world we experience. They move from a lower vibration to a higher one—less conscious to more conscious, more connected to the physical world to less so, much like Maslow’s hierarchy.

1st CHAKRA
Color: Red
Sanskrit name: Muladhara
Known as: Root chakra
Location: Base of the spine

Symbolizes: safety, survival, grounding

My interpretation: It is our root. It connects us physically to the earth and to others. It represents the earliest stage of life, where we are fully dependent on others for survival. This foundation shapes our perception of the world.

2nd CHAKRA
Color: Orange
Sanskrit name: Swadhisthana
Known as: Emotional chakra
Location: Lower abdomen

Symbolizes: emotion, creativity, sexuality

My interpretation: This is where feeling begins. It relates to growth, creativity, and the early development of identity.

3rd CHAKRA
Color: Yellow
Sanskrit name: Manipura
Known as: Solar plexus

Symbolizes: personal power, will, identity

My interpretation: This is where we act in the world—through drive, identity, and personal energy.

4th CHAKRA
Color: Green
Sanskrit name: Anahata
Known as: Heart chakra

Symbolizes: love, compassion

My interpretation: This is the shift from intellect to deeper awareness. It connects us to something beyond ourselves.

5th CHAKRA
Color: Blue
Sanskrit name: Vishuddha
Known as: Throat chakra

Symbolizes: communication, expression

My interpretation: When energy flows freely, we are able to express truth and creativity.

6th CHAKRA
Color: Indigo
Sanskrit name: Ajna
Known as: Third Eye

Symbolizes: intuition, wisdom

My interpretation: This reflects deeper understanding gained through experience.

7th CHAKRA
Color: Violet or White
Sanskrit name: Sahasrara
Known as: Crown chakra

Symbolizes: connection, consciousness

My interpretation: A state of peace and connection beyond material attachment.

The base of the system is wider because it is more grounded in the physical world, where most of us spend our time. As we move upward, fewer people consistently operate in those higher states, and the experience becomes more subtle.

In my artistic expression, these colors exist between the known and unknown. The symbols in the painting represent movement through the chakras toward something beyond—something expansive, light, and difficult to define.

This and six other pieces were inspired by contemporary artist Sean Scully. Two weeks ago, Daren and I visited the Wadsworth in Hartford on the last day of his exhibit. He works primarily in stripes.

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